Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Texting Fic, Wrong number, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Late Night Conversations, Happy Ending, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Bottom Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, eventually, no beta we die like men

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-24 Updated: 2026-03-07 Words: 92,469 Chapters: 23/?

Not Nothing

Summary

Shane Hollander sends a courtesy text to the wrong number.

Ilya Rozanov answers.

What starts as an accident turns into a habit — late-night messages, honesty, and a version of Shane that exists without an audience.

Ilya figures out who he’s talking to long before Shane does.

He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he keeps replying.

Notes

hiiiii!!!! I wanted to write a short-ish fic because I couldn't get the idea out of my head! enjoy the first part!

edit: this is not short ish i lied but chapter 14 is close to halfway through!

Chapter 1: one

Shane almost doesn’t send it.

He’s already done the postgame routine—shower, stretch, protein bar he didn’t really want. The hotel room is quiet in that way that always feels temporary, like nothing in it belongs to him long enough to leave an impression. His bag sits by the door, half-unpacked. Tomorrow’s schedule is written on the pad by the phone, checked twice.

This is just a courtesy text. The kind you send so you don’t forget. The kind that doesn’t require a response.

Shane: Hey — thanks again for earlier. Really appreciate it.

He sets the phone down on the nightstand and exhales, slow. Done.

It buzzes less than a minute later.

Unknown: for what

Shane frowns, picking the phone back up.

Okay. That’s on him.

Shane: I think I’ve got the wrong number.

There’s a pause. Not long enough to be awkward, but long enough that he notices it. He can picture the other person looking at their phone, deciding whether to bother correcting him.

Unknown: you think

Shane huffs a quiet laugh.

Shane: pretty sure.

Unknown: disappointing

Shane smiles despite himself.

Shane: I’ll survive I guess.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Unknown: bold assumption

Shane leans back against the headboard, phone resting loosely in his hand. He could stop now. Should stop now. The mistake has been acknowledged; the exit is clean.

Instead, he types:

Shane: I usually do.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Unknown: interesting
Unknown: what are you awake this late

That gives him pause.

It’s not rude. It’s not invasive. It’s just… direct, in a way that doesn’t feel careless. Shane considers his answer, not because the truth is complicated, but because it feels strange to give it to someone who doesn’t know him.

Shane: just finished a game
Shane: waiting for the bus

This time the typing indicator lingers. Appears. Disappears. Reappears.

Unknown: did it go well

Shane stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. He could deflect. He usually does. But there’s something about the question—no qualifiers, no expectations—that makes honesty feel easier than usual.

Shane: no

Unknown: then I won’t pretend to be impressed

Shane laughs out loud at that, the sound brief and startled. He scrubs a hand over his face, aware suddenly of how tired he is, how thin the day has worn him.

Shane: appreciated

Unknown: you are welcome, wrong number

That should end it. Shane knows that. The bus is loading now; he can hear voices through the hall, the scrape of skate guards against concrete. He should put the phone away, step back into the noise.

Instead, he types:

Shane: do you usually talk to strangers like this

The reply is instant.

Unknown: only when they don’t ask boring questions

Shane grins, small and private.

Shane: I’ll take that as encouragement

Unknown: you should not

Shane: noted

There’s a longer stretch of silence after that. Shane assumes that’s it. He pockets his phone, slings his bag over his shoulder, steps into the hallway with the rest of the team. The night resumes its familiar rhythm—movement, chatter, the low hum of transition.

His phone buzzes again as he’s stepping onto the bus.

Unknown: what time zone are you in

Shane hesitates, one foot on the step, the other still on the pavement.

Shane: eastern

Unknown: same
Unknown: unfortunate

Shane arches an eyebrow at his screen.

Shane: why unfortunate

He doesn’t get an answer right away. The bus door closes. Someone takes the seat beside him. The city slides past the window in blurred streaks of light.

Then:

Unknown: means it is late for both of us
Unknown: which suggests poor judgment

Shane considers that.

Shane: or insomnia

Unknown: optimist

Shane watches the typing bubble appear, disappear, then settle back in.

Unknown: you always this honest with people you don’t know

He thinks about it. About how careful he usually is. About how public everything feels, even when it isn’t.

Shane: only when it doesn’t matter

The pause that follows is the longest yet.

When the reply comes, it’s different—shorter, precise.

Unknown: it always matters
Unknown: eventually

Shane’s chest tightens, just a little. Not unpleasantly. More like recognition brushing against something he hasn’t named.

Shane: that sounds ominous

Unknown: I am told I have that effect

Shane smiles, then shakes his head at himself.

Shane: whoever you are, this has been unexpectedly nice
Shane: thank you

This time, the answer takes long enough that Shane almost misses it.

Unknown: you are welcome
Unknown: if you decide to stop talking now, I will understand

There it is. The out, offered cleanly. Shane stares at the screen, thumb hovering. He thinks about tomorrow’s game. About how conversations usually end because someone needs something from him.

He types:

Shane: I’m okay continuing

Across the city, Ilya Rozanov lets his phone rest against his palm and exhales, slow and deliberate.

Because he seems to have recognized the voice almost immediately.
Because he's sure he knows exactly who texts like this. 
Because Shane Hollander has no idea who he’s talking to—and because Ilya, against his better judgment, wants to see where that leads.

Unknown: then continue

Shane’s reply is immediate.

Shane: okay

Ilya smiles, sharp and quiet, and locks his phone.

This will be fun.

They don’t talk again that night.

Shane falls asleep somewhere between the hotel and the city lights blurring past the window, phone face down on the nightstand, the last exchange replaying itself in his head with a quiet insistence. Nothing dramatic. Nothing unresolved. Just the sense of having stepped into a conversation that didn’t require anything from him.

Morning skate, meetings, tape and routine. He forgets about the number until his phone buzzes during breakfast, the vibration sharp against the tabletop.

He expects a team alert.

It isn’t.

Unknown: good morning, wrong number

Shane stares at the screen, surprised into stillness.

He doesn’t smile right away. He checks the time first, as if that might explain it. He hadn’t given his name. Hadn’t asked for this. But the message feels deliberate, like the other person waited for daylight.

Shane: morning
Shane: that’s not ominous at all

Unknown: you are awake
Unknown: this is progress

Shane snorts softly, earning a look from across the table.

Shane: it’s before nine

Unknown: then I am impressed

He takes a sip of coffee, considering.

Shane: did you sleep

There’s a pause — shorter than last night’s, but noticeable.

Unknown: some
Unknown: did you

Shane: enough

It’s the truth, and it’s all he offers. The conversation settles into something like that — brief check-ins, a few lines exchanged between obligations. Ilya doesn’t crowd him. Hollander doesn’t retreat.

They circle each other without naming it.

By the afternoon, the rhythm is set.

Ilya notices first.

Hollander replies faster when he’s alone. Slower when he’s with people. His sentences stretch when he’s tired, compress when he’s focused. He asks questions that aren’t really questions — open-ended, careful, designed not to intrude.

It’s familiar in a way Ilya doesn’t like.

Unknown: how is your day, honesty only

Shane reads that twice.

Shane: busy
Shane: fine
Shane: loud

Unknown: that was three answers

Shane: covering my bases

Unknown: you are cautious

Shane considers that.

Shane: observant

There’s a smile in that, even without an emoji. Ilya feels it anyway.

Late afternoon becomes evening. The team heads to the rink. Shane’s phone goes quiet on the bus, tucked away as the city shifts around them. He doesn’t think about the absence until warmups end and he checks it out of habit.

Still, he types — once — before he can stop himself.

Shane: game starting soon

The reply comes almost immediately.

Unknown: then I will be quiet

Shane pauses in the tunnel, the noise swelling around him. That line — the conditional — lands heavier than it should.

Shane: you don’t have to wait

Unknown: I know

Shane exhales, slow and careful, grounding himself before stepping onto the ice.

Shane: okay

Ilya watches, from his couch, volume low, attention sharp. He recognizes the way Hollander moves when he’s thinking too much. The way his shoulders settle after a clean pass. The way he looks briefly toward the bench after a missed chance, like he’s recalibrating in real time.

He doesn’t text him afterward.

He waits.

Shane texts first.

Shane: we won

Unknown: congratulations
Unknown: did you play well

Shane stares at the question, sweat still cooling on his skin, the locker room buzzing with postgame energy.

Shane: better

Unknown: that is not answer

Shane: it’s the one I’ve got

Ilya smiles, sharp and private.

Unknown: acceptable

Shane sits with that for a moment. With how easy it feels. With how little he’s trying.

Shane: you’re easy to talk to

There it is.

Ilya doesn’t reply right away.

He looks at the message, then at the phone, then away again, jaw tightening just enough to register. This is the line — not flirtation, not confession, but recognition. The moment where Shane names the thing without asking for it to change.

Ilya types, deletes, then settles on:

Unknown: so are you
Unknown: do not let that make you careless, I am stranger after all

Shane smiles, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he pulls his shirt back on.

Shane: too late

That’s when Ilya knows.

Not suspects. Knows.

And Ilya, against every sensible instinct he has, types back:

Unknown: then we will see what happens

Shane’s reply is immediate.

Shane: okay

Ilya locks his phone, pulse steady, mind anything but.

Because Shane Hollander thinks he’s texting someone harmless.
Because the rhythm is set now.
And because Ilya has already decided he isn’t going to stop.

By the third day, Shane stops telling himself it’s accidental.

The messages come in at predictable intervals now — early morning, late evening, the quiet spaces in between obligations. Never overwhelming. Never absent long enough to feel like a test.

It’s easy. That’s what surprises him.

Unknown: good morning
Unknown: you are awake already

Shane: unfortunately

Unknown: is fine
Unknown: suffering builds character

Shane laughs under his breath as he pulls on his hoodie.

Shane: I think I’m built enough

Unknown: doubtful

That one-word answer shouldn’t be as funny as it is. Shane catches himself smiling at his phone in the hallway, slowing his steps just enough to finish the exchange.

Shane: you’re rude for someone who keeps texting me

Unknown: I am selective
Unknown: you passed initial screening

Shane: what were the criteria

Unknown: you are polite
Unknown: you do not ask boring questions
Unknown: you do not pretend to be someone else

Shane pauses at that last one.

He hadn’t realized how much effort he usually put into that — into being the right version of himself, depending on who was watching. This feels… quieter. Unobserved.

Shane: that’s a generous assessment

Unknown: is accurate

That confidence — the certainty — makes Shane grin.

Later, after practice, after media, after the familiar low-grade exhaustion settles into his shoulders, he finds himself checking his phone without thinking about it. Not for updates. Not for messages that need answering.

Just to see if the number is there.

It is.

Unknown: you are thinking too hard again

Shane blinks.

Shane: how would you know that

Unknown: you stopped replying
Unknown: this is pattern

Shane exhales, something like a laugh caught in his chest.

Shane: you make it sound very scientific

Unknown: is simple
Unknown: you disappear when you are tired
Unknown: you come back when it is quiet

Shane sits with that longer than he means to.

He doesn’t deny it.

Shane: maybe I just like the quiet

Unknown: maybe
Unknown: or maybe you are lonely

The word lands gently — not sharp, not accusatory. Observational.

Shane’s first instinct is to push back. To deflect. Instead, he stares at the screen, the room suddenly very still.

Shane: that’s a strong conclusion

Unknown: you are still here
Unknown: so am I

That does it.

Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to make something inside him loosen.

That evening, the room is half-noise, half-collapse — gear abandoned wherever it landed, the TV on mute, everyone doing their own version of unwinding. Shane’s on the edge of the bed, phone tipped toward him, thumb moving without thought.

Yuna notices first.

“Who are you texting?” she asks, casual, but not careless.

Shane looks up too fast.

“Uh. Just—” He searches for the first harmless name that comes to mind. “Hayden.”

Yuna’s eyebrow lifts. Just one.

“Hayden?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, too quickly, then reins it in. “We were talking earlier.”

David looks up from his laptop, frowning. “You and Hayden don’t text like that.”

Shane shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near it. “Sometimes.”

Yuna tilts her head. “Isn’t Jackie putting the kids down right now?”

There it is — the corner he’s backed himself into.

Shane glances back at his phone, buying himself a second. There’s a new message waiting.

Unknown: you vanished
Unknown: suspicious

He locks the screen without replying.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “He mentioned that.”

David squints at him. “About what.”

“About—” Shane pauses, then exhales. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Yuna studies him for another beat, then hums softly, unconvinced but willing to drop it.

“Okay,” she says. “Just checking.”

The room settles again. The TV murmurs. Someone flips a page. Life moves on.

Shane waits until it feels safe to look at his phone again.

He snorts, covering his mouth with his hand.

Shane: you’re enjoying this
Shane: sorry — dinner with my parents

The reply takes a beat.

Unknown: tragic
Unknown: I forgive you

Shane smiles immediately.
Unknown: you are boring, is fun

Shane leans back against the pillows, phone resting on his chest, the room dim and quiet around him.

For the first time, he notices how easy it’s been — how natural it felt to fill the empty spaces with this.

Shane: I don’t usually do this

Unknown: I can tell

Shane closes his eyes, smiling despite himself.

Ilya locks his phone, amusement humming under his skin.

Because this is fun. Even if Hollander is boring.
Because Hollander is exactly as readable as he thought. If this is really him.
And because watching him realize what he’s been missing is proving far more entertaining than Ilya expected.

It isn’t one thing that gives it away completely.

Ilya would prefer that — a single clean detail, a moment he could isolate and examine. Recognition doesn’t work like that. It accumulates. It waits.

The timing comes first.

The messages never arrive during games. Not once. They stop cleanly before puck drop and don’t resume until long after, never rushed, never frantic. Whoever this is knows how to disappear without explanation.

Ilya notices. Files it away.

Then there’s the language.

Careful without being stiff. Honest without being loose. Answers that give enough without spilling over, like he’s learned exactly how much of himself is safe to offer.

It’s familiar.

Annoyingly so.

They’re texting late again, the day stretched thin on both ends.

Shane: sorry — dinner with my parents
Shane: took longer than expected

Ilya smiles faintly at his phone.

Unknown: tragic
Unknown: parents do not respect schedules

Shane: neither do I, apparently

Unknown: is fine

By the fourth night, Ilya starts nudging. Not pushing — just enough to see what gives.

Unknown: where are you tonight

The reply takes longer than usual.

Shane: hotel
Shane: road trip

Road trip narrows things. Not decisively — but meaningfully.

Unknown: sounds exhausting

Shane: sometimes
Shane: mostly it’s just quiet

Quiet.

Ilya types, deletes, then sends:

Unknown: quiet can be good

Shane: yeah
Shane: I think that’s why I like this

Ilya closes his eyes for a brief second.

Because now it isn’t just timing or phrasing. It’s preference. Choice.

Unknown: you like talking to strangers

Shane: I guess, since I like talking to you

The room seems to shrink around him.

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately. This is usually where he deflects, reframes, turns things clever and harmless.

Instead, he asks:

Unknown: why

The pause on the other end stretches. Long enough that Ilya wonders if he’s misjudged it.

Then:

Shane: because you don’t ask me to be anything
Shane: you just let me talk

That’s when it finally clicks.

Not softly. Not vaguely.

Cleanly.

Ilya scrolls back through the conversation — the silences, the careful honesty, the road trips that align too neatly with known schedules. The way Hollander texts like someone whose life is public even when he’s alone. The way he answers questions like he’s trained to be careful.

The cadence.

The restraint.

The quiet.

There are only a handful of people who move through the world like this.

Only one who texts like this.

Ilya stills, certainty settling into place with the weight of inevitability.

It’s Shane Hollander.

There’s no rush of triumph. No spike of adrenaline. Just a calm, unsettling clarity — the understanding of what anonymity has been protecting them from.

Ilya looks at the last message again.

because you don’t ask me to be anything

He knows he should stop.

Correct the mistake. End it cleanly. Restore the distance that makes things safe.

Instead, he types:

Unknown: then keep talking
Unknown: I am listening

The reply comes almost immediately.

Shane: okay

Ilya sets the phone down, pulse steady, decision made.

He knows exactly who he’s talking to now.
He knows what this could become.

And he keeps replying anyway.

Chapter 2: two

Chapter Notes

SORRY this took me so long. I was actually at the cottage & am now in shambles after episode 6! That's all. enjoy!

The first thing Shane notices is that he’s the one who starts it.

Not on purpose. Not with any sense of decision behind it. Just a quiet awareness, later, that the message is already sent and his phone is still warm in his hand.

Shane: morning

He doesn’t hover over the screen afterward. He finishes lacing his shoes, pulls his phone away like the message didn’t cost him anything. If it doesn’t get answered, that’s fine. It was nothing. Just a greeting, sent and forgotten.

He tells himself this as he stands, as he grabs his gear, as the day starts moving again.

He’s halfway through tying the second lace when the reply comes.

Unknown: this is becoming pattern

Shane smiles, brief and private, and tightens the knot.

Shane: I figured you liked consistency

Unknown: only when it is interesting

Shane: harsh

Unknown: honest

That tracks.

There’s no audience. No expectation of performance. No version of himself he has to assemble before hitting send.

That alone is novel.

By the time practice ends, his body feels loose in that post-workout way — tired but settled, the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t carry stress with it. The day has already taken what it’s going to take from him.

Whatever comes next feels optional.

He’s good at optional things. He just doesn’t indulge them often.

The message sits on the screen like it expects a response.

Shane doesn’t rush. He caps his water bottle. Checks his bag. Lets the quiet hold for a second, just to prove to himself he can.

Then–

Shane: and if I’m not interesting enough?

A pause.

Unknown: then stop texting, is simple

Shane’s mouth twitches.

Shane: that’s your advice

Unknown: it is solution

Shane: harsh

Unknown: practical

Shane leans back on the bench and stares at the ceiling for a beat, like the answer is written there.

Shane: okay

He lets it hang there. Doesn’t add a question. Doesn’t add a joke.

The reply comes anyway.

Unknown: you did not stop

Shane exhales through his nose.

Shane: guess I’m not practical

Unknown: obvious

Shane smiles, brief and private.

Shane: you’re enjoying this

Unknown: yes

Unknown: do not get sentimental about it

Practice is loud and bright and full of small, constant demands. The ice is unforgiving in the way it always is — every mistake echoed, every correction immediate. Shane doesn’t check his phone until he’s back in the locker room, towel slung around his shoulders, conversation overlapping into noise.

When he does, there’s nothing waiting for him.

The absence doesn’t feel pointed. It just sits there.

He goes through the rest of the day on autopilot — media, travel, the familiar choreography of being seen. The number drifts in and out of his thoughts without urgency, like a song stuck half-remembered.

He doesn’t reach for his phone right away.

He waits until the quiet has settled into the room again, until the city outside has softened into background noise. Until the day feels finished enough to leave alone.

It takes longer than it should to stop checking.

By the time he’s back at the hotel, the quiet settles in familiar layers — room temperature too cool, the hum of the vent, the city distant behind the window. Shane drops his bag, kicks off his shoes, and stares at his phone like it might explain itself.

He doesn’t want to be annoying. He doesn’t want to be someone who fills silence just because it’s there.

Still.

Shane: long day

The reply takes a minute. Then two.

Then:

Unknown: I suspected
Unknown: you sound tired

Shane exhales.

Shane: is that a complaint

Unknown: observation
Unknown: you type slow

He glances down at the screen, then at his hands, like that might help.

Shane: maybe I’m thinking

Unknown: dangerous activity

Shane: you don’t seem worried

Unknown: I enjoy risk, even if you are boring

Shane laughs, soft and surprised, and leans back against the headboard. He stretches his legs out in front of him, the day finally starting to loosen its grip.

Shane: what are you doing

The question hangs there, more personal than he intended. He considers adding you don’t have to answer and doesn’t.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Unknown: sitting
Unknown: thinking about whether I should be doing something more productive

Shane: and

Unknown: deciding no

That earns a smile.

Shane: I respect that

Unknown: you would

There’s a pause after that — not awkward, not heavy. Just present. Shane lets it be. He doesn’t rush to fill it, and neither does the stranger on the other end.

It feels like trust, even if he doesn’t name it that way.

Later, much later, when the room is dark except for the glow of his phone, Shane types without really looking.

Shane: you still there

The reply comes instantly.

Unknown: always dangerous question

Shane: I’m learning

Unknown: yes
Unknown: slowly

Shane grins.

Shane: you enjoy being right

Unknown: is perk

Another pause. This one stretches. Shane lets it.

He stares at the ceiling, listens to the distant sounds of traffic, the faint click of the AC turning on and off. The pause doesn’t feel like a test. It feels like space — something he’s allowed to take without explaining himself.

When he reaches for his phone again, it’s unhurried.

Shane shifts on the bed, suddenly aware of the quiet again. Of how narrow the space feels when there’s nothing pressing in on him from the outside.

Shane: you don’t have to keep me company

Across the city, Ilya reads the message and doesn’t answer immediately.

Not because he’s busy. Because Hollander is learning how silence works, and interrupting that would ruin it.

He sets the phone down on the arm of the couch and leans back, eyes on the television. The game is on—not his team, not even a matchup worth caring about. Defensive coverage breaks down anyway. It always does.

A knock comes without warning.

Alexei lets himself in without asking, already mid-complaint.
“Ты смотришь эту чушь?”

You watching this bullshit?

“К сожалению,” Ilya says without looking up.

Unfortunately.

Alexei snorts and leans against the counter.
“Отец звонил.”

Father called.

Ilya stills, just barely.
“И?”

And?

“Тот же разговор,” Alexei says, rolling his eyes.
“Он хочет, чтобы ты принёс ему хлеб сегодня.”

Same conversation. He wants you to bring him bread today.

They stand there in companionable silence, the television filling the space with noise that doesn’t matter. Alexei checks his watch and exhales.

“Мне пора идти.”

I should go.

“Да,” Ilya says, already reaching for his phone.

Yeah.

Ilya stays where he is for a moment after the door closes.

Not frozen. Just… still.

Alexei’s presence lingers the way family always does — familiar pressure, familiar weight. He hadn’t said anything untrue. He never does. That’s part of the problem.

Ilya reaches for the remote and turns the volume down another notch, more out of habit than necessity. The game keeps moving anyway. It always does. Players rotate, systems break down, someone makes a mistake that could have been avoided with half a second more awareness.

He exhales through his nose.

Predictable.

His phone lights up on the table.

He doesn’t pick it up right away.

That, too, is deliberate.

Because Hollander is learning something important tonight — not about hockey, or restraint, or mystery. About pace. About silence that doesn’t mean withdrawal. About attention that doesn’t need to be proved.

Ilya likes teaching things that way.

When he finally reaches for the phone, the screen is warm against his palm. He reads the message again — the one waiting patiently where he left it — and allows himself a small, private smile.

Then he replies.

Hollander is still there.

Unknown: I know

Three dots. Gone.

Then:

Unknown: I am choosing to because I am bored

That does something to him.

Shane stares at the words until the screen dims, then taps it back awake.

Shane: okay

Across the city, Ilya lets himself smile.

They don’t talk again that night.

Not because either of them says goodbye. Not because anything feels finished. The conversation simply stops.

Shane falls asleep with his phone face down on the nightstand, the glow fading before the thought finishes forming.

Morning replaces the quiet with routine — movement, efficiency, expectation. The day doesn’t wait for anyone.

Shane doesn’t check his phone until after practice.

When he does, there’s nothing there.

He tells himself that’s expected. That this isn’t a standing appointment. That people disappear all the time without it meaning anything.

Still, he pockets the phone instead of locking it.

By late afternoon, the quiet has changed texture. Not heavy. Just noticeable.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, towel draped over his shoulders, hair still damp. He opens his phone, types something, deletes it.

Types again.

Deletes that too.

He settles on neutral.

Shane: you survive the day?

The reply doesn’t come right away.

Shane doesn’t stare at the screen this time. He tosses the phone onto the bed, crosses the room, opens the window an inch just to let in the noise of the city. He’s learned how to sit with silence. He’s good at it.

When the phone buzzes, it still surprises him.

Shane doesn’t move right away after sending it.

He sits there on the edge of the bed, towel slipping from his shoulders, skin still damp and cooling too fast in the air-conditioned room. The city outside hums — not loud enough to intrude, not quiet enough to disappear.

This is usually the part of the day that stretches.

The part where everything slows down and there’s nothing left to do except exist inside his own head.

He’s good at filling that space when he needs to. Podcasts. Film. Noise. Anything that keeps the quiet from getting ideas.

Tonight, he doesn’t reach for any of it.

He crosses the room instead, peers down at the street apartment lights flickering on one by one. Somewhere below him, someone laughs — sharp and unselfconscious. It feels like a sound from another life.

His phone buzzes behind him.

He doesn’t smile right away.

He checks the message, then leans his shoulder against the window frame, letting the glass cool his skin.

This doesn’t feel like killing time.

It feels like choosing how to spend it.

That’s new.

Unknown: barely
Unknown: exhausting experience

Shane smiles.

Shane: dramatic

Unknown: accurate

He stretches, rolls his shoulders.

Shane: what happened

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Unknown: nothing worth explaining

Shane snorts softly.

Shane: that bad

Unknown: boring bad
Unknown: worst kind

Shane: tragic

Unknown: yes
Unknown: I suffered greatly

There it is again — the ease of it. The way the conversation slips back into place without explanation or apology.

Shane doesn’t comment on the gap.

Neither does Ilya.

It starts subtly.

Not with compliments. Not with anything Shane could point to later and call flirting without embarrassment. Just small shifts — the way the questions change shape, the way Ross’s replies stop reacting to what Shane says and start reacting to how he says it.

Shane: what are you doing right now

Unknown: watching people make bad decisions very confidently

Shane: wow. rude

Unknown: on ice

Shane: ???

Unknown: not metaphorical

Shane: you’re watching hockey?

Unknown: unfortunately

Shane: you sound offended

Unknown: I am disappointed in their defense

Shane: that feels personal

Unknown: da

Shane: so let me guess

Unknown: no

Shane: too late

Shane: you’re one of those people who yells at the screen like they’re being personally disrespected

Unknown: I do not yell

Unknown: I comment

Shane: loudly

Unknown: with conviction

Shane: tragic

Unknown: necessary

Shane: okay but if you’re disappointed in their defense

Shane: that implies standards

Unknown: unfortunately yes

Shane: that implies a team

A pause.

Unknown: you ask many questions

Shane: curiosity is one of my better traits

Unknown: debatable

Shane: wow

Shane: so you won’t even tell me who you’re judging tonight

Unknown: no

Shane: coward

Unknown: selective

Shane: that sounds like cowardice with branding

Unknown: I will survive this accusation

Shane: barely

Ilya sets the phone down on the arm of the couch and leans back, exhaling through his nose.

He hadn’t expected the teasing to land like that — easy, competitive, just sharp enough to be interesting. Hollander doesn’t retreat when challenged. He doesn’t overexplain. He pushes, then waits.

Ilya appreciates that.

The game continues in the background, a blur of motion and missed assignments. He clocks the defensive error before the commentator does and shakes his head, quietly vindicated.

When he picks the phone back up, he doesn’t rush to reply.

Shane: okay since you refuse to name the team
Shane: let’s establish something else

Unknown: I am listening

Shane: you’re absolutely a judgmental watcher
Shane: like you have a running commentary

Unknown: incorrect
Unknown: I assess

Shane: that’s worse

Unknown: accuracy is not always kind

Shane: wow
Shane: so you’re saying you’d be brutal if we watched together

Unknown: depends

Shane: on what

Unknown: whether you talk during play

Shane: I talk when things are bad

Unknown: then we would argue

Shane: competitive already

Unknown: realistic

Shane: I think you enjoy disagreeing

Unknown: I enjoy being correct

Shane: devastating personality trait

Unknown: effective one

Shane: okay
Shane: hypothetical
Shane: if someone has terrible defense but good instincts
Shane: are they redeemable

Unknown: with work

Unknown: and discipline

Shane: harsh

Unknown: honest, once again

Shane: wow that sounds familiar

Unknown: you are different today

Shane frowns slightly at his phone.

Shane: how so

Unknown: shorter sentences
Unknown: fewer jokes

Shane considers that.

Shane: maybe I’m conserving energy

Unknown: for what

Shane: unknown future demands

Unknown: ominous

Shane: I contain multitudes

Unknown: I see only one so far

That one lands.

Not sharply — just enough to register. Shane grins, more intrigued than offended.

Shane: give it time

Unknown: dangerous promise

Shane laughs under his breath, dropping onto the bed.

Shane: you don’t strike me as cautious

Unknown: I am selective

Shane: about what

The pause stretches.

Long enough to feel deliberate.

Unknown: people

Shane’s thumb hovers.

Shane: and I made the cut

Unknown: barely

Shane: encouraging

Unknown: honesty is important

Shane exhales, something warm settling low in his chest.

He clears it with humor.

Shane: for someone who values honesty
Shane: you’re remarkably committed to being a mystery

The reply doesn’t come immediately.

Unknown: mystery is useful
Unknown: it keeps expectations low

Shane: that feels like a defense mechanism

Unknown: many things are

Shane smiles.

Shane: okay
Shane: then how am I supposed to refer to you when I complain about this conversation later

The typing bubble appears. Lingers.

Unknown: you plan to complain

Shane: it’s a risk I’m willing to take

A pause.

Unknown: fine
Unknown: Ross

The name settles into the space between them easily. Too easily.

Shane: that was fast

Ross: do not read into it

Shane: I wouldn’t dream of it

Ross: good

Ross: your turn

Shane doesn’t overthink it.

Shane: Shay
Shay: feels low-commitment

Ross: it suits you

That lands closer than it should.

Shay: you say that like you know me

Ross: I observe
Ross: remember

Shane lets that sit.

Shay: noted
Shay: then I guess this is
Shay: Shay and Ross

The reply takes a beat.

Ross: careful
Ross: that sounds like something

Shane smiles, slow and unapologetic.

Shay: only if you let it

Across the city, Ilya reads the name once and doesn’t correct it.

Not because it’s accurate.

Because it’s close enough to be interesting.

Shay: still not telling me the team????

A pause.

Ross: no

Shay: incredible commitment to mystery

Ross: I told you

Ross: expectations should remain low

Shay: tragic for you

Ross: why

Shay: because now I’m imagining you judging everyone equally

Ross: inaccurate

Shay: oh?

Unknown: I judge selectively

Shay: of course you do

Shay: you also enjoy having the upper hand

Ross: someone must

Shay: sounds exhausting

Ross: it is
Ross: but I am very good at it

There’s a beat after that — one Shane doesn’t rush to fill.

He doesn’t need to.

The quiet that follows doesn’t feel like withdrawal. It feels deliberate — like both of them are waiting to see who will move first, and neither is in a hurry to lose.

Shay: you say that like it’s a skill

The reply takes longer than the others have.

Ross: it is
Ross: you learn early when to speak
Ross: and when not to

Shane exhales softly.

Shay: sounds exhausting

Ross: only if you care about being liked

Shane tilts his head.

Shay: do you not

Ross: selectively

That makes him laugh — quiet, genuine.

Shay: I get that

Ross: of course you do

Shay: you don’t know that

Ross: I observe patterns
Ross: it is enough

A pause.

Shay: and what’s my pattern

The answer comes slower.

Ross: you ask questions you already know the answer to

Shane goes still.

Shay: that feels unfair

Ross: honesty often does

They talk like that for a while.

Messages spaced by minutes. Sometimes longer. Enough time between replies that neither of them can pretend they’re doing nothing else.

At some point, Shane realizes he hasn’t thought about who Ross is in a while.

Just how he makes the quiet feel intentional.

Shay: do you ever get tired of this

Ross: of what

Shay: people trying to figure you out

Ross: no
Ross: I get tired of people being wrong

Shane smiles.

Shay: confident

Ross: accurate

Ross: you are testing limits

Shay: am I

Ross: yes

Ross: and you pretend you are not

Shay exhales, amused.

Shay: you’re observant

Ross: I remember

Shay: you say that like it’s intimate

The pause is longer.

Ross: you make it sound like you want it to be

Ilya’s smile turns sharp.

Shay: maybe I do

Shay: maybe I just like watching you hesitate

Ross: I do not hesitate

Shay: sure

Ross: sleep, Shay

Shane exhales, satisfied.

Shay: goodnight, Ross

Ilya doesn’t text again after that.

Not because he’s done. Because he isn’t.

He leaves the phone face down on the table and lets the quiet return on its own terms. The game ends. The apartment settles. His thoughts don’t spiral — they sharpen.

Somewhere across the city, Hollander is probably doing the same thing. Sitting with it. Not rushing to fill the space.

Ilya smiles to himself.

This is better than he expected.

That is the dangerous part.

Chapter End Notes

ALSO how would you guys prefer to see the russian? I felt like it needed to be included but I know no one wants to sit there and translate... comments appreciated!

Chapter 3: three

Chapter Notes

hello lovely people! still coping with the heated rivalry loss but i hope you enjoy!! I can't believe this has gotten as much kudos and hits thank you guys!!! :))

The first thing Shane notices is that he doesn’t check the time before answering.

He’s awake earlier than he needs to be, the hotel room still dim, the city outside only just beginning to stretch itself awake. His phone is face down on the nightstand where he left it. He knows there won’t be anything waiting for him there. He checked before he fell asleep. He checked again when he woke up.

That hasn’t stopped him from noticing it.

He flips the phone over and types before he gives himself a reason not to.

Shay: morning

He sets the phone down immediately, like watching it would make it matter more. Pulls on a hoodie. Pads across the carpet and pours himself coffee from the hotel machine that sputters before it cooperates. The smell is familiar — burnt grounds, something vaguely chemical.

Ordinary. Manageable.

The reply comes while he’s leaning against the counter, mug warming his hands.

Ross: you are awake early

Shane exhales softly.

Shay: occupational hazard
Shay: mornings don’t wait for me

Ross: unfortunate
Ross: I prefer when people move slower

Shane takes a sip and watches traffic thread through the intersection below.

Shay: you say that like you’ve met people who didn’t

Ross: I have
Ross: they were not interesting

Shane smiles despite himself.

He doesn’t answer right away — not because he’s thinking, but because he isn’t in a hurry.

Shay: careful
Shay: you’re developing standards

Ross: I have always had standards
Ross: you are only noticing now

Shane shifts his weight, shoulder brushing the cool glass of the window.

Shay: then what do I qualify as

There’s a pause. Brief, but deliberate.

Ross: persistent
Ross: difficult
Ross: not boring, sometimes

Shane laughs quietly, shaking his head.

Shay: glowing review

Ross: do not let it go to your head

Shay: too late

The typing bubble appears, disappears.

Ross: unsurprising

He finishes his coffee, rinses the mug, checks the time. Practice in less than an hour. He should move. He should stop lingering like the morning is waiting on him.

Instead, he sends:

Shay: what are you doing

The reply takes longer this time.

Ross: sitting
Ross: watching something that should be better than it is

Shane arches an eyebrow.

Shay: still hockey

Ross: unfortunately

Shane laughs — quiet, genuine.

Shay: you sound personally offended

Ross: defense is lazy
Ross: it irritates me

Shane tilts his head.

Shay: okay but you can’t just say their defense is tragic and not elaborate
Shay: that’s cowardice

Ross: it is not cowardice
Ross: it is mercy

Shay: for who
Shay: the players or the viewers

A pause.

Ross: for myself

Shane smiles, intrigued.

Shay: dramatic
Shay: so what actually impresses you

This pause is longer. Not evasive. Considered.

Ross: players who last
Ross: who adapt without losing discipline

Shay: that’s vague on purpose

Ross: yes

Shane waits.

Ross: someone like Rozanov from Boston
Ross: flashy
Ross: always present
Ross: excellent conditioning
Ross: quiet consistency

Shane blinks.

That’s… specific.

Shay: wow
Shay: you would admire that asshole

Another pause. Shorter now.

Ross: you asked what impressed me

Shay: fair
Shay: those players usually get hated though

Ross: only by people who do not understand the game

Shane grins.

Shay: that sounded personal

Ross: perhaps

Shane exhales, something warm settling low in his chest.

Shay: follow-up question

Ross: I suspected there would be one

Shay: do you admire him
Shay: or like do you want to be him

This time, Ilya doesn’t answer immediately.

When he does, it’s different.

Ross: neither
Ross: I respect what it takes to stay composed that long

Shane leans back against the counter.

The ones who last.
The ones who don’t get forgiven when they fail.
The ones who survive because they never stop paying attention.

He knows that kind of player.

He isn’t sure whether he is one — or just pretending to be.

Shay: that’s… kind of hot actually

Silence.

Not the abrupt kind.
The deliberate kind.

Ross: you should not say things like that

Shane’s smile is slow.

Shay: why
Shay: does it distract you

The reply comes after a beat.

Ross: yes

That’s it.

That’s the first crack.

Shane notices it at warm-ups.

Not the drills — those are automatic. Muscle memory. Breath control. The familiar hum of the rink settling into place. He notices it in the space between movements. In the moments where his attention should be empty.

It isn’t.

His phone is in his locker. He knows that. He hasn’t checked it since stepping onto the ice, and he won’t until practice is over. That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.

Still, the thought of it sits behind his sternum, low and persistent.

He shakes it off and skates harder.

The drill resets. He pivots clean, shoulders squared, eyes tracking the puck before it even reaches his line. Someone calls his name. He responds without thinking.

This is where he’s supposed to be good.
This is where everything usually makes sense.

And yet.

Between reps, leaning on his stick, Shane catches himself replaying a sentence from hours ago.

you should not say things like that.

His body disagrees with the idea that it shouldn’t mean anything.

“Focus up,” the coach snaps — not unkindly.

Shane nods and pushes off again.

Practice runs long. Not punishing. Just thorough. The kind that should leave his mind pleasantly dull.

Instead, the quiet afterward feels anticipatory.

By the time he’s back in the locker room, towel slung over his shoulders, sweat cooling too fast against his skin, he gives himself permission.

He checks his phone.

Nothing.

That’s normal.

He scrolls anyway — email, team app, calendar reminders. Nothing that asks for him. Nothing personal.

He locks the screen and drops the phone back into his bag.

He tells himself this is normal.

The lie is gentle enough to pass.

Back at the hotel, the quiet presses in harder than usual. Shane drops his bag, kicks off his shoes, stands there like the room might tell him what to do next.

It doesn’t.

He showers. Changes. Orders food he barely tastes.

When he finally picks up his phone again, it’s deliberate.

Shay: long day

He sets the phone down face-up on the table. Doesn’t watch it.

He stretches on the carpet, rolling tension out of his shoulders. When he checks again, there’s still nothing.

That’s fine.

He cracks the window, lets the city breathe at him.

When the phone buzzes, it still startles him.

Ross: barely
Ross: I regret participating

Shane smiles before he can stop himself.

Shay: dramatic

Ross: accurate
Ross: you sound entertained

Shay: maybe a little
Shay: what happened

Ross: nothing memorable
Ross: which is the problem

Shay: tragic night then

Ross: yes
Ross: I suffered quietly

The rhythm slides back into place like it never left.

Later, sprawled across the bed, phone resting against his chest, the conversation slows without fading.

Shay: do you ever get tired of people wanting explanations

The pause stretches.

Ross: not tired
Ross: irritated

Shay: by what

Ross: by people asking questions they don’t want answers to

Shane turns onto his side, staring at the wall.

Shay: that feels targeted

Ross: only if it applies

Shay: and if it does

Ross: then you’re being honest for once

That lands.

Shay: you say things like that very casually

Ross: you hear them that way

The quiet tightens.

Shay: you’re paying attention to me now

Ross: I never wasn’t

Shane swallows.

Shay: careful
Shay: that sounds like it could mean something

The reply takes longer than usual.

Ross: only if you let it

The clock ticks past the hour without him noticing.

Eventually:

Shay: sleep well

The message sends.

No reply.

A minute passes.

Then another.

Shane flips the phone face-down on the nightstand.

This is still fine.

Shane doesn’t fall asleep right away.

That’s not unusual — hotels do that to him. The unfamiliar quiet, the too-soft pillows, the sense that the room doesn’t belong to anyone long enough to settle. He’s learned how to lie still through it, how to let his body rest even when his mind doesn’t follow.

Tonight, the stillness feels sharper.

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling, counting the faint hums of the building — the AC cycling somewhere above him, a muffled door closing down the hall, the distant rush of traffic far enough away to feel abstract. His phone sits face-down on the nightstand where he left it.

He doesn’t reach for it.

Not because he’s being disciplined. Because he already knows what’s there.

Nothing.

He closes his eyes anyway. Opens them again a minute later.

This is still fine, he tells himself again, quieter this time.

The thought doesn’t stick.

Shane rolls onto his side and reaches for the phone before he can talk himself out of it. He flips it over, half-expecting the screen to light up — not with a message, just with the illusion that something might have changed while he wasn’t looking.

It hasn’t.

He doesn’t open the thread. He doesn’t need to. The last thing he sent is still there, preserved in that small, bright font like a timestamped decision.

sleep well

Not a question. Not a hook. Something he meant.

He opens Notes instead.

The blank page stares back at him, too clean, too patient. He types one line without thinking.

You don’t owe me anything.

He reads it. Deletes it.

Types again.

I’m not reading into this.

Deletes that too.

He exhales, slow, controlled — the way he does on the bench when he needs his heart rate down in a hurry. The way he does when the game starts slipping sideways and he needs to bring himself back.

This isn’t that, he reminds himself.

This isn’t pressure. This isn’t loss. This is just… space.

He sets the phone back down and turns onto his other side, facing the window. The city lights bleed through the curtains in thin lines, not bright enough to illuminate anything fully. Somewhere out there, people are still awake. Somewhere else, people are sleeping through the night without knowing how lucky that makes them.

Shane flexes his fingers against the sheet.

He isn’t angry.

That surprises him.

He isn’t disappointed, either — not in the way he’s learned to recognize. There’s no sting, no sharp drop in his chest. Just a quiet awareness of something left open.

Like a door he didn’t realize he’d stopped checking.

He closes his eyes again and lets the thought settle without pushing it away.

If Ross doesn’t answer, that’s information.

Not rejection. Not dismissal.

Just information.

That’s manageable.

Eventually, sleep finds him — not deep, not clean, but enough. Enough to get him through the morning.

When his alarm goes off, he wakes without reaching for his phone.

That, too, feels like a choice.

He tells himself that as the room darkens — as the quiet settles heavier than before.

Ilya likes nights because they demand less explanation.

The apartment is quiet in a way that feels earned, lights dimmed and city noise distant enough to blur into background. He pours himself a glass of water and moves through the space with practiced efficiency, every step familiar, every motion deliberate.

His phone vibrates once against the counter. Not urgent. Not insistent. He doesn’t reach for it immediately.

When he does, the screen lights up easily.

Shay: sleep well

Ilya reads it once, then again. It isn’t a question, and it isn’t bait. It’s a closing—offered cleanly, without expectation. That’s what makes it dangerous.

He sets the phone face-down. Not because he’s unsure what to say; the reply forms fully in his head, complete and effortless. He chooses not to send it.

This is how you keep things contained. You don’t soften edges the moment they appear. You let space exist long enough to see what someone does with it.

He finishes his water, washes the glass, turns off the light. When he checks the phone again before bed, the message is still there, unchanged. Waiting.

Ilya locks the screen. Tomorrow will come whether he answers or not, and that knowledge settles easily. He lies down and closes his eyes.

Across the city, Shane Hollander does the same—only one of them knows the silence was chosen. And that is the most dangerous part of all.

Ilya likes mornings because they are honest.

There is no performance in them. No one expects warmth. No one is asking for anything except execution. You show up, you move your body the way you’ve trained it to move, and the results speak for themselves. It’s clean. It’s contained.

The rink smells like cold metal and disinfectant. The ice is freshly cut, glassy and perfect in a way that doesn’t last. Ilya skates out with the group, jaw set, shoulders loose, focus already narrowing.

The ice is perfect—that’s the first thing he notices. The surface reflects light without distortion, smooth enough to feel unreal. It won’t last. It never does. The first hard stop will scar it, the first missed edge will carve a line through the illusion.

That’s fine. Perfect things aren’t useful. Responsive ones are.

The noise of the rink—blades on ice, boards rattling, someone laughing too loudly—fades into background as his body takes over. Push, cut, recover. Again. This is where everything simplifies.

Drills come fast today, faster than usual. The pace forces decisions before hesitation can creep in, and Ilya thrives on it. He reads lanes early, closes gaps without overcommitting, arrives where he needs to be a second before anyone realizes he should be there.

Someone mutters something when he breaks up a rush cleanly. Later, another voice says, half-impressed and half-wary, “You’re sharp today.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Sharp is fine. Sharp is controllable.

Between drills, he glides to the bench and takes a long pull from his bottle, water cold against his teeth. His eyes flick—just once—toward where his phone is zipped into his bag. He doesn’t reach for it. There won’t be anything there. That’s the point.

He’s made a career out of this kind of restraint. Letting things wait. Letting people wait. Space reveals more than pressure ever does.

The whistle blows again, and he pushes off harder than necessary. One rep later, he nearly overcommits—just a fraction late pulling back, a touch too aggressive closing space. It doesn’t cost him anything. The drill resets. No one calls it out.

Ilya notices anyway. He corrects it on the next run, adjusts, smooths the edge. Better.

By the end of practice, his body hums with the clean exhaustion he prefers—muscles spent, mind quieted by effort. Whatever exists beyond the rink can stay there.

He checks his phone once in the locker room. Nothing.

Good.

The absence lands exactly where he expected it to, and that should be relief. Instead, there’s a faint irritation—not sharp enough to bite, but persistent enough to register. Not at the silence itself, but at how aware of it he is.

He locks the phone and sets it back into his bag with deliberate care. Containment works best when you commit to it fully.

Svetlana texts him an hour later.

Svet: drinks tonight. you owe me for last week
Ilya: I do not owe you
Svet: you abandoned me with terrible people
Ilya: I will be there

She sends a thumbs-up and a location. No follow-up questions, no commentary. Svetlana has never needed explanations from him. She knows when to press and when not to, and more importantly, she knows that pressing usually gets you less.

They meet at a place they’ve been going to long enough that no one asks for IDs or pretends not to recognize them. It’s loud without being chaotic, dim enough to blur edges, familiar enough that Ilya can settle into it without lowering his guard.

Svetlana is already there, perched on a barstool, jacket draped over the back of the chair like she plans to stay a while.

“You’re late,” she says, smiling.

“By three minutes,” Ilya replies, sliding onto the stool beside her.

“Which is late for you.”

She passes him a drink he didn’t order but will drink anyway. They clink glasses, and the first sip burns in exactly the way he expects.

“You look…” She tilts her head, considering him. “Focused.”

“That is normal.”

“No,” she says. “This is sharper.”

Ilya shrugs. “Practice was productive.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask. They talk about neutral things—mutual friends, bad music, a movie Svetlana hated on principle alone. The conversation moves easily, punctuated by laughter and silences that don’t demand filling.

At one point, Svetlana watches him set his phone face-down on the bar. She doesn’t comment, just raises an eyebrow.

“I am allowed to ignore my phone,” he says dryly.

“You are,” she agrees. “It’s just unusual.”

He meets her gaze without flinching. “People notice too much.”

Svetlana hums, unconvinced but willing to let it go. That’s always been their balance. She notices. He decides what matters.

A girl joins them later—someone Svetlana knows vaguely, someone attractive and uncomplicated. She laughs easily, touches Ilya’s arm when she talks. There’s interest there, clear and unhidden.

This is normal.

When Svetlana excuses herself to the bathroom, the girl leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s sharing something private.

“So,” she says, “you coming back with us?”

Ilya considers it, not for long.

“Yes,” he says, because there’s no reason not to.

The apartment is unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. Shoes by the door, music low, lights dimmed enough to soften the space. The girl pours them another drink without asking, talking while she does—about work, about someone Svetlana knows tangentially, about a place they should all go next time.

Ilya listens. He always does.

When she kisses him, it’s confident and unhesitating, familiar in the way experience makes things familiar quickly. He responds automatically, hands settling where they’re expected to settle, body following the rhythm offered to it.

This is normal.
This is uncomplicated.

At some point—he doesn’t track exactly when—Svetlana slips out, leaving them alone with a look that says text me tomorrow and nothing else. No judgment. No expectation.

Later, when the lights are off and the room has gone quiet except for her breathing, Ilya lies awake and stares at the ceiling. The air smells faintly of perfume and alcohol and something warm he can’t quite place.

He feels nothing he didn’t anticipate.

That should be enough.

His phone sits on the nightstand within reach. He hasn’t touched it since he arrived. He told himself he wouldn’t—that the boundary matters more than impulse.

He reaches for it anyway. Not urgently. Not furtively. Just deliberately.

The screen lights up.

No new messages.

Of course not.

He’s the one who chose not to reply.

The thought is clean, factual, easy to hold. It settles without resistance.

Still, he opens the thread. The last message sits there exactly as he left it.

sleep well

Ilya reads it once, then again. It isn’t needy. It isn’t loaded. It doesn’t ask him for anything at all.

That’s what makes it linger.

The reply is already formed—short, neutral, harmless. Something that wouldn’t give anything away.

He doesn’t send it.

This is how restraint works, he reminds himself. You don’t correct every imbalance the moment it appears. You let silence do its job.

He locks the phone and sets it face-down, more firmly this time, then rolls onto his side and forces his attention elsewhere.

This is control.
This is containment.

Across the city, someone else is lying awake with a different understanding of the same space.

Ilya closes his eyes.

Not because he’s finished.

Because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And because it’s easy.

That’s the problem.

Chapter End Notes

comments & feedback always appreciated!

Chapter 4: four

Chapter Notes

enjoyyy! appreciate all of the kudos :)

i would also like to say because of the different dynamics, the timeline is not the same as canon! some scenes are used vaguely but it does not follow the book generally, just because of how ilya knows it's shane but shane doesn't! that's all!

The first thing Shane notices is the silence.

Not the normal kind. Not the comfortable, earned quiet that follows a game or a long day. This one feels intentional. Almost deliberate.

His phone is on the nightstand where he left it, face-down, screen dark. He knows there won’t be anything there. He told Ross to sleep well. That was a closing. A clean one.

He still flips it over.

Nothing.

Fine.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His body feels restless in a way that has nothing to do with soreness. His legs ache. His shoulders feel tight. There’s energy under his skin with nowhere to go.

He tells himself it’s just pre-game adrenaline.

That lie doesn’t sit.

He showers longer than usual. Lets the water beat down until his thoughts blur. Dresses without really paying attention. When he finally leaves the room, his phone stays in his pocket instead of his hand.

He doesn’t text. It’s a stranger, after all.

Boston versus Montreal again.

Different city. Same weight.

For Shane, it’s muscle memory and ritual. Tape. Stretch. Breathe. The rivalry is old enough that it lives in his bones. He doesn’t need to hype himself up — his body does it for him.

What he doesn’t expect is the edge.

He plays harder than necessary. Takes hits he could avoid. Pushes into scrums instead of skating away. Everything feels too close, too loud, too sharp.

The crowd loves it.

His coach does not.

“Dial it back,” someone mutters on the bench.

Shane nods. Does not dial it back.

Across the rink, Ilya Rozanov watches.

Not from the ice. Not from anywhere obvious. He stands near the tunnel, half-turned, listening to a reporter ask him something forgettable while his attention stays exactly where it shouldn’t.

Shane Hollander is furious.

Not sloppy. Not reckless.

Furious.

Ilya sees it immediately — the unnecessary force, the way he chases contact, the way he skates like he’s trying to outrun something internal. It’s unmistakable once you know how to read it.

And Ilya knows how to read him.

The reporter says his name again. Ilya answers automatically. Doesn’t look away.

Hollander slams someone into the boards hard enough that the crowd gasps.

Ilya’s mouth curves before he can stop it.

Just slightly.

When Hollander skates past the bench after the whistle, breathing hard, jaw tight, eyes burning — Ilya catches his gaze for half a second.

And winks — quick and subtle, gone almost as soon as it’s there.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would mean anything to anyone else.

Hollander doesn’t recognize him.

But his stride stutters.

Just once.

The game ends ugly.

Win or lose barely matters — the energy doesn’t drain. Shane showers fast, aggressive, like he’s scrubbing something off instead of cleaning up. His hands are still shaking when he pulls his phone out of his locker.

Still nothing.

That shouldn’t bother him.

It does.

He tells himself it’s leftover anger. That Boston always gets under his skin. That whatever flickered in his chest on the ice had nothing to do with a man who texts him back in clipped sentences.

He believes this explanation for exactly five minutes.

By the time he’s back in his hotel room, he’s pacing.

He doesn’t even think before unlocking his phone.

Shay: you disappear when things get interesting

The message sends.

He exhales sharply, already regretting the tone — too sharp, too revealing.

He doesn’t delete it.

Minutes pass.

Nothing.

The frustration twists, low and heated. Shane drops onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

This is ridiculous.

He doesn’t know Ross. Ross doesn’t owe him anything. This is just texting. Just distraction.

So why does it feel like unfinished business?

He types again, slower this time.

Shay: I’m wired
Shay: and I don’t know why

He stares at the screen.

Then, reckless:

Shay: say something that will piss me off

Across the city, Ilya reads it.

And smiles.

Ilya doesn’t answer immediately.

He should ignore it. He’s already let this go further than intended. The silence has been doing its job — keeping things contained, undefined.

But the message sits there.

unsettled. restless. wired and pretending it’s nothing.

That part isn’t dangerous.

What’s dangerous is how familiar it feels.

Ilya types.

Deletes.

Types again.

This time, he keeps it vague. Intentional.

Ross: you sound like someone who hasn’t burned off whatever’s got you tense

He sends it.

On the other end, Shane freezes.

Not because it’s specific.

Because it’s right.

His breath stutters — barely noticeable, but enough. His jaw tightens as heat curls low in his stomach, sharp and sudden.

That could mean anything, he tells himself.

Anyone could say that.

Still, his pulse doesn’t slow.

He swallows and types, more defensive than he intends.

Shay: that’s a weird assumption

The reply comes quickly — too quickly to be accidental.

Ross: you asked what I thought

Shane stares at the screen.

There’s no accusation in it. No claim. Just an opening.

And suddenly, the tension he’s been mislabeling as anger has nowhere to go.

He types before he can stop himself.

Shay: then tell me
Shay: what you think I should do about it

Ilya exhales — slow, controlled.

He doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

Ilya lets the silence breathe.

Not because he doesn’t know what to say — the answer forms easily, sharp and instinctive — but because the moment deserves restraint. Hollander is standing on the edge of something and doesn’t realize it yet. Pushing him now would ruin it.

He sets the phone down on the table.

Counts to ten.

Picks it back up.

Ross: depends
Ross: do you want to be calm
Ross: or do you want to feel better

He sends it before he can overthink the phrasing.

On the other end, Shane sucks in a breath through his teeth.

His body reacts before his brain catches up — a tightening low in his stomach, a sudden awareness of his own pulse. He shifts where he’s sitting, knees spreading slightly without him realizing, foot bouncing once against the carpet before he stills it.

That’s a loaded question, he thinks.

He types anyway.

Shay: those aren’t the same thing

The response is immediate.

Ross: no
Ross: they usually aren’t

Shane lets his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. The room feels warmer than it did five minutes ago. He rolls his shoulders once, then again, like he’s trying to shake something loose.

Shay: you’re being very confident for someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about

A pause.

Not long.

Deliberate.

Ross: I know enough
Ross: you wouldn’t be asking otherwise

Shane exhales sharply.

There it is — the quiet certainty, the way Ross never sounds rushed or apologetic or unsure. It needles something in him, the same way a defender’s stick does when it catches his wrist just enough to remind him he’s being watched.

Shay: okay
Shay: pretend I’m listening

Ross’s mouth curves faintly as he reads that.

He leans back against the counter, crosses his arms, considers.

Then:

Ross: then stop pacing
Ross: breathe slower than you want to
Ross: and don’t touch anything yet

Shane freezes.

His phone is warm in his hand. He hadn’t realized he’d been standing until that exact second — hadn’t realized his weight was shifting restlessly from foot to foot, hadn’t realized how keyed-up he actually was.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Shay: you don’t get to say things like that

The reply comes fast enough that it feels intentional.

Ross: you asked
Ross: I’m answering

Shane drags a hand through his hair, pacing stopping despite himself. He plants his feet, leans his shoulder against the wall, presses his thumb hard into the edge of his phone like grounding himself.

Shay: this is not helpful

Ross: disagree
Ross: you stopped moving

He closes his eyes.

The silence in the room feels louder now — charged, expectant. He’s hyper-aware of his own body: the tension in his thighs, the way his breathing keeps trying to speed up again, the low heat that refuses to dissipate.

Shay: you’re doing this on purpose

Another pause.

Longer.

Ross: yes

That single word lands heavier than anything else he’s said all night.

Shane swallows.

Shay: why

Ilya doesn’t answer immediately.

He shouldn’t. This is already closer to the line than he intended. He can feel it — the way the dynamic is shifting from banter to something more deliberate, more intimate. Hollander isn’t just irritated anymore. He’s focused.

Which is dangerous.

But…

Ross: because you asked me to
Ross: and because you don’t actually want to be angry

Shane’s fingers curl around his phone.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the way the trainers taught him, but it doesn’t do much. The tension has sharpened, not dulled.

Shay: you don’t know what I want

Ross: I know what you’re doing
Ross: that’s enough

The room feels smaller.

Shane presses his back flat to the wall, phone held low now, gaze unfocused. His heart is beating harder than it did on the ice.

Shay: you talk like you’re in control

Ilya smiles.

Not wide.

Measured.

Ross: I am
Ross: for now

That’s the line.

The one that tips it just far enough.

Shane lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Shay: that’s dangerous talk

Ross: you’re the one who asked me to piss you off

Shane tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing.

Shay: congratulations
Shay: mission accomplished

A pause.

Then:

Ross: good
Ross: now decide what you’re going to do with it

Shane doesn’t answer.

Not because he doesn’t know.

Because suddenly, very clearly, he does — and he doesn’t trust himself to say it.

He locks his phone.

Sets it down on the nightstand.

Stands there for a long moment, breathing hard, pulse loud in his ears.

Across the city, Ilya waits.

And does not send another message.

Shane paused before reaching down, fingers dragging slowly over the hard lines of his stomach, following the curve of muscle until his palm pressed over the front of his shorts.

An unexpected groan slipped out as he made contact — already half hard, the restless edge of the game still buzzing through his veins.

He stilled for half a second, then slid his hand beneath the waistband of his briefs, wrapping his fingers fully around himself. The pressure alone made his breath hitch.

He stroked himself once, twice — slow at first — his hand slick almost immediately from the precum leaking free. He hadn’t brought lube. He never did. He’d always told himself he didn’t need it, that hockey came first, that he wasn’t like the guys with reputations and distractions and bad decisions.

People like Rozanov, his brain supplied unhelpfully.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, breath tight.

He tightened his grip at the base, the sensation rippling sharply up his spine, pleasure cutting clean through everything else until the only thing that mattered was the heat in his hand. The anger blurred. The noise faded.

He started moving faster, chasing relief now, desperate and unfocused — and that’s when the words surfaced, uninvited.

breathe slower than you want to
don’t touch anything yet

“Fuck,” he breathed, head tipping back as his hand worked harder, thumb dragging over the head, spreading more slick down his shaft.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up — pulse racing, breath uneven, everything narrowing down to the tension Ross had somehow left behind.

And that was the problem.

He could feel himself tipping toward the edge, movements growing sloppy, desperate — hips starting to lift as he nearly thrust into his own hand.

His grip tightened, strokes turning erratic, chasing the release he’d been denying himself since the final buzzer. With one last drag of his hand and a sharp squeeze at the base, he came hard, spilling across his stomach as a string of muttered curses tumbled from his mouth — English giving way to French without him even realizing it.

The rush drains fast.

It leaves him too aware of himself — of the room, the silence, the evidence cooling against his skin. Shane exhales shakily and scrubs a hand over his face, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut like he can rewind the last five minutes if he tries hard enough.

Jesus Christ.

He reaches for a towel with unnecessary force, wipes himself clean, avoids looking down for longer than he has to. His hands feel clumsy now, all the urgency gone and replaced by something uncomfortably close to self-consciousness.

That wasn’t—

No. It was nothing.

He straightens, adjusts his clothes, moves around the room with exaggerated normalcy. Picks up his phone. Puts it back down. Runs water in the sink just to hear something that isn’t his own breathing.

His pulse refuses to settle.

The realization creeps in slowly, unwelcome and precise:

he hadn’t been thinking about the game by the end. Not really.

He’d been thinking about a voice. About timing. About control offered and withdrawn with intent. About being seen without being named.

Shane swears under his breath and presses his palms to the edge of the counter, grounding himself. This is ridiculous. He’s tired. He’s wired. Boston always does this to him. Rivalry adrenaline turns into stupid decisions — everyone knows that.

That’s all this was.

Except his phone is still where he left it.

Except his body reacted like it recognized something before he did.

Except the words are still echoing, uninvited, precise.

Don’t touch anything yet.

Heat crawls up his neck — not arousal now, but embarrassment sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t lose control over someone he doesn’t know, someone who isn’t even real to him outside a screen.

A stranger.

Shane forces a breath in through his nose. Then another. Slower this time. Intentional.

He checks the time. Too late to text. Too late to pretend this didn’t happen by dragging it into conversation. Whatever that moment was, it’s over. He ended it. He put the phone down.

He tells himself this firmly, like a rule.

Still, when he finally lies back down, the room dark again, he keeps his phone face-down — not out of restraint.

Out of fear that if it lights up, he won’t ignore it.

And that, more than anything else tonight, unsettles him.

Morning comes too fast.

Shane wakes to pale light leaking through the hotel curtains and the dull ache of a body that hasn’t fully come down yet. His first thought is blessedly empty. His second is routine — meetings, travel, the long stretch of hours that make up a road day.

His third lands like a hit he didn’t brace for.

Oh.

He goes very still, staring at the ceiling, replaying nothing and everything at once. The memory isn’t graphic anymore — just sensations. Heat. Tension. A voice in his head that hadn’t been his own.

That was a mistake, he decides immediately.

The thought is sharp, immediate. He rolls onto his side and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself, thumb hovering.

No new messages.

Good.

That settles it. Whatever that was ended exactly where it should have — privately, silently, with no witnesses and no consequences. People blow off steam. People mislabel adrenaline all the time.

He exhales and sits up, grounding himself in familiar things: sore shoulders, heavy legs, the hotel carpet cool under his feet. This is real. This is normal. This is him.

His phone buzzes anyway.

Shane flinches — an involuntary thing — before checking it.

It isn’t Ross.

It’s Hayden.

Hayden: morning

Hayden: Jackie wants to do dinner when we get back — says you need real food

Shane snorts softly, tension loosening just a fraction.

Shane: she’s probably right

Shane: tell her I’m in if we get back at a decent hour

Hayden: she’ll feed you even if it’s late

Hayden: no escape

That helps. Familiar. Solid. A future point he can anchor himself to.

He sets the phone down and heads for the shower, determined not to spiral.

That’s when the other message comes in.

No sound. No rush.

Just a name lighting the screen.

Ross: sleep help?

Shane stares at it longer than he should.

There’s nothing explicit there. Nothing that directly references anything. It could mean anything — or nothing at all.

Still, something tightens low in his chest.

Shay: yeah

Shay: needed it

Shay: dinner with my teammate later should help 

The reply comes a beat later. Ross ignoring the last thread of his text.

Ross: figured

Ross: you sounded… calmer by the end

Calmer.

Shane’s stomach flips, heat crawling uninvited up his spine.

That’s not fair. That’s vague enough to be coincidence. Ross doesn’t know anything. He can’t know anything.

Shay: you’re reading into it

A pause.

Longer than the others.

Then:

Ross: am I

Ross: or are you uncomfortable because I’m not

Shane exhales sharply and locks his phone.

Nope. Not doing this. Not on a travel morning, not before coffee, not with his body still buzzing in ways he refuses to name.

He shoves the phone into his bag without looking at it again and forces himself into motion.

Flights. Security lines. The blur of airports and schedules. Teammates around him, close enough to keep him grounded but not close enough to notice the way his thoughts keep circling.

Dinner later. Jackie’s cooking. Kids talking over each other. Real noise. Real life.

That will fix this.

Still, as they board the plane, his phone vibrates once — muffled through fabric, insistent in a way that makes his jaw tighten.

He doesn’t check it.

Not because he’s strong.

Because suddenly, he’s not sure he wants to know what Ross might say next.

Dinner is loud in the way it always is.

Jackie’s kitchen smells like garlic and something simmering too long on purpose. Someone’s music is playing from a speaker on the counter, volume low enough to be ignored. The kids argue about nothing. Hayden steals food off Shane’s plate like it’s a reflex.

Normal.

Shane anchors himself in it with relief.

This is solid ground — familiar voices, familiar rhythms, the comfort of not being watched too closely. No one is asking him questions that matter. No one is paying attention to the way he keeps checking his phone face-down beside his plate.

Jackie notices anyway.

She always does.

“You’re quiet,” she says, not accusing. Just observational. “Long trip?”

Shane shrugs, casual. “Game took more out of me than I thought.”

Hayden snorts. “Boston does that to you.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, grateful for the out. “Exactly.”

The explanation settles easily into the space. It’s true enough to pass.

He eats. Listens. Laughs when expected. Lets the noise fill the parts of him that have felt too empty all day. For a while, it works.

Then his phone vibrates.

Once.

He doesn’t reach for it.

The vibration is subtle — enough that no one else notices. Enough that it could be ignored if he wanted to ignore it.

He doesn’t.

He waits until Jackie turns back to the stove, until Hayden’s distracted by a story he’s already told three times — then flips the phone over under the table.

Ross.

Ross: dinner helped?

Shane’s stomach flips, sharp and uninvited.

That shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s a neutral question. Barely even personal. Ross has no idea where he is or what he’s doing.

Still, his appetite disappears.

He types, deletes, then types again.

Shay: yeah

Shay: real food fixes most things

The reply comes slower this time.

Not delayed.

Measured.

Ross: most, not all

Shane presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, pulse ticking up despite himself.

That could still be nothing. Ross says things like that all the time — clipped, observational, vaguely irritating in a way Shane pretends he doesn’t enjoy.

Shay: sounds like experience talking

Another pause.

Long enough that Shane sets the phone down and looks up, forcing himself back into the room. Jackie slides a dish onto the table. Someone asks him about the next road trip. He answers automatically.

His phone vibrates again.

Ross: maybe

Ross: or maybe you’re still wound too tight

Shane’s fingers curl around the edge of the table.

That’s not fair.

He glances up — no one’s watching him. The conversation has moved on without him. He could ignore it. He should ignore it.

Instead:

Shay: you keep saying things like you’re sure

Shay: and you really shouldn’t be

This time, the response is immediate.

Ross: you’re still reacting

Ross: that’s usually enough

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

The room feels warmer. Too many bodies. Too much noise. The chair suddenly too small.

Shay: reacting doesn’t mean what you think it means

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

Ross: then stop engaging

Ross: see if that helps

That hits harder than it should.

Not because it’s mean — because it’s an option. A clean one. Ross offering him the exit without pressing.

Shane stares at the screen.

Under the table, his knee bounces once before he stills it.

Shay: you don’t make that easy

The pause stretches.

Jackie calls his name from across the table, asks if he wants more. He shakes his head, distracted.

Then:

Ross: I’m not trying to

That’s the crack.

Not explicit. Not sexual.

But unmistakably intimate in a way Shane isn’t ready to name.

He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket, heart beating harder than the situation warrants.

Dinner continues.

He finishes his plate. Says goodbyes. Accepts Jackie’s leftovers with a smile he has to work for.

Later, alone again — hotel room quiet, city humming faintly beyond the window — he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn’t reach for his phone.

He doesn’t text Ross.

But for the first time since this started, he admits something to himself in the dark, quiet space where no one can hear it:

This isn’t just a distraction.

And that realization — small, unwanted, persistent — settles in his chest and refuses to move.

Chapter End Notes

gosh i just love themmmm & ilya is so smug. as always comments appreciated!

Chapter 5: five

Chapter Notes

yeah. just yeah.

Shane convinces himself the silence helped.

Not in any meaningful way — just enough that the edge has dulled into something manageable. The days pass. Travel. Practice. Media. Team dinners that blur together into noise and half-listened conversations. He sleeps better. He stops replaying sentences in his head.

Mostly.

He doesn’t think about Ross when he wakes up anymore. That feels like progress. He doesn’t reach for his phone first thing. He doesn’t check timestamps or read back through old messages to figure out where things tilted.

He tells himself that whatever happened that night was just a bad combination of adrenaline and anger and boredom.

It worked.
End of story.

The first text comes four days later.

Ross: you survived

Shane stares at it for a second longer than necessary.

Not because he’s surprised — because he isn’t. The message is casual. Neutral. Exactly the tone he expected, which is irritating in a way he can’t quite place.

He answers from the bench, waiting for the drill to reset.

Shay: barely
Shay: schedule’s been brutal

The reply takes a minute.

He hesitates before flipping it over.

Ross: you mentioned dinner before
Ross: teammate?

Shane blinks.

He types back before he can overthink it.

Shay: yeah
Shay: I play hockey

He pauses, thumb hovering.

That’s already more than he usually says.

He adds, quickly, like it makes it smaller.

Shay: nothing special
Shay: just a team thing

Ross: I see

He hopes Ross doesn’t pry. Shane doesn’t want to give him more than that.

The phone buzzes again.

Ross: you always say your schedule’s busy
Ross: you’re still standing though

Shane huffs a quiet laugh, shoulders loosening despite himself. He wipes sweat from his face with his sleeve and leans on his stick, letting the noise of the rink fill in the gaps between messages.

This is fine.

They talk like nothing happened.

About travel delays. About bad hotel food. About a teammate who keeps losing his wallet. Ross is dry and precise, less teasing than usual, like he’s consciously holding himself to neutral ground.

Shane mirrors it without thinking.

It’s easy. Too easy.

Later, in the locker room, towel around his waist, phone balanced against his thigh, Shane types:

Shay: league thing tomorrow
Shay: filming something I don’t want to be involved in

Ross: work is rarely enjoyable

Shay: understatement
Shay: have to do it with someone I hate

That one sits for a beat.

Ross: hate is strong word
Ross: what did they do

Shane considers how to answer. He doesn’t want to sound dramatic. He doesn’t want to sound personal. He settles for honesty stripped of detail.

Shay: arrogant
Shay: smug
Shay: the kind of guy who never gets called out

The reply comes slower this time.

Ross: sounds exhausting

Shane smiles faintly.

Shay: he is
Shay: somehow everyone loves him anyway

Ross: people like confidence
Ross: even when it’s misplaced

That needles something low and familiar, but Shane ignores it. He finishes dressing. Zips his bag. Stands up.

This is still nothing, he reminds himself. Just conversation.

Shay: dinner with my teammate after
Shay: should help reset my mood

There’s a pause.

Long enough that Shane notices it.

Then:

Ross: figured
Ross: you sounded calmer by the end last time

Calmer.

Shane stills, phone warm in his hand.

He doesn’t respond right away.

Not because he’s flustered — because he refuses to be. He tells himself it’s coincidence. That Ross has no context. That the comment doesn’t mean anything beyond surface observation.

Still, something tightens briefly in his chest.

Shay: guess I burn energy fast
Shay: occupational hazard

Ross: convenient one

Shane shakes his head, smiling despite himself as he steps out into the hallway.

This is fine.
This is neutral.
This is just two people filling time again.

And if Ross sounds a little sharper than usual — a little more deliberate — Shane doesn’t let himself linger on it.

He has a commercial to get through tomorrow.

Whatever that moment was before?
It’s contained now.

He pockets his phone and keeps walking.

The set smells like disinfectant and hot lights.

Shane notices it immediately — the way the air feels wrong, too dry, like it’s been stripped down to function and nothing else. The rink is dressed for cameras instead of games, boards wrapped in league branding, crew members moving with practiced efficiency that has nothing to do with hockey.

This is not his environment.

He rolls his shoulders once, loosening muscle memory that wants a puck and space and speed. Instead, he’s handed a bottle and a mark taped to the ice.

“Stand here,” someone says. “Look relaxed.”

Shane huffs a quiet breath through his nose and does as told.

Relaxed is not the word anyone has ever used for him in this rivalry.

Boston and Montreal share the ice for the shoot — opposing logos, opposing jerseys, manufactured camaraderie. Shane clocks the other players automatically, files them away without effort.

Then he feels it.

Not presence.
Not attention.

Pressure.

Ilya Rozanov steps onto the ice like he owns it.

He’s not in full gear — just skates, practice pants, a fitted jacket zipped halfway up his throat. His hair is still damp, curls darker at the edges, posture loose in a way that reads arrogant if you don’t know how to read discipline underneath it.

Shane feels his jaw tighten.

Rozanov has a reputation that precedes him — talent, consistency, a maddening lack of visible effort. The kind of player commentators love to praise in slow, reverent tones. The kind who never looks rushed. Never looks rattled.

The kind Shane has spent years wanting to wipe the smirk off.

They don’t speak at first.

They’re placed side by side for the opening shot, sticks resting on the ice, bodies angled toward the cameras. Shane keeps his gaze forward, expression neutral, aware of Rozanov in the same way he’s aware of a defender behind him — not looking, but tracking.

The director calls for adjustments. A hand at Shane’s elbow moves him half a step closer.

Too close.

He can feel heat through layers of fabric. The faint scrape of Rozanov’s skate against the ice as he shifts his weight. It shouldn’t register. It does.

“Relax,” Rozanov murmurs, not turning his head.

Shane stiffens.

“I am relaxed,” he mutters back.

Rozanov hums quietly, like he doesn’t believe him.

The cameras roll.

They’re asked to smile. To lean into the rivalry. To sell the narrative everyone already knows.

Shane does his job. He always does. He answers questions with clipped ease, jaw tight but controlled, eyes sharp where they’re supposed to be.

What he doesn’t expect is Rozanov’s attention.

Not overt.
Not obvious.

Just… precise.

Every time Shane shifts, Rozanov adjusts with him. Every time Shane’s weight rolls forward, Rozanov mirrors it just enough to feel intentional. During a reset, Rozanov glances sideways — quick, assessing — and Shane feels the look like a brush of fingers.

It irritates him.

Good.

Irritation is familiar. Irritation he understands.

A reporter steps between them, microphone raised, asking about the rivalry, about intensity, about how it feels to face the same opponent again and again.

Rozanov answers first.

“It keeps you sharp,” he says evenly. “Complacency is punished.”

Shane bites back a scoff.

When it’s his turn, he keeps it simple. “Games like these matter. You don’t need motivation.”

The reporter smiles, satisfied, and moves on.

Rozanov leans slightly closer, voice pitched low enough that only Shane hears it.

“You play precise,” he says.

Shane turns, sharp. “You play smug.”

Rozanov’s mouth curves.

Not wide.
Measured.

“Effective,” he says.

Before Shane can respond, the director calls for another take. They’re repositioned again, shoulders nearly brushing now, the space between them gone entirely.

Rozanov meets his eyes this time.

Just for a second.

And winks.

It’s nothing.
It’s everything.

Shane’s breath stutters — barely, but enough that it pisses him off. He breaks eye contact first, stare snapping back to the camera like discipline can undo the reaction.

The shoot wraps quickly after that.

Too quickly.

Shane leaves the ice with his jaw clenched, heat coiled tight in his chest that has nothing to do with exertion. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.

He knows Rozanov is watching.

By the time he’s back in the locker room, peeling off gear with more force than necessary, he wants to get out of there. He takes the quickest shower known to man, and speeds more than necessary home.

Shane tells himself the irritation is physical.

Residual adrenaline. The afterburn of competition. Too much proximity, too little space. It’s the kind of explanation that usually works because it’s true often enough to pass without inspection.

Tonight, it doesn’t hold.

By the time he’s back at the hotel, the edge hasn’t dulled—it’s sharpened. He paces once, then again, then stops short by the window like catching himself in motion might reset something. The city below hums with movement that doesn’t require him. Cars. People. Noise.

He wants quiet.

What he gets is his phone vibrating against the desk.

He stares at it for a full three seconds before picking it up.

Ross: did the commercial go as badly as you expected

Shane exhales through his nose.

Shay: worse
Shay: had to stand next to someone who enjoys being unbearable

The reply comes slower than before.

Measured.

Ross: and yet
Ross: you’re still tense

Shane drops onto the edge of the bed, forearms braced against his thighs.

Shay: you really like saying that

Ross: I like being right

That hits too close to the bone.

Shane scrubs a hand over his face, frustration buzzing low and constant. He types without thinking, deletes it, then types again—less guarded this time.

Shay: you don’t even know me
Shay: how do you keep doing that

Ilya reads the message and goes still.

That question isn’t defensive.
It’s curious.

He answers carefully.

Ross: I know what you show
Ross: and I know what slips when you’re tired or angry

Shane’s chest tightens.

That’s not invasive.
That’s observant.

And somehow worse.

Shay: that’s not an answer

A pause.

Then:

Ross: no
Ross: it’s an invitation

Shane’s pulse jumps.

He doesn’t like how quickly his body reacts—the way heat curls low in his stomach, the way his shoulders ease even as his jaw tightens. He leans back on his hands, staring at the ceiling like it might help.

Shay: you keep doing that
Shay: saying things like you expect me to follow

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

Ross: do you want me to stop

That should be easy.

It isn’t.

Shane’s thumb hovers over the screen. He tells himself this is the moment to pull back—to reset the line where it belongs. He doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t owe him anything. This is supposed to be casual. Surface-level. Harmless.

He types anyway.

Shay: no
Shay: just don’t pretend you’re not doing it on purpose

Ilya exhales slowly.

Ross: I am
Ross: but only because you keep letting me

Shane’s breath catches.

He shifts, knees spreading slightly without him noticing, phone warm in his hand. His room feels too quiet again, the air thick in a way he can’t blame on the heat.

Shay: you talk like you’re close

Ross: close isn’t physical

That lands differently than it should.

Ross: it’s attention
Ross: it’s timing
Ross: it’s knowing when someone’s about to tip and waiting

Shane swallows hard.

Shay: you sound very sure of yourself

Ross: you’re still here

There it is.

Not explicit.
Not graphic.

But unmistakably intimate.

Shane drags a hand down his thigh, grounding himself in the sensation, trying to bleed off the tension before it turns into something he can’t control.

Shay: you’re dangerous

The response comes almost immediately.

Ross: you like that
Ross: or you wouldn’t keep answering

Shane laughs under his breath—short, disbelieving.

Shay: you’re really pushing it tonight

Ross: you pushed first
Ross: I’m just meeting you where you are

That’s the truth of it.

Shane closes his eyes.

The image flashes unbidden—Rozanov’s mouth curving on the ice, the wink, the heat of a body standing too close. He shoves it away.

This isn’t about that.

It’s about control.

Or the lack of it.

Shay: what if I don’t want control right now

The typing bubble stalls.

When the reply comes, it’s slower. Heavier.

Ross: then stop standing
Ross: sit
Ross: and breathe the way you didn’t earlier

Shane’s breath stutters.

He sinks back onto the bed without realizing he’s obeying until he’s already there, spine against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him.

Shay: you’re telling me what to do again

Ross: you don’t have to listen

A beat.

Ross: but you are

Shane’s fingers tighten around his phone.

Shay: say something else

This time, Ilya hesitates.

Not because he doesn’t know what to say.

Because this is the edge.

He chooses his words with care.

Ross: keep your hands where they are
Ross: and don’t pretend your body isn’t reacting

Shane inhales sharply.

Heat floods him—unmistakable now, undeniable. His thighs tense. His pulse pounds loud enough that he can hear it in his ears.

Shay: that’s not fair

Ross: neither is lying to yourself

Silence stretches between them—thick, charged, humming.

Shane stares at the screen, breath uneven, body too aware of itself. He doesn’t move his hands. He doesn’t type.

Ilya waits.

He lets the silence do the work.

Finally, Shane locks his phone and sets it down beside him, heart racing like he’s just stepped off the ice after a shift he stayed on too long.

He doesn’t touch himself.

He doesn’t move.

He just sits there, breathing slower than he wants to, exactly the way Ross told him to.

And that—that restraint, that awareness, that heat with nowhere to go—is worse than if he had.

Minutes pass.

His phone stays dark.

When he finally lies back, staring at the ceiling, Shane admits something he hasn’t let himself think yet:

This isn’t anger anymore.

And whatever Ross is doing—whatever game this is—it’s working. Ilya sets his phone down with the faintest smile.

He hasn’t crossed the line.

Not yet.

But now he knows exactly where it is.

Shane doesn’t sleep.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling until the shapes start to blur, until the hum of the city outside the window becomes white noise instead of distraction. His phone sits dark on the nightstand where he left it, face-down, deliberately out of reach.

He followed the instructions.

That’s what keeps needling at him.

He breathed slower.
He kept his hands still.
He didn’t touch anything.

The tension never went away.

It settled instead—low and tight and insistent, coiled beneath his skin like something waiting for permission. His thighs ache from holding still. His chest feels too full, every breath shallow and deliberate.

This isn’t discipline anymore.

It’s denial.

And Shane Hollander has never been good at that.

He exhales hard, scrubs a hand over his face, then reaches for his phone before he can talk himself out of it. The screen lights up immediately, bright in the dark.

No new messages.

Of course not.

He opens the thread anyway.

The last thing Ross sent sits there, unchanged.

keep your hands where they are
and don’t pretend your body isn’t reacting

Shane swallows.

“That’s not fair,” he mutters again, quieter this time.

He types.

Deletes it.

Types again.

Shay: you can’t say things like that
Shay: and then disappear

The message sends.

His pulse kicks up immediately—sharp, anticipatory. He sits up, shoulders tense, phone gripped too tightly in his hand.

Seconds pass.

Then—

The typing bubble appears.

Shane’s breath stutters.

It disappears.

Appears again.

Then:

Ross: you didn’t tell me to stay

That’s it.

That’s the crack.

Heat rushes through Shane so fast it almost makes him dizzy. He drags a hand down his chest, fingers splaying over bare skin, grounding himself in the sensation before he loses it completely.

Shay: don’t pretend you didn’t know
Shay: you left me like that on purpose

A pause.

Longer than before.

When Ross replies, the tone has shifted—still controlled, but lower, heavier.

Ross: I wanted to see if you’d reach back
Ross: you did

Shane lets out a shaky breath.

Shay: you’re an asshole

Ross: mm
Ross: and yet you’re still here

His hand slides down his stomach before he can stop himself, thumb brushing the waistband of his shorts. His body reacts instantly—sharp awareness, heat flaring low and urgent.

He doesn’t pretend otherwise.

Shay: I can’t stop thinking about it
Shay: about what you said

The response comes slower this time, deliberate.

Ross: then don’t
Ross: tell me where you are

Shane hesitates for half a second.

Then:

Shay: bed
Shay: lights off

A beat.

Ross: good
Ross: sit up

Shane does it without thinking.

His back presses against the headboard, muscles tight, breath shallow. His phone feels heavy in his hand now, like an anchor and a trigger all at once.

Shay: you’re really enjoying this

Ross: yes
Ross: are you going to tell me to stop

Shane exhales, slow and controlled.

Shay: no

That’s permission.

Ross doesn’t rush it.

Ross: then touch yourself
Ross: slowly
Ross: like you’re still deciding

Shane groans quietly, head tipping back as his hand slides beneath his waistband, wrapping around himself properly this time. He squeezes once—hard enough to make his breath hitch—then stills, exactly as instructed.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Shay: you’re killing me

Ross: no
Ross: you’re listening

He strokes himself once, slow and deliberate, pleasure spiking sharp enough to make his toes curl. His free hand braces against the mattress, grounding him as the tension tightens instead of releasing.

Shay: this isn’t fair

Ross: say that again
Ross: slower

Shane drags his thumb over the head, spreading slick heat down his shaft, breath uneven.

Shay: it’s not fair

Ross: good
Ross: keep going

He does.

Slow at first—measured strokes that build instead of relieve, each movement sharpening the ache rather than dulling it. His hips rock slightly despite himself, body betraying him in every way that matters.

Shay: you’re doing this like you can see me

Another pause.

Then:

Ross: I don’t need to
Ross: you’re telling me everything

That sends him over the edge—not the release, but the loss of control. Shane’s strokes turn rougher, faster, breath breaking as he chases sensation without strategy now.

Shay: fuck

Ross cuts in immediately.

Ross: not yet
Ross: wait

Shane clenches around himself, muscles trembling, frustration and need twisting together so tightly it almost hurts.

Shay: I can’t

Ross: you can
Ross: you’re strong enough

That does it.

The praise hits harder than the command.

Shane’s breath shudders as he slows, forcing himself to obey, holding himself right on the edge—every nerve screaming, every thought narrowed down to the voice in his hand.

Shay: say something else

This time, Ross doesn’t hesitate.

Ross: you feel good because you earned it

Shane breaks.

His hand tightens, strokes turning frantic as pleasure crashes through him hard and overwhelming. He comes with a sharp gasp, head falling back against the headboard, body shaking as the tension finally snaps and releases all at once.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but breath and aftershock.

His phone buzzes softly.

Ross: breathe
Ross: slow again

Shane does.

When his pulse finally settles, when the room feels solid again, he types with fingers that still tremble.

Shay: you knew exactly what you were doing

The reply comes a moment later.

Ross: yes
Ross: and now you know what it feels like

Shane stares at the screen, chest tight with something that isn’t just arousal anymore.

Shay: this changes things

Ilya smiles—slow, satisfied.

Ross: I know
Ross: sleep now

Shane doesn’t argue.

He sets the phone down carefully, like it might burn him if he moves too fast, and sinks back into the pillows, heart still racing.

This wasn’t anger.

This wasn’t distraction.

This was intentional.

And for the first time since this started, Shane knows one thing with absolute certainty:

Whatever this is now—

It’s mutual.

Chapter End Notes

i just love ilya he's so funny i cannot.

Chapter 6: six

Chapter Notes

GUYS IM SORRY! this took me so long to edit because i decided i hated almost half and ended up rewriting a lot lol

otherwise enjoy :)

Shane isn’t spiraling.

That’s the first thing he tells himself — and, crucially, it’s true enough to pass.

He’s up early, body already awake before his alarm, muscles humming with a low, contained tension that doesn’t tip into restlessness. He stretches. He breathes. He moves through his routine with practiced efficiency, every action deliberate in a way that feels almost soothing.

This is what control looks like.

He doesn’t reach for his phone right away.
That’s new.
Not avoidance — just priority.

He showers, dresses, eats something with actual protein in it. By the time he leaves the hotel room, his pulse is steady, his thoughts quiet enough to ignore. Whatever edge had been riding him the last few days has dulled into something manageable. Not gone — just… filed away.

That’s fine.

He knows how to do this. He’s been doing versions of it his whole career.

Practice is sharp. Clean. Efficient.

Shane skates like someone who is very aware of his body — every turn precise, every stop controlled. No wasted movement. No unnecessary contact. He listens, adjusts, executes. The coaches notice. They always do when he’s like this.

“Good pace today,” someone calls from the bench.

Shane nods once and pushes off again.

This is what happens when he channels things correctly. When he doesn’t let noise bleed into performance. When he keeps his focus narrow enough that nothing extraneous gets through.

It works.

That should be enough.

Between drills, he catches himself glancing toward the locker room — not at his phone specifically, just… at the idea of it. The thought barely registers before he discards it.

Not now.

He finishes practice feeling spent in the right way — legs heavy, lungs open, mind blank. The kind of exhaustion that usually leaves him calm.

Today, it leaves him neutral.

That’s acceptable.

In the locker room, he dries off, dresses, moves through the familiar choreography of post-practice without friction. When he finally checks his phone, it’s not with anticipation — just habit.

One message.

Ross: busy day?

That’s it.

No timing commentary.
No observation.
No pressure.

Shane exhales quietly, surprised at the flicker of something like relief.

Shay: yeah
Shay: packed schedule

He sends it and sets the phone down immediately, like lingering might invite something unnecessary.

It stays quiet.

That’s good.

The rest of the day unfolds smoothly — meetings, video review, travel logistics. Shane answers questions automatically, offers the right reactions at the right times. No one notices anything off. If anything, he’s more contained than usual.

Contained feels like a win.

By the time evening settles in, he’s tired enough that the edge softens further. He eats dinner alone, scrolls mindlessly through highlights he’s already seen, lets the noise of the television fill space that might otherwise get ideas.

He doesn’t think about Ross.

Not consciously.

When his phone buzzes again, it’s later — later than Ross usually texts, if Shane’s being honest.

Ross: tomorrow looks worse than today

Shane stares at it for a second.

That’s not a question.
Not bait.
Just… commentary.

Shay: understatement
Shay: league loves a packed calendar

The reply takes longer this time.

Ross: they usually do
Ross: pressure keeps things interesting

Shane’s jaw tightens — just a fraction.

Interesting.

He types, deletes, then types something neutral instead.

Shay: depends who you ask

Ross: true

And then — nothing.

No follow-up.
No pivot.
No attempt to steer the conversation anywhere else.

Shane frowns faintly at the screen.

That’s new.

He waits a beat longer than he means to, then locks his phone and sets it face-down on the table.

He shouldn’t care.

And yet, the absence of momentum feels… deliberate.

Like Ross noticed something and chose not to touch it.

That unsettles him more than if he had.

Shane stands, rolls his shoulders, does a quick circuit of the room like movement might shake the thought loose. He’s not tense — not the way he was before. There’s no heat under his skin, no pull toward anything physical.

Just awareness.

He goes to bed early. Sleeps — not deeply, but steadily enough.

In the morning, he wakes without the familiar spike of adrenaline. His body feels heavy but cooperative. He stretches, breathes, starts the day again.

This is working, he tells himself.

He’s managing it.

Whatever it is.

And if Ross seems quieter than usual — a little more distant, a little less engaged — Shane doesn’t interrogate that feeling. He doesn’t chase it.

He’s learned the cost of doing that.

For now, this version of normal will hold.

He just doesn’t realize yet that the quiet he’s standing on isn’t empty.

It’s waiting.

Ross texts in the late afternoon, when Shane is half-dressed and half-distracted, sweat still cooling on his skin.

Ross: still moving?

Shane huffs quietly, tugging a shirt over his head.

Shay: always
Shay: feels like I live out of a bag at this point

Ross: that would make anyone irritable

Shane smiles at that — not because it’s clever, but because it’s accurate without being pointed.

Shay: maybe
Shay: I don’t mind the work though

Ross: I gathered that

That gives Shane pause.

Not suspicion — just curiosity.

Shay: how so

Ross: you complain about logistics
Ross: not about the thing itself

Shane considers that, phone resting loosely in his hand.

He hadn’t realized there was a difference worth noticing.

Shay: guess that’s true
Shay: hockey’s the easy part

Ross: interesting

Not impressed.
Not admiring.
Just… noting it.

Shane likes that too.

They drift into lighter ground — Ross mentions being bad at watching sports, says he loses interest if there isn’t structure or stakes that matter to him personally. Shane teases him for it.

Shay: tragic
Shay: I don’t trust people who don’t like hockey

Ross: I didn’t say I dislike it
Ross: I said I don’t care

Shane laughs under his breath.

Shay: somehow worse

Ross: probably

There’s a beat of comfortable nothing.

Then Ross adds, almost offhand:

Ross: you talk about your schedule like it’s unforgiving
Ross: but you never sound resentful

Shane shifts his weight, leaning back against the wall.

That one lands — softly.

Shay: because it’s my choice
Shay: no one’s forcing me to do this

Ross: exactly

No follow-up.
No digging.

Just acknowledgment.

Shane realizes then that Ross has never asked him what he does beyond what Shane volunteers. Never pressed for specifics. Never tried to place him anywhere.

And Shane is grateful for it.

Shay: I appreciate that you don’t ask for details

The reply comes quickly, simple.

Ross: I assume people share what they want to share

Shane exhales, tension easing in a way he hadn’t noticed was there.

Shay: rare quality

Ross: learned the hard way

That’s the closest Ross has come to personal disclosure all day — and even that is left intentionally unfinished.

Shane doesn’t push.

They move on to something trivial — bad coffee, bad sleep, the universal misery of fluorescent lighting.

Later, lying back on his bed, Shane scrolls through the conversation again, not searching — just absorbing.

Ross doesn’t sound like someone trying to understand hockey.

He sounds like someone who understands control, discipline, routine — the scaffolding around things, not the thing itself.

And somehow, that makes Shane feel safer.

Across the city, Ilya sets his phone down and stares at the ceiling.

Hockey had never been the point.

People were.

And Shane, deliberately or not, was trusting him with exactly the amount he could afford.

Ilya would not take more.

Not yet.

The rink is louder than it needs to be.

Shane notices it immediately — the way the sound sits too close to his head, the way the boards echo longer than usual. It’s a morning skate, not a game, not even a full practice, but his body is already keyed up like it matters.

Which annoys him.

He skates harder than necessary. Sharp stops. Clean edges. Everything precise enough to look intentional instead of reactive. He wants the ice to burn the restlessness out of him the way it usually does.

It doesn’t.

The all star game practice is sharp today — drills run clean, pace high, bodies moving like they’ve agreed not to waste time. Shane thrives in this kind of environment. Structure. Expectations. Clear edges. He’s focused, efficient, doing exactly what he’s meant to do.

Which is why it bothers him when Rozanov drifts into his periphery and stays there.

Not shadowing him.
Not challenging him.
Just… present.

Rozanov moves like he always does — smooth, unhurried, infuriatingly precise. No wasted motion. No visible effort. He doesn’t push the pace, doesn’t lag behind it. He exists comfortably inside it, like the ice was built around him.

Shane hates players like that.

They make it look easy.
They make it look inevitable.

A whistle blows.

The drill resets.

Shane glides back into position, jaw tight, irritation buzzing low and constant. Neutral jerseys. Mixed lines. Nothing familiar to anchor himself to. He hates that more than he hates Rozanov.

Rozanov, apparently, does not hate it at all.

He’s loose — lazy, almost — stick resting against the ice like the puck isn’t something he needs to chase. He watches Shane the way he watches everything: unhurried, mildly entertained.

They collide near the boards on the next rep. Not hard. Not accidental either.

Shane plants his skates, shoulders squared. “Watch it,” he mutters.

Rozanov leans in just enough that it looks like nothing to anyone else.

“Relax,” he says lightly. “This is supposed to be fun.”

Shane scoffs. “For you, maybe.”

Rozanov hums. Then — because he can, because there’s a reporter ten feet away and cameras drifting past — he tilts his head, mouth curving.

Rozanov glides in beside him.

Too close for coincidence. Not close enough to be called out.

“So,” Rozanov says casually, eyes forward. “You go out last night?”

Shane blinks.

“What?”

Rozanov shrugs, still not looking at him. “Team thing. Go out. Get drunk.”

Shane scoffs. “I had dinner.”

“Ah,” Rozanov says. Then, after a beat, he turns his head just enough to look at him.

“You’re so boring, Hollander.”

He punctuates it with a quick, childish raspberry.

It shouldn’t bother him.

It does.

Shane’s grip tightens on his stick, knuckles whitening before he can stop it. His first instinct is heat — sharp, flaring — followed immediately by something colder, more unsettling.

Because the word boring echoes.

Not in Rozanov’s voice.

In another one.

“What the hell is your problem?” Shane snaps, louder than he meant to.

Rozanov’s eyebrows lift, pleased. “Touchy.”

The whistle blows before Shane can respond. The moment breaks. Players skate past. The world moves on.

Rozanov pushes off first, already looking elsewhere, interest apparently spent.

That’s the worst part.

Shane stands there for a beat too long, chest tight, heart ticking faster than the drill demands.

This is nothing, he tells himself.
This is rivalry.
This is Rozanov being a smug bastard.

And yet — as he skates away — the word follows him.

Boring.

He hates that it feels familiar.

Ilya notices the reaction instantly.

Not the anger — that’s expected. Hollander runs hot. Everyone knows that. It’s part of what makes him predictable on the ice.

What catches Ilya’s attention is the half-second delay.

The way Hollander stiffens before he snaps back. The way his grip tightens like he’s anchoring himself to something that slipped.

That isn’t rivalry.

That’s recognition — or the echo of it.

Ilya forces himself to skate away.

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t push it further. Curiosity is only useful if you don’t announce it, and whatever that was, pressing now would be sloppy.

He’s careful not to let it become more than a passing note.

Hollander is an opponent. Loud. Predictable. Boring, usually.

And yet.

Ilya adjusts his gloves, jaw setting as he waits for the next drill. Files the reaction away with dozens of others — habits, tells, moments that don’t matter until they do.

This isn’t interest.

This isn’t attraction.

It’s information.

And information is only dangerous if you rush it.

He tells himself — truthfully — that this is curiosity, nothing more. That he’s interested in how people fracture under attention, not in Hollander specifically. That this is no different than noticing patterns in a system that’s supposed to be predictable.

He cannot afford to be obvious.

Ross works because Ross is distant. Because Ross does not intrude. Because Ross never asks for more than what is freely offered.

Ilya intends to keep it that way.

The bar is loud in a way that feels temporary — the kind of noise made by people killing time between obligations. Music low enough to talk over. Glass clinking. Laughter that comes and goes in uneven bursts.

Ilya sits angled away from the television, back to the highlights rolling soundlessly above the bar. Someone has tried to put on a game recap. No one is really watching it.

Good.

He has one beer in front of him. It’s been there long enough to be warm. He hasn’t noticed.

Across from him, Svetlana studies the menu with theatrical seriousness, then sets it down untouched.

“You are not even pretending tonight,” she says.

Ilya hums. “Pretending to what?”

“To care,” she replies. “About hockey. About being here. About any of this.”

He lifts his glass, considers it, takes a small sip. “I care about the beer being acceptable.”

Svetlana snorts, unimpressed. “Liar. You care about results.”

Ilya’s mouth curves despite himself. Not wide. Just enough.

“That is not caring,” he says. “That is necessity.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches across the table to steal one of the fries he hasn’t touched. “You are impossible.”

“I am consistent,” he corrects.

Around them, players drift in and out — familiar faces, easy camaraderie. Someone claps Ilya on the shoulder in passing, says something about practice pace, laughs like the comment is disposable. Ilya nods, polite, noncommittal. The interaction ends exactly where it started.

“You were very charming today,” she says casually, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Media loved you.”

“They always do,” Ilya says without arrogance. Just fact.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He glances at her then, eyebrow lifting a fraction. “Then explain.”

“You were sharper,” she says. “More… present. Usually you look like you’re waiting for it to be over.”

Ilya leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Perhaps I am learning patience.”

Svetlana laughs. “You hate patience.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But it is useful.”

She studies him for a moment longer, then lets it go — for now. Svetlana has known him long enough to recognize when answers will not be given freely.

A group at the bar erupts into laughter. Someone bumps into their table, mutters an apology. Ilya nods automatically, attention already drifting elsewhere.

His phone vibrates once against the tabletop.

He does not reach for it right away.

That, more than anything, is what gives him away.

Svetlana notices.

“You are very polite to your phone,” she says lightly.

Ilya glances down, then finally picks it up. The screen lights briefly. One name. No notification sound.

“Someone boring,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow. “You do not text boring people.”

“I text people who are precise,” Ilya replies, thumbs hovering over the screen without typing. “There is a difference.”

He sets the phone back down, face-up this time. Does not respond yet.

Across the room, someone calls his name. A reporter, lingering, hoping for a quote they can turn into something sharper than it is. Ilya sighs, pushes to his feet.

“Duty calls,” he says.

Svetlana waves him off. “Try not to insult anyone on purpose.”

“I make no promises.”

He returns a few minutes later, expression unchanged, conversation deflected neatly back onto the league, the schedule, the usual safe abstractions. Rozanov, polished and unyielding.

When he sits again, his phone vibrates a second time.

This time, he answers.

Not immediately.

Carefully.

Svetlana watches him type — slow, deliberate, no wasted motion. When he finishes, he sets the phone down and finally takes another sip of his beer.

“You look thoughtful,” she says.

“I am,” he admits.

“About hockey?”

He considers the question honestly.

“No,” he says. “About people.”

She smiles at that — knowing, a little sharp. “That sounds dangerous.”

Ilya’s mouth curves again, faint and unreadable.

“Only if rushed,” he says.

He does not check his phone again.

Not because he is uninterested.

Because restraint, right now, is the point.

Shane doesn’t text right away.

Not because he’s trying to prove anything — just because he’s toweling off, sitting on the edge of the bench, letting the noise of the rink bleed out of his ears. Practice today had been sharper than necessary. Faster. Less forgiving. The kind that leaves your body buzzing even after the skates come off.

He checks his phone once.

Then types.

Shay: practice was a nightmare
Shay: everyone trying to prove something at once

He hesitates, thumb hovering.

Adds:

Shay: feels like nobody knows how to just… do the work quietly

The reply doesn’t come immediately.

Which is fine. Expected, even.

When it does, it’s measured — the same tone Ross always uses when he’s listening instead of steering.

Ross: that sounds exhausting
Ross: pressure without direction usually is

Shane exhales through his nose, faintly amused.

Shay: exactly
Shay: it’s supposed to be routine
Shay: instead it’s like everyone’s performing

He leans back against the lockers, eyes closed, sweat cooling too fast against his spine.

Shay: makes it hard to stay focused

This time, Ross responds faster — but not eager.

Attentive.

Ross: because routines only work when people trust them
Ross: otherwise it’s just noise disguised as effort

Shane opens his eyes.

Not because it’s insightful — lots of people talk like that — but because it fits what he’s feeling without naming anything too specifically. Ross doesn’t ask what kind of practice. Doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t try to place him.

Just meets him where he is.

Shay: you sound like you’ve been around environments like that

A beat.

Long enough that Shane wonders if he crossed into something Ross won’t answer.

Then:

Ross: I’ve been around people
Ross: systems change, people don’t

Shane smiles faintly at that.

Ross: is simple

Shay: fair
Shay: guess I just hate feeling sloppy

Ross: you don’t sound sloppy
Ross: you sound irritated by inefficiency

Shane laughs quietly — short, surprised.

Shay: that might be worse

Ross: only if you let it turn into resentment

Shane pockets his phone, nodding once to himself.

That’s the thing.

Ross never says you should.
Never says when I was.
Never frames it like shared experience.

He speaks like someone who understands structure, not the specifics inside it.

Which makes Shane feel — inexplicably — less exposed.

Across the city, Ilya sets his phone down and stares at the table for a moment longer than necessary.

He had almost said practice like that is designed to test restraint.

Almost referenced pace. Spacing. Reads.

He hadn’t.

Good.

Shane does not need to know how closely their worlds overlap — not yet.

Curiosity survives best when it doesn’t announce itself.

And Ilya intends to let this one breathe.

The media area smells like rubber mats and stale coffee.

Shane notices it immediately — the way sound gathers here instead of dissipating, the way voices overlap without ever really connecting. Cameras. Microphones. Logos everywhere. It’s supposed to feel casual. It never does.

He stands just outside the scrum at first, helmet tucked under his arm, listening without listening. He knows the questions already. He knows the answers he’ll give. This is muscle memory of a different kind.

Rozanov is holding court.

Not loudly — but effortlessly.

He’s relaxed in that way Shane hates: one hand hooked in his waistband, shoulders loose, posture open like he isn’t aware of the cameras at all. Like attention is incidental instead of demanded.

Someone asks about the pace of practice.

Rozanov smiles.

“It was fine,” he says. “Everyone wanted to be noticed. That usually slows things down.”

A couple of reporters laugh.

Shane’s jaw tightens.

Another question — something about intensity, about preparation, about tomorrow.

Rozanov shrugs, easy. “Intensity is overrated. Discipline is more interesting.”

That one lands.

Not because it’s wrong — because it sounds rehearsed in a way that pretends it isn’t.

“And boredom?” a reporter asks, grinning. “Hard to stay motivated when things feel routine?”

Rozanov’s mouth curves.

“Boring hockey is good hockey,” he says. “If nothing surprises you, you’re doing something right.”

His gaze flicks — brief, precise — and catches Shane’s.

Just long enough.

Shane doesn’t look away.

The eye contact breaks when a microphone shifts. Rozanov turns back to the crowd like nothing happened, attention already elsewhere.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

He steps into the edge of the scrum when it’s his turn. Answers cleanly. Keeps his tone neutral. Talks about preparation, about details, about staying focused. He gives them nothing they can twist.

Still, he can feel it — Rozanov’s presence like static in the periphery.

When the media clears out, Shane heads for the tunnel without lingering.

“Hey.”

He stops despite himself.

Rozanov is a few feet back, helmet off now, hair damp with sweat. He looks exactly as composed as he did five minutes ago. That’s the problem.

“You always leave early,” Rozanov says, mildly curious. “Ever relax?”

Shane turns.

“Ever shut up?”

Rozanov smiles — pleased, not offended.

“See,” he says. “Not boring after all.”

Shane scoffs. “You talk too much.”

“You react too much,” Rozanov replies easily. “That’s more fun.”

“Fun for you,” Shane snaps.

Rozanov hums, considering. “Maybe.”

Then — because there are still cameras drifting nearby, because this is who he is in public — he leans just enough to make it irritating.

“Try not to be so tense tomorrow, Hollander,” he adds. “It’s just a game.”

That’s the worst part.

Shane’s hand tightens around his helmet.

“Fuck off,” he says, flat.

Rozanov laughs — light, careless — and skates away without another word.

That night, Shane doesn’t think about Rozanov.

Not consciously.

But when he texts Ross later, towel around his waist, phone warm in his hand, the irritation bleeds through from earlier anyway, tension grabbing at his chest.

Shay: tomorrow’s going to be loud
Shay: already exhausted and it hasn’t even started

Ross replies a few minutes later.

Ross: noise has a way of doing that
Ross: fortunately i can come up with some ways to decompress...

Shane exhales. Then laughs. 

He can't tell if Ross is joking or serious, but he appreciates the comment anyway as he feels something ease a little in his chest.

Not gone, but better.

He just knows the game is tomorrow — and whatever this feeling is, it isn’t going to stay contained once the puck drops.

Chapter End Notes

YAY ALL STAR GAME NEXTTTT

also if anyone is interested or wants more ilya & shane, i started a short WAG ilya fic that will be fully posted in a couple of days & it's on my page! :)))

Chapter 7: seven

Chapter Notes

we are so back with this game

Shane tells himself it’s just another rink.

Different lighting, different banners, too much neutral branding slapped over places that are supposed to mean something—but the bones of it are familiar. Ice is ice. Boards are boards. The smell hits the same: cold air, sharpened steel, disinfectant layered over old rubber and sweat.

He likes that part. Familiarity has always been his anchor.

The locker room is louder than his usual one, voices overlapping without hierarchy. No set lines. No usual seats. Jerseys hung without history behind them. It’s temporary in the way all-star things are—borrowed space, borrowed alliances.

He moves through it cleanly.

Tape. Gloves. Helmet. Everything done in the same order he’s always done it. Not superstition—just habit refined until it works without thought. His body hums, awake and ready, but the tension sits low and contained instead of sharp.

That’s good.

He doesn’t need edge today. He needs control.

Someone laughs behind him. Someone else complains about the ice quality. Shane tunes it out easily, focus narrowing the way it always does before a game. He’s tying his skates when his phone vibrates once against the bench.

He doesn’t reach for it right away.

That’s intentional.

When he does pick it up, he keeps his thumb light, like pressure matters.

Ross: busy again?

Shane exhales through his nose. Not a question that demands anything. Not commentary. Just a fact placed gently between them.

Shay: understatement
Shay: exhibition circus

He sends it and pockets the phone before anything else can happen. Warm-ups are about to start. Whatever else exists can wait.

He stands, rolls his shoulders, steps toward the tunnel with the rest of them. The noise shifts as they move—crowd murmur leaking in, skates cutting faint lines across concrete. Cameras hover at the edges, hungry but not yet fed.

On the ice, everything sharpens.

The lights feel brighter than usual, reflecting off clean jerseys and unfamiliar numbers. Shane takes his first lap easy, then another faster, edges biting cleanly. His body settles into rhythm almost immediately—muscle memory sliding into place like it always does.

This is the part that’s easy.

What isn’t easy is how comfortable Rozanov looks.

Shane sees him without meaning to. Everyone does. Rozanov isn’t doing anything flashy—no showy stickhandling, no exaggerated warm-up routine. He glides like the ice owes him nothing and gives him everything anyway. Loose posture. Relaxed shoulders. Eyes already scanning.

At home.

Shane tells himself it shouldn’t bother him.

It does.

Not anger. Not yet. Just irritation—low and precise, the kind that settles in your jaw before you notice you’re clenching.

They pass close enough that Shane catches the sound of Rozanov’s skates cutting, the faint scrape of steel against ice. Rozanov doesn’t look at him. That might be worse.

“Five minutes,” someone calls.

Shane circles back toward the bench, breath steady, pulse exactly where he wants it. He adjusts his gloves, shakes out his hands, keeps his focus narrow. This is an exhibition. No stakes. No grudges. Just hockey.

He’s done this before.

Behind the glass, cameras angle closer. Somewhere above them, a broadcast team talks about intensity and rivalry like it’s a performance instead of a reflex.

Shane doesn’t look at Rozanov again.

He doesn’t need to.

He can feel him anyway.

The puck drops soon. The noise swells. Shane lowers his chin, breathes once—slow, deliberate—and lets everything else fall quiet.

For now, that’s enough.

Shane lines up at center and lets the noise fade.

Faceoffs are about timing more than strength—reading shoulders, wrists, weight distribution in the half-second before the drop. He settles into the stance automatically, knees bent, stick light in his hands. Across from him, the opposing center smirks like this is a novelty.

It isn’t.

Shane wins the draw clean, snaps the puck back without ceremony, pivots into motion as the play opens up around him. The ice feels fast tonight—slicker than morning skate, edges biting sharp and true. He accelerates, slots into the lane he knows will open, tracks the puck without chasing it.

That’s when he finds Rozanov.

Right wing. High. Waiting.

Rozanov isn’t cheating the play—just hovering at the exact place where options multiply. Stick angled lazy, weight back on one skate like he’s watching a rehearsal instead of a game. He doesn’t look rushed. He never does.

The puck cycles. Shane shifts, covers the middle, calls a switch without raising his voice. His line moves with him, quick and responsive. It’s clean hockey—no theatrics, no unnecessary contact.

Rozanov glides in parallel, matching pace without pressing.

It’s infuriating.

The puck rims around the boards and Shane cuts to intercept. He feels the presence before the contact—space closing, pressure tightening. Rozanov steps into the lane just enough to force the angle, not enough to draw a whistle. Their shoulders brush. Not hard. Intentional.

“Careful,” Rozanov says lightly, breath barely winded.

Shane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He absorbs the contact, keeps his balance, chips the puck forward and drives through the center lane like the ice belongs to him.

It’s an exhibition. Everyone remembers that.

Rozanov doesn’t play like it is.

By the middle of the second period, it’s undeniable.

They’re the fastest line on the ice.

Not because they’re showy — because nothing stalls. Shane drives pace through the middle like he always does, cutting lanes open with his body before the puck even moves. Rozanov fills the gaps without being told, stick exactly where it needs to be, timing clean enough it almost feels rude.

Almost.

Shane snaps a pass across the slot without looking.

Rozanov’s already there.

The shot goes wide, but the play stays alive — puck cycling back down low, Rozanov peeling off the boards to recover it and feed it right back to Shane in stride.

“Again,” Rozanov says, breathless but amused.

Shane scowls and does exactly that.

They don’t talk much after that. They don’t need to. Every time Shane pushes tempo, Rozanov meets it. Every time Rozanov holds back, Shane adjusts instinctively, like they’ve done this a thousand times instead of half a game.

It’s efficient.
It’s irritating.
It works.

On the bench during a stoppage, Hayden drops down beside Shane, helmet tipped back.

“You two look disgusting out there,” Hayden says, grinning. “Like you planned it.”

Shane doesn’t smile. “I didn’t.”

Hayden snorts. “Sure.”

He nods toward the ice, where Rozanov is stretching lazily, barely sweating. “Hate him or not, he’s keeping up with you.”

Shane exhales sharply. “That’s the problem.”

Hayden laughs. “You’re impossible.”

The puck drops again.

Late in the period, Shane drives the net hard, pulling defenders with him out of habit. He expects Rozanov to trail.

Instead, Rozanov cuts early.

The pass is instinct. Automatic. Shane doesn’t even register deciding.

Goal.

The arena erupts — louder now, attention sharpened. Rozanov lifts his stick in acknowledgment, not celebration. When Shane glides past him, Rozanov bumps his shoulder lightly.

“See?” Rozanov says. “Not boring.”

Shane glares at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Rozanov’s smile is quick and smug. “You play better angry.”

“Shut up and skate,” Shane snaps.

Rozanov laughs — low, delighted — and does exactly that.

They close the game out clean. No drama. No nonsense. Just control.

When the final horn sounds, Shane barely reacts — pulls his helmet off, breath steady, pulse settling like it always does after a job done right.

They win.

Hayden claps him on the shoulder immediately. “Drinks,” he says. “You’re not ditching.”

Shane hesitates. His body feels good — spent, loose, satisfied in the way hockey always gives him when things go right. He glances instinctively toward the bench where his phone is tucked away.

“C’mon,” Hayden presses. “All-Star win. You owe me.”

Shane exhales. “Fine. One.”

Ilya doesn’t stay in the locker room long.

Too loud. Too much talking about nothing. He showers fast, dresses faster, already halfway toward the exit when someone calls his name.

Ilya goes to the bar after, because of course he does.

He doesn’t tell anyone why when someone mentions the bar, just shrugs and says, “Why not,” like the answer is obvious. It is, to him. He follows the group in at an angle, jacket unzipped, expression already settled into something easy and unreadable.

The bar is crowded. Loud. Warm in the way rinks never are.

He spots Hollander immediately.

Hollander is seated, half-turned in the booth, elbows resting loose against the table. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hair still damp at the edges. He’s listening more than he’s talking, mouth quirking when Pike says something under his breath.

And—this is important—

There’s a ginger ale in front of him.

Ilya almost laughs.

He doesn’t go near the table. That would be too much. Too obvious. Instead, he takes a seat at the bar where he can see Hollander reflected in the mirror behind the bottles. He orders a beer, waits while it’s poured, lets the glass sweat under his palm.

Then he takes out his phone.

No rush.

That’s the first rule. Rushing turns curiosity into tells, and tells ruin games.

He sits at the bar with his body angled just enough that the mirror gives him what he wants without forcing him to look directly. Bottles blur into colored shapes. Reflections bend. Hollander is unmistakable anyway — posture familiar even out of context, elbows loose, shoulders relaxed in the way that only comes after a good game.

Still riding it.

Ilya’s beer arrives. He wraps his fingers around the glass but doesn’t drink. Condensation beads under his palm. He lets it sit.

Across the room, Hollander laughs at something Pike says. It’s quick. Unguarded. He reaches for his ginger ale without looking, takes a sip like it’s habit.

Of course it is.

He opens the text thread like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been living in his pocket all night. Like he isn’t acutely aware of the fact that Hollander is less than twenty feet away and has no idea.

Ross: so long game?

That’s it. No push.

He watches Hollander’s reflection instead of the screen.

Hollander’s phone lights up almost immediately. He doesn’t grab it right away — finishes the thought he’s mid-sentence on, nods once, then checks it. Casual. Unaware.

Good.

Shay: you have no idea
Shay: a big game like that drains you in weird ways

Ilya’s mouth curves. Not a smile. A decision.

Ross: adrenaline does that
Ross: usually lingers

Hollander shifts in his seat. Barely. One knee bounces once before he stills it with his heel hooked under the bench.

Still oblivious.

Shay: you psychoanalyzing me again?

Ilya finally takes a sip of his beer. Warm. Flat. Fine.

Ross: observing
Ross: is difference

Hollander exhales through his nose. He tilts his head, rereads. The ginger ale sweats untouched for a beat longer than before.

Shay: I’m fine
Shay: just wired

There it is.

Ilya doesn’t answer immediately. He waits. Counts the beats between Hollaner lifting his glass and setting it back down. Watches the way his shoulders haven’t fully dropped yet, like his body hasn’t gotten the message that the game is over.

Ross: wired?
Ross: dangerous

That’s the line.

Hollander freezes for half a second.

Not alarmed. Not suspicious. Just… caught.

He glances up instinctively — not at Ilya, not at anyone in particular — just at the room.

Shay: you make it sound dramatic

Ross: you are dramatic
Ross: and boring, of course

Hollander swallows. His thumb hovers over the screen longer this time.

Shay: so what
Shay: I’m supposed to go run laps or something?

Ilya leans back against the bar, relaxed, eyes on the mirror.

Shay: or is that boring too?

Ross: probably
Ross: or sit very still and let me help you

Hollander snorts. It’s quiet, but Ilya hears it anyway.

Shay: you’re annoying

Ross: mm
Ross: but accurate

Hollander’s knee starts bouncing again. He doesn’t stop it this time.

He glances at his drink. The ginger ale. Then, almost defensively, he types—

Shay: not like I can do anything about it right now, I’m in public

Ilya’s pulse ticks once. He keeps his breathing even.

Ross: pity
Ross: that kind of feeling deserves attention

Hollaner’s jaw tightens.

He looks around again — this time sharper. The bar. The team. Pike talking with his hands. The noise. The fact that his body still feels like it’s waiting for something.

He locks his phone and sets it face-down.

Then — decisively — he signals the bartender.

“Beer,” Hollander says.

Ilya watches him lift the glass when it arrives. Watches the first swallow. The way his shoulders finally drop a fraction.

Only then does Ilya look up.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Not long. Not obvious.

Just long enough for Rozanov’s gaze to flicker with amusement.

Shane feels it — that familiar, infuriating awareness — and looks back immediately, irritation flaring sharp and reflexive.

Rozanov raises his glass in a mock toast.

Shane scowls and takes another drink.

Across the room, Ilya unlocks his phone.

Shane’s phone vibrates.

He frowns at it.

He has no idea why his stomach flips.

And Ilya — careful, contained, very much enjoying himself — finally smiles.

The beers hit faster than Shane expects.

Not enough to get him drunk — just enough to take the edge off the tight coil sitting behind his ribs. The kind of buzz that loosens your shoulders without touching your judgment. The kind that makes the noise easier to tolerate.

He takes another sip, slower this time.

Hayden is still talking. Someone across the table laughs too loud. The bar smells like citrus cleaner and spilled alcohol and something fried that’s been sitting too long under heat lamps.

Normal.

Shane tells himself that again, like repetition makes it truer.

He flips his phone face-up, checks the screen like he isn’t already thinking about it.

Ross: still feeling wired? I try to offer help, shay…

That shouldn’t do anything.

It does.

Shane exhales through his nose and rolls his shoulders, grounding himself in the chair. He doesn’t type back right away. He refuses to. 

He takes another drink instead.

The beer is colder than the ginger ale was. Sharper. It sits heavier in his stomach. His body finally starts to believe the game is over — adrenaline bleeding off in uneven waves.

Good.

He unlocks his phone.

Shay: you say that like you plan to do something about it

The reply doesn’t come immediately.

That bothers him more than it should.

He takes another sip. The third beer is half gone now. He feels it in his legs — not weakness, just weight. Presence.

Ross: ah yes i do
Ross: you need something to take edge off

Shane’s thumb pauses.

Edge.

He doesn’t like that Ross keeps using words that feel accurate without being invasive. It’s irritating in the same way a good defender is irritating — always positioned where you want to go.

Shay: you talk a big game

Ross: i have the receipts to back it up

Shane snorts quietly. He leans back, lets his head tip against the booth for a second. The ceiling lights blur at the edges.

Shay: I just deal with these things

Ross: mm
Ross: you deal with it by keeping busy
Ross: by not letting it settle

Shane shifts, discomfort blooming low and slow.

He tells himself it’s the beer.

Shay: is this where you tell me to go for a run

Ross: no
Ross: you already did the work
Ross: now your body wants the after

Shane straightens.

Shay: the after what

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

Ross: decompression
Ross: release

Shane swallows.

He looks around again — not because he feels watched, but because the word release lands too close to his skin. Too physical for a place this loud.

Shay: you really choose your words

Ross: only when they matter

Shane locks his phone and sets it down, breath a little too shallow. He reaches for his beer again, takes a longer drink this time.

He tells himself this is fine.

It’s just texting.

It’s just nerves.

It’s definitely not the way his body is still humming like the game hasn’t finished with him yet.

Ilya lets the room think he’s relaxed.

It’s easy. This part always is.

He laughs when he’s supposed to. Accepts a drink he barely touches. Leans into conversations just long enough to disengage cleanly. Rozanov in public is familiar territory — charming, dismissive, untouchable.

He watches Hollander without looking like he’s watching.

The beer was a good call.

He sees it in the way Hollander’s posture shifts — not sloppy, just heavier. Less coiled. Still alert, though. Always alert. That part is almost admirable.

Almost.

Someone bumps Ilya’s shoulder as they pass. He nods, polite. The mirror gives him Hollander’s reflection again — phone down now, jaw tight, attention split between the table and whatever is still running under his skin.

Good.

Ilya keeps his phone in his pocket.

This isn’t the moment to push.

Instead, he does what Rozanov does best.

He drifts closer.

Not to the table. Never to the table.

He passes behind it, just close enough that Hollander registers movement in his periphery. Just close enough that his presence is unavoidable without being confrontational.

“Good game,” someone says to Ilya as he passes.

“Yes,” he replies easily. “Efficient.”

He stops near the edge of the booth, leaning one elbow against the backrest like he belongs there. He doesn’t look at Hollander at first.

Then he does.

“You skate better when you actually have someone to catch up with you,” Rozanov says lightly.

Hollander stiffens. “Excuse me?”

Ilya shrugs. “All-Star game. No systems. No consequences.” His eyes flick briefly to the beer. “Best player in the league playing with you.”

Hollander bristles immediately. “You always talk this much?”

Ilya’s mouth curves. “Only when I’m bored.”

“Funny,” Hollander snaps. “I was enjoying the silence.”

Ilya hums, unbothered. “Liar.”

Then — deliberately childish, deliberately unnecessary 

“You’re still boring, Hollander,” he adds over his shoulder.

He doesn’t wait for a response.

He doesn’t need to.

Behind him, Hollander exhales sharply, irritation spiking hot and familiar — rivalry anger, clean and easy and safe. Something he understands.

Good.

That anger will give him cover for everything else.

Ilya returns to the bar and finally checks his phone.

Shane leaves before midnight.

Not dramatically. Not abruptly. Just… early.

The beer helped. The noise didn’t. By the time he gets back to the hotel, his body feels pleasantly heavy, buzz settled into something manageable.

He kicks off his shoes. Drops onto the edge of the bed. The room hums with silence after the bar.

That’s when he reaches for his phone.

Shay: you were right
Shay: about needing release

The reply comes faster this time.

Ross: are you alone

Shane pauses.

Then:

Shay: yeah

Ross: good
Ross: sit down

Shane snorts softly, amused despite himself. He leans back against the headboard, legs stretched out, phone warm in his hand.

Shay: bossy

Ross: observant
Ross: you’ve been waiting all night

Shane closes his eyes.

Shay: you say that like you’ve seen me

Ross: I don’t need to
Ross: you tell me everything when you’re like this

That lands differently now — softer, quieter, threading under his skin instead of pressing against it.

Shane exhales.

Shay: I hate that you’re right

Ross: no
Ross: you hate that it feels good 

Shane’s throat tightens.

He shifts, stretching his legs out further, letting the silence wrap around him.

Shane’s shoulders drop.

His eyes drift shut again.

Shay: you’re dangerous

Ross: only if you ask me to be

Shane smiles faintly, buzz warm and steady now, tension finally unwinding.

Shane sets the phone down and lets the quiet take him.

The room is quiet enough now that Shane can hear his own breathing.

He’s stretched out on the bed, one arm over his eyes, the other resting loose against his ribs. The buzz from the beer has softened into something warmer, slower — a hum instead of a spike. The game feels distant. The bar feels unreal.

His phone vibrates once on the mattress beside him.

He doesn’t move at first.

Then he turns his head and looks.

Ross: i may have something to help you tonight

Shane exhales through his nose.

Shay: what does that mean?

There’s a pause. Longer than the others.

Not hesitation.

Choice.

Then his phone vibrates again.

No words this time.

Just an image.

Shane’s breath catches before he can stop it.

He isn’t fully naked. There’s nothing that should make his pulse spike like this—just skin and shadow, a hand half out of frame, wrapped around what is unmistakably Ross’s hardness. The kind of photo that looks accidental until you realize how carefully it was taken.

Shane swallows.

His thumb hovers, then taps the image open again, like the first time didn’t quite register.

Heat blooms low and immediate, sharp enough that he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Shay: ross

Three dots appear.

Then disappear.

Another vibration.

Ross: goodnight, shay

That’s it.

No follow-up.
No direction.
No acknowledgement of what he’s just done.

Shane stares at the screen, heart thudding hard against his ribs.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs, to the empty room.

He doesn’t text back.

He doesn’t need to.

He sets the phone face-down on the mattress and lies there for a long moment, breathing shallow, body awake in a way that has nothing to do with hockey anymore.

Across the city, Ilya sets his phone down just as carefully.

He doesn’t check it again.

He doesn’t have to.

He already knows exactly what that silence means.

Chapter End Notes

comments always appreciated :)

Chapter 8: eight

Chapter Summary

enjoy :)
also can't decide if i hate this chapter!

Chapter Notes

Shane wakes to quiet.

Not the thick, drowning silence of sleep—hotel quiet. Clean. Controlled. The hum of climate control. A distant siren muted by glass and height. For a second he doesn’t move. He lets himself catalog the room like it’s a drill: the weight of the comforter over his legs, the faint stiffness at the base of his neck, the soft ache behind his eyes that says beer without saying hangover.

His phone is still face-down where he left it.

That’s deliberate.

He stares at it anyway, like looking is different than touching.

Goodnight, shay.

That’s all Ross had said. After—after the image, after the way Shane’s body had reacted like it was the only honest thing in the room. After the heat and the unfairness and the sudden quiet that had felt like being left alone on the ice with a spotlight on you.

Shane rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The buzz from the night before has burned off. What’s left is thinner. Quieter. More irritating.

Not regret. Not excitement.

Awareness.

He sits up. The room tilts a fraction and then rights itself. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and plants his feet on the carpet. Cold. Grounding.

Okay.

In the bathroom, the light is too bright and too white. He squints at his reflection and finds himself looking for proof of anything—flush, guilt, some visible sign that last night moved him off center.

There isn’t one.

He looks like himself. Hair slightly mussed, jaw set, eyes clear. Like a guy who played an exhibition game and had beers with teammates and went to bed alone.

Which is the truth, technically.

He brushes his teeth. Cold water on his face. Keeps his movements precise. Normal.

He doesn’t check his phone until he’s dressed.

When he finally flips it over, there are no new notifications from Ross.

That’s what he told himself he wanted. Clean lines. No mess.

He scrolls anyway—team messages, All-Star group chat nonsense, a couple of congratulatory texts from guys he hasn’t spoken to in months. His agent. His mom.

Mom: proud of you. call when you can.

A normal text. A normal mother. A normal life that should feel like an anchor.

Instead it makes his chest tighten.

He thinks about calling. Thinks about the questions that would come with it, the careful tone his mother uses when she’s trying not to sound like she’s worried.

How are you feeling? You sound tired. Are you eating? Are you being careful?

He can already hear it. He can already feel himself bristle.

Shane types back instead.

Shane: love you. headed to media stuff. will call later

He hits send and drops the phone in his pocket.

Later buys him time. Time buys him control.

The arena in daylight looks less like an event and more like a facility. The same bones as every rink—concrete, steel, fluorescent corridors—but dressed up for cameras. Neutral branding slapped over places that are supposed to mean something. A temporary skin.

Shane moves through it with the same clean efficiency he had in the locker room last night.

Media obligations are always the same. Different faces, different networks, same questions dressed up like they’re clever.

“How did it feel to play with Rozanov?”
“Did you two surprise yourselves with the chemistry?”
“Any chance we see you on the same line in the future?”

Shane keeps his answers polished, uncontroversial.

“It was fun. He’s talented.”
“It’s an exhibition. Guys are good.”
“That’s not up to me.”

He doesn’t say Rozanov unless they do first. When they prompt him, he says the name like it’s a fact, not a feeling. Clips the syllables. Doesn’t give it teeth.

Across the hallway, he catches sight of Rozanov doing the same dance with a different camera crew. Rozanov’s posture is easy, expression settled into something charming and untouchable.

Shane watches him for half a second too long.

Rozanov doesn’t look back.

Which should be a relief.

It isn’t.

A reporter laughs at something Shane says. He smiles automatically. Lets the moment end. Shifts to the next question. The next camera. The next forced casualness.

All of it is manageable.

It’s only when he’s alone between stations—walking down a corridor with concrete walls and a faint echo in his own footsteps—that he feels his phone in his pocket and thinks, reflexively, of Ross.

Not the picture.

The quiet after.

The restraint of it.

Shane tells himself the thought is nothing. A passing association. Habit forming where it shouldn’t.

He straightens his shoulders and steps back into the noise.

By the time he’s headed to the airport, his body feels like it’s been wrung out and reset. Social exhaustion rather than physical. His jaw aches from smiling at the right times.

On the plane, he watches a movie he doesn’t remember choosing. Scrolls headlines he doesn’t care about. Responds to teammates with short replies that signal present without promising more.

He doesn’t open the Ross thread.

He doesn’t need to.

The absence sits on the edge of his awareness anyway. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just… there. Like a bruise you forget until you shift wrong.

Over the Rockies, his phone vibrates.

He looks down.

Ross: back on your side of the continent yet?

Shane stares at the text for a beat too long. Something in his chest loosens. Which is stupid. It’s just a message.

He types anyway.

Shay: unfortunately
Shay: reality has resumed

Ross: tragic
Ross: told you that you’d survive the circus

Shane exhales through his nose. He can feel the tension in his shoulders and the way it starts to ease with the exchange.

Shay: barely
Shay: still shaking glitter out of my skates

Ross: worth it?

Shane thinks about the ice. The pace. The way the game had sharpened instead of dulled. The way Rozanov had been there, filling gaps like he’d been built for it. The way Shane’s own body had responded without hesitation.

Shay: yeah
Shay: it was

He pockets the phone before he can think too hard about why answering felt like relief.

Montreal feels familiar in the way that matters.

His apartment smells like detergent and stale coffee. The kind of lived-in neutrality that makes his shoulders drop without permission. He drops his bag by the door, kicks off his shoes, doesn’t bother lining them up.

Small rebellions count as rest.

He showers. Eats something that qualifies as dinner. Sits on the couch with the TV on mute, remote in one hand, phone in the other.

Ross doesn’t text again that night.

Shane tells himself he’s relieved.

He sleeps anyway, eventually—heavy and dreamless, the kind of sleep that feels like his body reclaiming territory.

Practice ramps up immediately.

Post–All Star always does. The break is short enough to make everyone itchy, and the stretch after it is long enough to make it matter. Systems tighten. Coaches talk faster. Minutes are earned again.

Shane thrives in it. He always has.

There’s comfort in structure. In knowing exactly what’s expected of him. In the clean, uncomplicated truth that when you work hard enough on the ice, something tangible changes.

He can’t say the same for anything else.

In the locker room, the All-Star Game is already fading into joke territory. Guys chirp each other about the mic’d up segments. Someone plays a clip of a ridiculous save on their phone and laughs like it’s new.

“Hey,” JJ says as Shane tapes his stick, “as much as I hate him, you and Rozanov looked disgusting.”

Shane doesn’t look up. “It was an exhibition.”

“Still,” he insists, grinning. “Like you planned it.”

“I didn’t,” Shane says flatly.

JJ laughs, unconcerned. “We know you’d never man.”

Shane keeps taping. His hands move cleanly. Habit refined into muscle memory.

The comment shouldn’t stick.

It does.

Not because it’s true.

Because it echoes something Shane doesn’t want to think too closely about: the way the chemistry felt inevitable, like he and Rozanov were just… built to slot together. The way it worked without effort.

Shane hates inevitability.

Inevitability implies lack of control.

His phone vibrates while he’s tying his skates.

Ross: you train today?

Shane pauses. Not because the question is invasive—it isn’t. Because the timing is so easy it feels like familiarity is creeping in where it shouldn’t.

Shay: practice
Shay: coaches pretending it’s game seven

Ross: good
Ross: you like when there is pressure

Shane’s thumb hovers. Irritation flickers.

Shay: you don’t know that

Ross: you tell me without telling me

Shane exhales, something in his chest tugging tight.

Shay: you’re annoying

Ross: accurate
Ross: different

Shane shakes his head once, like it’ll reset his brain. He locks the phone and shoves it into his bag. Warm-ups start. The rest can wait.

On the ice, it does. It always does.

Skates bite. Breath steadies. Focus narrows until the only truth is puck and lane and timing. Shane drives pace through drills, snaps passes clean, shifts into rhythm like his body knows where to go before his mind catches up.

He’s good at this.

He’s safe here.

It isn’t until practice ends and the locker room noise returns that the other world seeps back in. Teammates talking about nothing. Phones buzzing. Music too loud. Laughter bouncing off tile.

Hayden Pike drops onto the bench across from Shane with JJ.

“All-Star you was insufferable,” Hayden says.

Shane doesn’t look up. “You’re always insufferable.”

JJ grins. “True. But you were… extra.”

Hayden leans over from the next stall, towel around his neck. “He was good though,” Hayden says, nodding at Shane. “You and—” He pauses, searching for the name like it’s stuck to his tongue. “Rozanov.”

Shane’s tape tears with a sharp snap.

He keeps his face neutral. “It was one game.”

“It was an exhibition,” JJ parrots, eyes glittering with amusement. “We know. You’ve said it fifteen times.”

Shane glares at him. “Shut up.”

Hayden laughs and stands. “We going out tonight or what? You can’t go from All-Star bar to nothing. That’s illegal.”

Shane opens his mouth to refuse, then stops.

He thinks of his apartment. Quiet. The way he’d stared at his phone too long last night waiting for a message he told himself he didn’t want.

He thinks of his mom’s text. Call when you can.

He thinks of pressure and control and the way later is just another way to avoid things.

“Fine,” Shane says, clipped. “For a bit.”

Hayden’s smile sharpens. “That’s my captain.”

They end up at a bar that smells like citrus cleaner and old beer. Familiar enough to be comfortable. Loud enough to be anonymous.

JJ and Hayden slide into their usual rhythm—chirping each other, collecting people into their orbit like it’s instinct. Shane sits with his back to the wall without thinking about it. He orders a ginger ale first out of habit. When Hayden notices, he makes a face.

“Are you eighty?”

Shane stares at him. “I’m not drinking on a Tuesday.”

Hayden laughs. “It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a lifestyle.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but the noise is easier than his apartment silence. The laughter fills space without asking anything from him.

His phone vibrates once against his thigh.

He ignores it.

On purpose.

He takes a sip of ginger ale and lets the cold, sharp carbonation sting the back of his throat. Grounding. Normal.

A few minutes later, his phone vibrates again.

He looks down despite himself.

Ross: you are quiet tonight

Shane’s thumb hesitates.

Shay: i’m out with teammates

Ross: mm
Ross: and you still have time for me

Shane snorts quietly. He shifts in his seat, irritation flaring sharper than the comment deserves.

Shay: don’t start

Ross: start what

Shane stares at the screen.

He doesn’t have an answer that doesn’t feel too honest.

JJ leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s mid-story about a penalty call that still pisses him off, hands moving as he talks. Hayden laughs too loud at the punchline. The table is warm with bodies and noise, a familiar shield.

Shane’s phone sits heavy in his hand anyway.

He locks it and sets it face-down on the table, like that’s a decision. Like it’s final.

His eyes flick to it immediately. Not obvious. Just observant.

“You texting again?” JJ asks casually, like he’s asking about the weather.

Shane’s shoulders tighten. “No.”

Hayden snorts. “He is. He’s been texting all week.”

Shane shoots him a look.

Hayden lifts both hands in surrender, grinning. “What? It’s true. Your phone is basically attached to your body now.”

“It’s not,” Shane says, too quickly.

JJ’s mouth quirks. “Sure.”

He doesn’t push right away. That’s what makes JJ annoying—he waits until you relax and then he slides the knife in gently.

A few minutes pass. The conversation shifts. Someone from another table leans over to say hi. Someone orders fries. Shane takes one, eats it without tasting it.

Then JJ says, like it’s nothing, “So who’s Ross?”

The question hits soft and precise.

Shane’s stomach dips. He keeps his face neutral by force of habit.

“What?”

JJ shrugs, unbothered. “Your phone. It’s always—” he makes a vague vibrating gesture with his hand, eyebrows raised. “—and then you get that look.”

“What look,” Shane snaps.

Hayden laughs. “The one where you’re trying not to smile and failing.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “I don’t smile.”

JJ’s gaze stays on him, calm and curious. “Okay. Who is he.”

Shane’s first instinct is to shut it down. Hard. A wall. A joke. Something that turns it into nothing so it stays nothing.

He reaches for sarcasm. Finds it doesn’t fit.

“Just an old teammate,” Shane says, clipped. “From way back.”

JJ’s grin sharpens. “Ah I see.”

Hayden leans back, studying him. “Okay, that’s actually—” He pauses, then laughs softly. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”

Shane glares. “Don’t make it weird.”

JJ’s mouth curves. “I’m not. I’m just curious.”

“Stop being curious,” Shane says.

JJ shrugs like curiosity is involuntary. “Are we going to meet him? I don't remember you hanging out with an old teammate?”

Shane kicks his foot under the table hard enough to jostle Hayden’s knee. “Shut up.”

They laugh. The moment passes. The bar noise floods back in like a tide. Shane breathes again.

He tells himself that was fine. That he handled it. That nothing slipped.

But his skin feels too tight, like the question scraped something raw.

He reaches for his phone again without meaning to.

Ross: you still there

Shane stares at the words. The timing feels too close to JJ’s question, too aligned with the way Shane’s pulse is still elevated for reasons that have nothing to do with the beer.

Shay: yeah

Shay: just busy

Shane’s thumb freezes.

He glances up, instinctive, scanning the bar like Ross could possibly be here. Like this could possibly be about anything but chance.

JJ is laughing at something Hayden says, unaware. No one is watching Shane.

His throat goes dry anyway.

Ross: not busy with the right things 

Shay: don’t start tonight

Ross: start what

Shane stares at the screen until the letters blur.

He could push it. Could let it spiral into something suggestive, something that would make his body hum and his brain go quiet. It would be easy. It always is with Ross—sliding into that narrow channel where nothing else exists.

But JJ’s question is still in his head.

Who’s Ross?

Shane’s life is public in a way he can’t forget. NHL, cameras, fans, contracts. A league that sells intimacy as entertainment and punishes it the moment it stops being marketable.

He isn’t out. He isn’t even sure he’s gay.

The thought is heavy enough that it clears the fog.

Shane types carefully.

Shay: not tonight

Shay: i’m not doing this in a bar bathroom like i’m sixteen

Ross replies immediately.

Ross: okay

No teasing. No push. No guilt.

Just—

Okay.

Shane’s chest loosens and tightens at the same time.

He locks the phone and sets it down, face-down again, like he’s putting a lid on something that’s boiling.

Hayden watches him do it. Doesn’t say anything right away.

Then, softly, like he’s trying to make it not a big deal, Hayden says, “You good?”

Shane nods once. “Yeah.”

JJ’s gaze flicks to Shane’s phone and away again. His expression is unreadable, but his voice stays light. “Tell Ross I hate him for making you interesting.”

Shane huffs a laugh despite himself. “No.”

JJ grins. “Coward.”

Shane rolls his eyes and takes another sip of ginger ale. The carbonation bites. The bar noise swells. The conversation shifts again.

But Shane keeps feeling the weight of that simple okay in his pocket like it’s a hand settling on his shoulder.

Not claiming.

Just steady.

Shane leaves before midnight.

Not dramatically. Not abruptly. Just early, the way he always does when he feels himself tipping too far into anything—noise, heat, attention. JJ groans about it. Hayden calls him a grandmother. Shane flips them off on the way out and doesn’t look back.

Outside, the cold air hits him sharp and clean. The city smells like exhaust and winter and wet concrete. He breathes it in like it’s medicine.

His phone vibrates once as he waits for the elevator in his building.

Ross: home yet

Shane’s thumb hovers.

Shay: almost

Ross: good

Shane stares at the word. It’s nothing. It’s ordinary.

It feels like a hand on the back of his neck anyway, steadying him.

Shane steps into his apartment and closes the door behind him. The quiet rushes in immediately, heavy and expansive after the bar.

He drops his keys in the bowl by the door. Kicks off his shoes. Stands in the middle of his living room like he’s forgotten what to do next.

The silence is loud enough that he can hear his own breathing.

He pulls his phone out again.

Shay: you asked earlier

Shay: what you were starting

Ross: yes

Shane exhales through his nose. He walks to the kitchen, opens the fridge without thinking, stares at nothing inside.

Shay: i don’t know

Shay: you just… do this thing

Ross: what thing

Shane leans his forehead against the fridge door. The cold seeps into his skin.

Shay: you make it feel easy

Shay: and then you disappear

There’s a pause. Longer than usual.

Shane straightens immediately, regret flaring. That was too honest. Too close to accusation. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t have—

Ross: i don’t disappear

Ross: i stop when you need me to stop

Shane’s throat tightens. The answer is clean. Logical. The kind of answer that makes it worse because it’s true.

Shay: i didn’t ask you to stop last night

Ross: no

Ross: you didn’t ask me to continue either

Shane swallows hard.

He sinks onto a kitchen chair like his legs have remembered gravity.

Shay: you’re annoying

Ross: yes

Ross: but you like it

Shane stares at the words, pulse ticking faster.

He could steer this somewhere else. He could let it tip into that narrow channel again, where his body hums and his brain goes quiet and the rest of his life doesn’t exist.

He could.

He doesn’t.

JJ’s voice echoes in his head again—light, teasing, curious.

Who’s Ross?

Shane’s mom’s text sits in his notifications.

Call when you can.

The league sits like a weight in his bones. Cameras. Contracts. People who think they own him because they pay to watch him.

Shane types slowly, careful with every letter.

Shay: i don’t want this to get messy

Ross: it already is

Shane’s stomach flips. His fingers go cold.

Shay: no

Shay: don’t say that

Ross: why

Ross: because you are scared

Shane closes his eyes.

He isn’t scared of Ross.

He’s scared of what Ross does to the parts of him he keeps locked up because it’s safer that way.

Shay: i’m not scared

Ross: liar

Shane exhales, sharp.

Shay: i just don’t know what this is

Ross: is simple, nothing yet tonight

Shay: don’t

Shay: and everyone keeps asking questions lately

Ross: who asks

Shane thinks of Hayden’s grin. JJ’s calm curiosity. The way Hayden said sweet like it wasn’t a loaded word.

Shay: teammates

Shay: it’s nothing

Shay: they’re just annoying

Ross: mm

Ross: and you told them my name

Shane’s throat tightens. He hadn’t realized that mattered. Of course it does.

Shay: they saw it on my phone

Shay: said you were an old teammate

Shay: it wasn’t a big deal

Ross: it is a deal

Ross: but i understand

That understanding is the problem.

Shane sits there in the quiet kitchen, phone warm in his hand, and feels the shape of something forming—something he can’t see fully yet, but can feel moving under the surface.

Habit. Expectation. Need.

A dependency that doesn’t announce itself. It just becomes true.

Shane swallows.

Shay: you’re too calm about this

Ross: someone must be

Shane lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Shay: i hate you

Ross: no

Ross: you don’t

Shane stares at the screen until his eyes burn.

Then, because he can’t stand the quiet inside himself anymore, he types the safest honest thing he has.

Shay: i don’t want you to stop

A pause.

Long.

Shane’s chest tightens. His pulse ticks against his ribs like a warning.

Then—

Ross: i won’t

Ross: not unless you tell me to

Shane’s throat goes tight, emotion rising sharp and unfamiliar—not tenderness, not exactly. Relief, maybe. The kind that makes his eyes sting even though nothing sad happened.

He blinks hard. Swallows it down.

Shay: okay

Ross: goodnight, shay

There it is again. The soft landing. The restraint.

Shane stares at the words for a long moment.

He should feel relieved.

Instead, he feels off-balance.

Not lonely. Not panicked.

Just aware—in a way he hasn’t been before—that this has started to exist outside his control.

Outside his own head.

He sets the phone down on the counter, face-up this time, like he’s done pretending it doesn’t matter.

Then he turns off the kitchen light and lets the apartment go dark around him.

In the quiet, his breathing steadies.

In the quiet, the season waits.

And somewhere far away, Ross stays exactly where he said he would—present, contained, patient.

Which is, Shane thinks distantly, the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter End Notes

wait yall am i sensing some emotional vulnerability??? (yes! for once)

Chapter 9: nine

Chapter Notes

if anyone is following my mauraders work i swear i'm working on it shane & ilya have taken over and i just keep writing them!!!

also if anyone else is following hudson & connor's interviews i am just SO maternal about them and i love them that's all. (and i need more interviews?????)

for clarity if anyone is confused in the hockey world the all-star game is midway through season so this is the rest of season after that.. and next season oh DO I HAVE PLANS FOR THEM haha no more spoiling enjoy the chapter!

Shane wakes before his alarm.

Not jolted—just alert, the way his body gets when the season narrows and everything starts to matter more. He lies still for a moment, staring at the dim line of light where the curtains don’t quite meet, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside. His chest feels tight in a way he recognizes but doesn’t interrogate.

Stress.
Playoff ramp.
Normal.

He rolls onto his side and reaches for his phone before he thinks better of it.

Nothing new.

The absence lands softer than it did a week ago, but it still registers. Not disappointment. Just awareness—like a muscle you didn’t know you’d been using until it stops working.

He exhales and swings his legs out of bed.

Morning skate is early. The routine is familiar enough that his body carries him through it on autopilot: shower, coffee, keys, jacket. He doesn’t check the mirror longer than necessary. He doesn’t think about last night’s game beyond the usual mental inventory—what he could’ve done cleaner, what he needs to sharpen.

At the rink, everything smells like cold air and rubber and coffee that’s been sitting too long. He likes it. Familiarity has always been his anchor.

He tapes his stick with the same precision he always has, movements economical, practiced. His teammates filter in around him, voices overlapping without urgency. Post–All Star energy still lingers—lighter, looser—but there’s an undercurrent now. A sense of time compressing.

That’s the thing about this point in the season—everyone is carrying something, and no one wants to be the first to set it down.

On the ice, Shane feels sharp. Not loose—focused. His edges bite clean, stride settling into rhythm almost immediately. He pushes pace through drills, calls switches without raising his voice, tracks the puck like it’s instinct instead of effort.

This is where he’s safe.

It isn’t until a break between sets that he realizes he’s checked his phone twice without remembering doing it.

He scowls faintly and shoves it deeper into his bag.

Get it together.

The day stretches the way game days do—long in the middle, compressed at the edges. Meetings. Video. A few minutes alone where the noise drops out and his thoughts get too loud.

He doesn’t open the Ross thread.

He doesn’t need to.

By the time he’s lacing his skates for warm-ups, his phone vibrates anyway.

He hesitates. Just long enough to notice he’s hesitating.

Then he checks.

Ross: you went quiet for a bit

Shane stares at the screen, jaw tight.

He hadn’t said anything about the game. Not today. Not last night. He scrolls back instinctively, like the proof might be there if he looks hard enough.

It isn’t.

He exhales through his nose, irritation flickering—at Ross, at himself, at the way the words feel accurate without being invasive.

Shay: just busy as usual

A lie, but not a big one.

Ross doesn’t answer immediately.

Shane sets the phone down and stands, rolling his shoulders as the rest of the team gathers at the tunnel. The noise shifts as they move—crowd murmur bleeding in, skates cutting faint lines across concrete. Cameras hover at the edges, hungry but not yet fed.

When his phone vibrates again, it’s almost gentle.

Ross: busy usually still sounds like you
Ross: when is your next game?

Shane huffs a quiet laugh despite himself. He steps onto the ice and lets the cold air bite into his lungs, grounding him.

Shay: today 

Shay: so don’t psychoanalyze me before

Ross: yes sir
Ross: for the record not analyzing

Ross: you’re just so easy to observe

Shane shakes his head once and laughs under his breath again. He pockets the phone and pushes off into his first lap, letting the ice take over.

The game starts fast.

Boston always plays like they have something to prove, and tonight is no different. The tempo is sharp from the drop, contact clean but heavy. Shane thrives in it, drives the middle, forces plays open with his body before the puck even moves.

He notices Rozanov early.

Not because Rozanov is doing anything flashy—he isn’t—but because he’s there. Always in the lane Shane wants. Always cutting angles just early enough to be irritating. Not dirty. Not reckless.

Intentional.

Shane tells himself it’s rivalry. Boston bullshit. The kind of attention that comes with being a problem for the other team.

He prefers it that way.

Midway through the first, he takes a hit that rattles more than it hurts. Shoulder to chest, boards close enough to kiss his helmet. The sound is wrong—too loud—but his body responds the way it always does. Absorb. Push off. Skate it out.

The whistle blows late.

Too late.

Shane barely registers the movement in his periphery until Rozanov is there, between him and another body, jaw tight, eyes sharp. It’s over in a second—officials stepping in, play resetting—but the reaction lingers.

Shane straightens and shoots Rozanov a look. “Relax.”

Rozanov doesn’t smile. “You okay.”

It’s not a question.

Shane bristles, irritation flaring hot and familiar. “I’m fine.”

Rozanov’s gaze holds for half a beat too long.

Then he skates away.

Shane exhales hard and shakes it off, pushing back into position. The game moves on. It always does.

Ilya knows the hit is coming before it happens.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it’s reckless. Just the geometry of it—the way Hollander drives the middle without flinching, the way bodies converge when space collapses too fast. Ilya clocks the closing lane and the timing that goes wrong by inches, and in the same breath Hollander is down.

The sound carries—sharp, wrong—and Ilya is already moving.

His skates bite hard enough to sting his ankles. He slots himself between Hollander and the next body in like it’s instinct, like there was never another option. The whistle comes late. Officials step in. Someone on Boston’s bench barks something that means nothing.

Hollander pushes himself up immediately.

Annoyed. Whole. Already skating it out.

Relief hits Ilya so fast it makes him angry.

He forces himself away before anyone can notice what his body just did, jaw locked, pulse wrong. He tells himself the story he always tells: bad angle, legal hit, rivalry. Montreal plays heavy and Boston answers. Anyone would react.

He repeats it until it almost sounds true.

The next shift comes fast.

Shane barely has time to reset before he’s hopping the boards again, lungs still burning faintly from the hit. He welcomes it. Motion keeps everything aligned. Thinking is where things slip.

Boston presses harder after that. Not reckless—just insistent. Sticks in lanes. Bodies finishing checks a fraction longer than necessary. The kind of pressure that forces you to stay honest.

Shane answers it the only way he knows how: speed, control, precision. He drives the puck wide, cuts back through the middle, absorbs another shoulder without breaking stride. He can feel Rozanov tracking him even when he isn’t looking—space compressing, angles closing sooner than expected.

It’s irritating and effective.

Late in the first, a whistle sends him gliding toward the bench. He rolls his shoulders, tests his breath. Everything feels intact. Nothing he won’t skate out of.

JJ leans over as Shane sits. “You good?”

Shane nods. “Yeah.”

JJ squints at him for half a second longer than necessary, then shrugs and looks back to the ice. No follow-up. No concern.

The game resets. The crowd noise swells and settles again, familiar as a heartbeat. Shane locks in.

By the middle of the second, the hit has faded into background sensation—just another data point his body logged and moved past. What hasn’t faded is Rozanov’s attention.

It’s subtle. Always is.

Rozanov doesn’t chase him. Doesn’t target. He just… adjusts. Matches pace. Steps into lanes early enough that Shane has to reroute half a second sooner than he wants to.

Shane tells himself that’s what good defense looks like.

He tells himself a lot of things.

During a stoppage, he glances at the bench out of habit. His phone sits where he left it, dark and quiet.

For a moment, he feels exposed without it. The thought irritates him enough that he immediately dismisses it.

Get a grip.

Play resumes.

Boston gets one back late in the second, a clean shot through traffic. The building hums with restless energy, tension tightening in the air like a pulled wire.

Shane leans into it. This is the part he understands.

He wins the next draw clean, snaps the puck back, and accelerates into open ice. Rozanov shadows him immediately, stick angled just right, body close enough that Shane can feel him without contact.

They collide at the boards—not hard, but deliberate.

“Still fine?” Rozanov says, low.

Shane turns his head sharply. “You always this annoying?”

Rozanov’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Only when you’re predictable.”

Shane scoffs and pushes off, leaving Rozanov behind. The puck cycles back the other way. The moment dissolves into motion.

But the tone sticks.

Montreal regains the lead before the period ends. The bench loosens by a notch, and the crowd exhales.

By the middle of the second, the hit has faded into background sensation—just another data point his body logged and moved past.

What hasn’t faded is the timing.

It’s subtle enough that Shane almost misses it. Almost. A half-step late on a lane he usually owns. A pass that arrives clean but a fraction slower than it should. Not mistakes — not even close — just friction where there usually isn’t any.

He adjusts without thinking. Shortens his stride. Holds the puck a heartbeat longer. Lets his line settle before pushing pace again.

Boston notices.

They start compressing space earlier, sticks closing gaps faster than before. It’s disciplined pressure — the kind that only works if you hesitate.

Shane refuses to.

He drives wide, takes the hit on his shoulder, keeps the puck alive along the boards long enough for support to arrive. The play resets. The bench exhales.

But when he circles back for the next rush, Rozanov is already there.

Not chasing. Not stepping up. Just… present. Positioned where Shane wants to go before Shane fully commits to it.

It shouldn’t matter.

It does.

Shane cuts inside anyway. Rozanov mirrors him, blade angled just right, forcing Shane to reroute half a second sooner than planned. The puck moves on, harmless, but the irritation spikes hot and immediate.

Predictable, Rozanov had said earlier.

Shane grits his teeth and pushes harder on the next shift.

That’s when it goes wrong — not disastrously, not visibly — just enough.

He commits to the middle, expecting a lane that doesn’t open. The puck bumps off a stick instead of sliding through clean, and Boston turns it the other way in a flash. Shane pivots, chases, makes up the ice with speed alone.

He gets back in time. He always does.

But his lungs burn sharper than they should.

As he glides toward the bench on the whistle, he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and breathes slow through his nose until the edge dulls again.

Get control.

Hayden leans over the boards. “You good buddy?”

Shane nods, sharper than necessary. “Yeah.”

Hayden's eyebrows lift a fraction, but he doesn’t say anything. Just taps the boards twice and looks back to the ice.

Shane sits and stares straight ahead until the feeling evens out.

He doesn’t look at Rozanov.

He can feel him anyway, like usual— not watching, not looming — just aware in a way that crawls under Shane’s skin because it feels earned.

In the locker room during intermission, Shane sits longer than he usually does, forearms braced on his knees. His pulse slows. His breathing evens.

He reaches for his phone without thinking.

Then freezes.

He waits a second. Two.

Nothing.

The lack of vibration shouldn’t matter.

It does.

He scowls faintly and stuffs the phone back into his stall, standing abruptly as the horn calls them back.

The third period is cleaner.

Boston presses, Montreal answers. Shane plays through it controlled, disciplined, keeping his shifts short and efficient. The hit doesn’t resurface. Rozanov stays in his lane, presence constant but less overt now, like the message has already been delivered.

Whatever it was.

Montreal holds.

By the time Ilya reaches the tunnel, his jaw already aches.

Not from the game — from holding himself exactly where he belongs.

Boston moves as a unit when they lose. Tight. Efficient. Helmets off in sequence, gloves stripped and tucked without ceremony, bodies angled inward like the world outside the concrete walls doesn’t exist yet. Someone mutters about traffic in front of the net. Someone else swears about a missed stick call that never would’ve changed anything. The noise is familiar, controlled, acceptable.

Ilya keeps his head down and follows the rhythm.

His body feels wrong — not injured, not tired — just sharp in places that should’ve dulled by now. His legs buzz with unused aggression. His shoulders hold tension that hasn’t found a release point. It irritates him. Irritation is easier to manage than whatever sits underneath it.

The hit replays whether he wants it to or not.

Not the impact itself — he’s taken worse, delivered worse — but the half-second before it. The angle. The speed. The certainty that something was about to go wrong before it did.

He had moved before he thought.

That’s the part he doesn’t like.

In the locker room, the door swings shut and sound rushes in all at once. Music, laughter that’s a little too loud, the scrape of gear hitting concrete. Someone throws a glove that misses a trash can by inches. No one reacts.

Ilya sits and starts undoing his pads in the same order he always does. Left strap first. Then right. Skates last. Routine is a boundary. Routine keeps things contained.

Across the room, someone mentions Hollander’s name.

Not pointedly. Not with intent. Just a passing complaint — how Montreal’s captain never seems to stay rattled, how some guys carry hits like armor instead of weight.

Ilya doesn’t look up.

He feels the words anyway, like pressure against a bruise.

He finishes stripping his pads and stands, rolling his shoulders once, controlled. No crack. No visible tension. If anyone’s watching — and they might be — there’s nothing to see.

Still, his hand drifts to his phone before he can redirect it.

He stops himself.

For a second.

Then unlocks it anyway.

Ross.

The name sits at the top of the thread like it always does — neutral, unassuming, deniable. No pictures. No context that would mean anything to anyone else.

He types the safest thing there is.

Ross: you good?

No game. No hit. No concern that could be traced backward into something ugly.

The reply comes faster than it should.

Shay: yeah
Shay: got rattled for a minute but i’m fine

Of course he is.

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. The relief lands sharp and immediate — and then twists, souring into something that makes his jaw lock again.

Fine doesn’t explain why Ilya moved like he did.

Fine doesn’t explain the way his body reacted before his brain gave permission.

He keeps the response light. Controlled.

Ross: good
Ross: hate when you get quiet

A beat passes.

Shay: sorry to disappoint
Shay: had to do my job for a second

There it is — dry, deflecting, just open enough to feel like honesty without committing to it.

Ilya almost smiles.

He doesn’t let it show.

He locks the phone and finishes dressing, pulling Rozanov back over himself piece by piece. Jacket zipped. Hood down. Posture settled. Whatever slipped earlier gets sealed behind muscle memory and discipline.

On the bus, the city blurs past in long streaks of light. Boston at night always feels colder when they lose — harder edges, fewer pauses. Teammates talk in short bursts, then fall quiet again, everyone retreating inward as the distance from the rink grows.

Ilya leans his head back against the window and closes his eyes.

He opens the thread again anyway.

This is where Ross is supposed to live — in the margins. After the adrenaline, before sleep. A place where the edge dulls into something manageable.

Ross: you always calm down fast after games
Ross: must be nice

The reply takes longer this time.

Shay: you say that like it’s a skill
Shay: mostly just exhaustion

Ilya huffs a quiet breath through his nose.

Ross: exhaustion is underrated

A laughing emoji appears a second later.

It shouldn’t do anything.

It does.

Something low in Ilya’s chest tightens — not painful, not sharp — just present in a way that demands to be acknowledged. He doesn’t let it go further than that. Doesn’t answer. Lets the moment sit exactly where it is.

Contained.

Sustainable.

He tells himself this is what Ross is for. A pressure valve. A way to redirect energy that doesn’t belong anywhere else. He tells himself seasons end. That habits break. That distance solves problems discipline can’t.

He tells himself a lot of things.

But the truth presses in anyway, unwelcome and precise.

He didn’t text when anyone else took a hit.

He didn’t text earlier in the season when games turned ugly.

He texted because it was Hollander.

By the time Shane gets home, the city has settled into that late-night quiet that only happens after a win. Traffic thins. The noise pulls inward. His apartment greets him with familiar stillness—detergent, faint coffee, the low hum of the fridge.

He drops his bag by the door and stands there for a second longer than necessary, keys still in his hand.

His body feels good. Worked. Cleanly spent.

That’s not what’s keeping him still.

Shane sets his phone down on the counter and turns away from it.

He doesn’t want to hover. He doesn’t want to wait.

So he fills the space.

He kicks off his shoes, lines them up by habit, then nudges them out of alignment on purpose. Opens the fridge, stares inside without seeing anything. Closes it again.

The apartment hums softly around him — familiar, neutral, safe.

He stretches out his shoulders, slow and methodical, easing the last of the tension out of his upper back. Starts to stretch his hip flexors, stops halfway through and straightens again.

Too restless.

He turns the TV on and immediately mutes it. The flicker of movement feels wrong in the quiet, like it’s asking something of him. He turns it off again.

His phone stays dark.

Shane exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand over his face.

This is stupid.

He’s tired. He played a full game. He won. There is no reason his body should feel like it’s waiting.

He picks up his phone, unlocks it, opens the Ross thread — then freezes.

The cursor blinks, patient.

He doesn’t type.

Instead, he locks the screen again and sets the phone face-down on the counter like he’s closing a lid on something that’s gotten too warm.

Seconds pass. Then minutes.

By the time the vibration finally comes, he’s already braced for it.

He looks back immediately, annoyed at himself for it.

Ross: did you get home safe?

Shane exhales, shoulders dropping without permission.

Shay: yeah
Shay: we won so that helps

Ross: good no need to take out any anger tonight

Shane leans his hip against the counter, scrolling back through the thread without really reading it. The pattern is there if he looks too closely—Ross always appearing at the edges of his days, never intruding, never absent when it counts.

He chooses not to look too closely.

Ross: boston was annoying tonight

Shane huffs a laugh and pushes off the counter, wandering into the living room. He sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, phone warm in his hand.

Shay: they usually are

Ross: random question

Shane pauses.

Shay: dangerous way to start a sentence

Ross: do you think i’ve ever seen you play hockey

Shane frowns at the screen.

It’s a stupid question. Casual. Almost offhand. The kind people ask when they’re circling something without wanting to land on it.

Still—his brain spikes immediately.

He thinks about cameras. Broadcasts. Highlight reels that circulate whether you want them to or not. The fact that he plays in a league where anonymity doesn’t exist unless you actively fight for it.

Ross knows hockey. Ross talks like someone who’s watched too much of it. Ross notices pressure and timing and patterns.

Absolutely not.

He types without hesitation.

Shay: doubt it
Shay: i’m not exactly must-see tv

There. Casual. Self-deprecating. Safe.

He feels faintly pleased with himself, like he’s just navigated something without leaving fingerprints.

Ross doesn’t reply right away.

Shane sets the phone down on the cushion beside him and leans back, stretching his legs out. The quiet settles in again, heavier now but not uncomfortable.

A minute passes.

Then another vibration.

Ross: shame
Ross: you seem like you’d be good

Shane snorts despite himself.

Shay: wow
Shay: devastating critique

Ross: honest one

Shane smiles faintly, the expression coming easier than he expects. He lets his head tip back against the couch, eyes drifting shut for a moment.

The joke lands exactly where it’s supposed to—light, unthreatening, nothing that demands more than it gives.

Which is why it works.

He doesn’t question it further.

Chapter End Notes

AS ALWAYS- thank you guys for the comments & kudos!! especially last chapter when i was worried it wasn't going to be as good :))

ANOTHER side note this fic was originally supposed to be like 30k and I clearly got carried away... just gotta love a slow burn (and their development in these chapters is very dear to me because it's all about intimacy!!!!!)

also i hope you don't mind the yap today in my notes it KINDA feels like i'm talking to myself lmao

Chapter 10: ten

Chapter Notes

i'm back with being obsessed with this chapter (if the russian is bad i swear i tried my best!)

side note for the day! i wrote the end scene on an airplane i'm not even sure how but i thought i needed to share that fact

Ilya is already awake when his phone starts vibrating.

Not the sharp jolt of an alarm—this is slower, persistent, the kind of vibration that crawls across the nightstand instead of demanding attention. He watches it for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark, breath steady, body heavy with the wrong kind of tension.

Alexei.

He lets it ring once more.

Then answers.

“Что.” Ilya says, flat and controlled, like this is a logistical call and not his brother phoning before sunrise.

What

Alexei doesn’t bother with a greeting.
“Тебе нужно прислать ещё.”

You need to send more.

There it is.
No context. No preamble. Alexei’s voice is clipped, already irritated, like this is one more task on a list he didn’t ask for.

Ilya sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold. He welcomes it.
“На что.” he asks, evenly.

 For what

“На учреждение, Alexei says. Они снова поднимают тариф.”

 The facility. They’re raising the rate again.

A pause, impatient.
“Он прошлой ночью ушёл из палаты. Сработала сигнализация.”

He wandered last night. Set off a door alarm.

“Tеперь говорят, что это вопрос ответственности. Нужно больше контроля. Больше персонала.”

They’re saying it’s a liability issue now. More supervision. More staff.

Liability.

Ilya closes his eyes briefly. “Кто-нибудь пострадал?” Ilya asks.

Did anyone get hurt

Alexei exhales, sharp. “Нет. Но дело не в этом.”

No. But that’s not the point.

“Сколько.” Ilya says.

 How much

A beat. “Ты вообще себя слышишь?”

You really are unbelievable

“Это не вопрос,” Ilya replies. “Просто скажи.”

 It’s not a question. Just tell me.

Silence stretches. When Alexei speaks again, his voice has changed—not softer, just tired in a way that sounds practiced. “Вчера он меня не узнал.”

He didn’t recognize me yesterday

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He keeps his expression neutral, shoulders loose, like composure is a reflex instead of an effort.

“Спрашивал, где ты,” Alexei continues.

He asked where you were

“Постоянно повторял твоё имя. Как будто пытался вспомнить, настоящий ли ты.”

Kept saying your name. Like he was trying to remember if you were real

That stings—not sharply, but steadily. Pressure building behind the ribs.

“Я перевожу деньги, Ilya says. Каждый месяц. Вовремя.”

I send money. Every month. On time

“Я знаю, Alexei replies quickly. И это хорошо. Это… полезно.”

I know. And that’s good. That’s—useful.

A pause. “Но это не помогает, когда я сижу там и объясняю медсёстрам, почему он всё время пытается уйти.”

But it doesn’t help when I’m the one sitting there explaining to nurses why he keeps trying to leave

Ilya presses his thumb into his palm, grounding.

“Я построил свою жизнь так, чтобы с этим не было проблем, he says quietly.  Чтобы ты не думал о деньгах. О лечении.”

I built my life around making sure this was handled. So you wouldn’t have to worry about costs. About care.

Alexei laughs, short and humorless. “Ты построил свою жизнь так, чтобы с этим не сталкиваться.”

You built your life around not having to deal with it.

The accusation is familiar. It slides into place like muscle memory.

“Я сталкиваюсь. Ilya snaps, then reins it in immediately. Так, как могу.”

I’m dealing with it…In the way I can.

“Да,” Alexei says. “Через океан.” 

Right. From across an ocean.

Ilya stands and walks toward the window, city lights smeared against the glass, distant and unreachable.

“Я переведу больше.  Ilya says after a moment. Practical. Final. “Пришли обновлённую сумму.”

I’ll transfer more. Send me the updated amount.

Another pause.

“И всё?  Alexei asks. Ты не хочешь знать, насколько всё плохо?”

That’s it? “You don’t want updates? Don’t want to know how bad it’s getting?

“Я и так знаю,” Ilya replies.

I already know.

Silence.

“Ладно, Alexei exhales.  Я пришлю цифры.”

Fine. I’ll send the numbers.

The call ends without a goodbye.

The quiet afterward is thick, pressing in on Ilya’s chest and throat until he feels it everywhere. He stays where he is, hands loose at his sides, staring out at the city.

Not grief. Not anger.

Just the awareness that he cares deeply—and has nowhere safe to put it.

Eventually, his phone lights up again.

Not Alexei.

Shay.

Ilya doesn’t open the thread right away. He just looks at the name—the neutrality of it, the absence of demand, the way it waits instead of asks.

That’s the point.

When he finally unlocks the phone, his fingers are steady again.

Whatever is waiting on the other end will be contained.
Measured.
Safe.

For now.

Shane wakes up with the familiar weight already sitting in his chest.

Not dread. Not nerves. Just the steady compression that comes when the calendar flips from regular season to countdown. The days blur together differently now. Less margin. Less noise. Everything aimed forward.

Playoffs don’t announce themselves. They narrow.

He lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the city hums faintly outside his windows. His body feels tuned too tight—muscles awake before his brain finishes catching up. He catalogues it automatically: shoulders stiff, hips tight, pulse already elevated.

Normal.

He sits up, rubs a hand over his face, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Nothing new.

The absence doesn’t spike the way it used to. It settles instead, low and persistent, like background radiation. He registers it, exhales through his nose, and swings his legs out of bed.

Morning skate runs the same as it always does, but the energy around the rink has shifted. Conversations are shorter. Laughter fades faster. Guys stretch a little longer, tape a little slower, like everyone is trying to squeeze one more degree of readiness out of their bodies.

Shane moves through it on instinct.

Coffee. Locker. Tape. Stretch.

The smell of rubber and ice and old coffee grounds wraps around him, grounding. Familiar. The kind of sensory repetition that keeps his head quiet. He tapes his stick with the same measured precision he’s used since juniors, hands steady, movements efficient.

Hayden passes behind him and bumps his shoulder lightly. “You sleeping?”

“Enough,” Shane says.

Hayden hums, unconvinced but uninterested in pushing. That’s the unspoken agreement this time of year: don’t ask questions you don’t want answered honestly.

On the ice, Shane is sharp.

Not loose—locked in. His edges bite clean, stride long and controlled, timing dialed in. He drives pace through drills, adjusts spacing without raising his voice, tracks the puck like it’s magnetized to his vision.

This is where everything lines up.

He barely notices he’s checked the bench between reps until he realizes his phone isn’t there.

Annoyed, he scowls faintly and shoves his gloves deeper into his bag.

Get it together.

The rest of the day unfolds in compressed blocks—meetings, video review, quick meals eaten standing up. Coaches talk about matchups and discipline and details that decide games no one remembers individually but everyone remembers collectively.

Someone says, “We’re built for this.”

Shane nods along with the rest of them, captain mask in place, posture easy.

Inside, he feels… level.

That’s new.

By the time playoffs officially start, the city feels different. Louder in anticipation, quieter in execution. Home games hum with a tight, focused energy that doesn’t tip into chaos. Road trips feel shorter, sharper, like everyone’s operating on borrowed time.

Montreal wins the first round cleanly.

Not flashy. Controlled.

Media asks Shane the same questions in different fonts.

“How does it feel to lead this group into the next round?”

“Do you feel like the pressure’s mounting?”

“You look calm out there.”

He smiles, answers with practiced neutrality.

“We trust our system.”

“One game at a time.”

“Calm helps.”

Someone laughs and says, “You always look like this.”

Shane shrugs. “That’s the job.”

What he doesn’t say is that calm doesn’t come from the ice anymore.

It comes after.

That night, alone in his apartment, Shane sits on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees, gear bag still by the door. His body hums with leftover adrenaline, skin warm, muscles loose in the way they only get after playoff hockey.

He should stretch. Should shower. Should eat.

Instead, he pulls out his phone.

The Ross thread sits exactly where it always does.

He opens it without thinking, thumb hovering for half a second before he types.

Shay: series wrapped tonight
Shay: onto the next one

The reply comes quickly enough that Shane doesn’t have time to analyze it.

Ross: look at you
Ross: that didn’t sound stressful at all

Shane huffs a quiet laugh.

Shay: don’t get used to it

Ross: fair
Ross: still counts as winning though

Something in Shane’s chest loosens.

He leans back against the couch, phone warm in his hand.

Shay: yeah
Shay: honestly just glad boston didn’t make it

The words leave him before he thinks about them.

A beat passes.

Then—

Ross: wow
Ross: strong feelings

Shane smirks faintly.

Shay: can’t stand rozanov
Shay: guy’s annoying

He waits for the instinctive pushback. The neutral defense. The you say that about everyone.

Instead—

Ross: incredible
Ross: congratulations you just made him my favorite player

Shane’s brow furrows.

Shay: absolutely not

Ross: too late
Ross: anyone who gets under your skin that much must be doing something right

Shane scoffs, irritation sparking sharper than the joke warrants.

Shay: you’re wrong and i hate this take

Ross: noted
Ross: still my favorite

Shane shakes his head, lips twitching despite himself.

He tells himself the reaction is just competitiveness. Just pride. Just the residual edge of playoff hockey.

He doesn’t ask why he feels the urge to explain himself.

Shay: it’s not like that
Shay: he just plays like he knows what you’re about to do before you do it

There’s a pause.

Longer this time.

Ross: that sounds irritating

Shane exhales, shoulders easing.

Shay: it is

Ross doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for clarification.

He just lets it sit.

And something in Shane’s chest settles with it, the way it always does when Ross doesn’t try to make things smaller or louder than they are.

Eventually—

Ross: you heading to bed?

Shane glances at the dark apartment around him.

Shay: probably should sleep
Shay: body’s still buzzing though

Ross: yeah
Ross: apparently talking about good players like rozanov will do that

Shay: fuck off

Shane sets the phone down beside him and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

The buzz in his body slowly evens out—not gone, just quieter. Contained.

He doesn’t think about Boston again.

He doesn’t think about Rozanov.

He thinks about how easy it felt to say I hate him out loud.

And how easy it felt to hear someone laugh and stay anyway.

Shane doesn’t sleep as deeply as he wants to.

Not badly—just lightly. The kind of rest where his body never fully shuts off, muscles hovering in a state of readiness even as his thoughts blur. When he wakes, the room is dim and quiet, city noise muffled by height and glass. His phone sits where he left it on the nightstand, screen dark.

He doesn’t reach for it right away.

That feels like restraint now. Like a choice.

Morning comes fast. Too fast. His body aches in the dull, earned way that makes him feel capable rather than worn down. He stretches slow, methodical, careful not to rush through it. There’s no room for shortcuts right now—everything matters more when the margins shrink.

At the rink, the energy has tightened again.

No one says it outright, but everyone knows the shift. Conversations don’t linger. Music stays lower. Guys move with purpose instead of habit. Tape jobs are precise. Warmups are efficient. It’s not pressure exactly—it’s compression.

Shane thrives in it.

On the ice, he’s steady. Not explosive, not flashy—just relentlessly present. He keeps his shifts clean, his decisions quick, his body where it needs to be before the play demands it. Coaches nod. Teammates trust him without needing reassurance.

This is the part he understands.

What he doesn’t understand—what he refuses to interrogate—is the way his thoughts drift between drills. Not to matchups or systems or mistakes to correct, but to a quiet apartment and a familiar thread of messages waiting at the end of the day.

He doesn’t check his phone during practice.

He doesn’t need to.

The days stack up like this. Games blur into each other—travel, ice, noise, repetition. The stakes climb without announcement. Every win feels heavier than the last, not celebratory so much as necessary.

After one game—ugly, grinding, the kind that leaves bruises you don’t remember earning—Shane sits alone in the locker room longer than usual. Most of the team has already filtered out, laughter fading down the hallway, music still humming softly from someone’s speaker.

His pulse finally slows.

He reaches for his phone.

The screen lights up immediately, like it’s been waiting even though Ross doesn't even know what team he plays for.

Ross: and did we survive??

Shane exhales, something easing low in his chest.

Shay: barely
Shay: tonight was annoying

Ross: those are usually the important ones

Shane snorts quietly and rolls his shoulders, testing the stiffness there.

Shay: you’re not wrong

He hesitates, then adds—

Shay: feels like everything’s tighter lately

He almost deletes it.

Almost.

Ross doesn’t reply right away.

Shane watches the typing indicator appear, disappear, then reappear. His jaw tightens—not anxious, exactly. Just alert.

Ross: yeah
Ross: that’s what happens when you’re a boring hockey player

Shane laughs before typing his response.

Shay: guess so

Ross: you don’t even deny this fact?

Shay: well you always say that

Ross: because you always prove me right
Ross: ginger ale..?

A small, reluctant smile pulls at Shane’s mouth.

They let the conversation drift after that—nothing heavy, nothing explicit. A joke about bad ice. A comment about travel schedules without naming places. Ross never asks who they’re playing. Never asks where Shane is. Never asks anything that would force the truth into the open.

Shane notices.

He appreciates it more than he wants to admit.

Later that night, back in his apartment, the quiet feels different than it did a week ago. Less hollow. Less demanding. He showers, eats something resembling a meal, sits on the couch with his phone resting loose in his hand.

He doesn’t hover over it.

He waits.

When it vibrates, the relief is subtle but undeniable.

Ross: you still buzzing on the inside?

Shane considers lying.

Doesn’t.

Shay: unfortunately
Shay: body won’t shut up

Ross: fortunately for me
Ross: that’s the dangerous window

Shane arches a brow at the screen.

Shay: dangerous how

Ross: because that’s when you convince yourself you don’t need release

Shane exhales slowly.

Shay: you make dirty talk it sound like a warning

Ross: maybe it is

Ross: and who said this was dirty talk?

Shane shifts on the couch, pressing his feet flat to the floor like grounding helps.

Shay: you always talk like you know what i need

Ross: mm

Ross: maybe i do

Shay: sounds exhausting

Ross: never
Ross: too boring to be exhausting

A pause.

Ross: my favorite kind of boring

That does something to him.

Shane swallows, throat tight.

Shay: oh yeah?

They don’t say anything else for a while.

The silence between messages doesn’t feel empty—it feels shared, like neither of them is in a hurry to fill it with noise.

Eventually—

Ross: you should try to sleep
Ross: tomorrow will still be there

Shane glances at the clock, then back at the thread.

Shay: you’re probably right

Ross: i usually am

Shane smiles, real and unguarded.

He sets the phone down and lets the quiet reclaim the room. His body still hums, but it’s softer now, more manageable.

As he drifts toward sleep, one thought lingers—not loud enough to be dangerous, just present enough to matter.

Whatever this is, it’s becoming part of how he gets through the days.

And he still hasn’t said where he’s playing.

They got a night in Montreal due to travel so Shane was able to visit home for the night. Not like Ross would know that.

He still hasn’t said how close he is to something that could change everything.

Ross hasn’t asked.

And Shane doesn’t know whether that makes it easier—or worse.

The night doesn’t end cleanly.

Shane tries to make it routine—tries to let the day close the way days are supposed to. Shower. Food. Lights low. The TV on without sound. The same motions he’s always used to bleeding off energy that doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

It doesn’t work.

His body is still keyed too high, nerves humming just under the surface like he never fully left the ice. Every time he shifts, it’s there—restlessness, awareness, that tight coil in his chest that has nothing to do with adrenaline anymore.

He picks up his phone.

Puts it back down.

Picks it up again.

The Ross thread sits open with their last exchange, quiet and unfinished in a way that feels intentional. Not abandonment. Not closure. Just… space.

Shane stares at it longer than he means to.

Then, without letting himself think through the why, he types.

Shay: still awake?

The reply comes slower than before. Not delayed—considered.

Ross: yeah
Ross: was waiting for your text

Shane exhales through his nose, half a laugh.

Shay: is it that obvious

Ross: a little

Shay: you keep saying that like it’s a problem

Ross: depends
Ross: are you coming to me for help?

Shane’s fingers still.

He leans back against the couch, head tipping against the cushion, eyes closed.

The question isn’t sexual on its own.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Shay: not sure yet

Ross doesn’t rush him.

That, more than anything else, is what gets him.

Ross: then don’t decide yet
Ross: just tell me what it feels like

Shane swallows.

He shifts his weight, adjusts where he’s sitting, suddenly hyperaware of his own body in the quiet room. The low hum of the fridge. The faint city noise through the windows. The fact that he’s alone—and not.

Shay: tense
Shay: like everything’s too close together
Shay: like if i stop moving i’ll feel it more

There’s a pause. Longer this time.

Shane almost regrets sending it.

Almost.

Ross: where do you feel it

The question lands softer than it should.

Shane presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, thinking. Not censoring—just locating.

Shay: shoulders
Shay: back
Shay: everywhere i’m holding myself still

Ross: mm

Shane huffs a breath.

Shay: you always say that

Ross: because you are just so easy to read

That shouldn’t be intimate.

It is.

Shane shifts again, one hand braced on the couch beside him, fingers flexing once like they’re testing something.

Shay: so what
Shay: you gonna talk me down or something

Ross: only if that’s what you want

There it is.

Not a push. Not a pull.

An opening.

Shane stares at the screen, pulse ticking harder now—not fast, just insistent. The room feels smaller. Warmer.

Shay: what if i do

Another pause.

This one stretches.

Shane thinks—briefly—about stopping. About calling it a night. About how easy it would be to pretend he meant something else.

He doesn’t.

Ross: do you have any special toys shay?

Shane laughs before he realizes Ross is actually serious.

And, to be fair—he does. There’s one. A dildo he bought after the first time Ross talked him through an orgasm. Not that he bought it for Ross. That would be ridiculous. The experience just… inspired him.

Shay: maybe i have one

Ross: only one?
Ross: what color?

Shane huffs out a breath, half stunned by Ross’s forwardness and half because—did he really just ask about the color of the dildo Shane keeps in his apartment?

Shay: i’m not telling you

Ross: such a shame
Ross: now i can’t imagine you using a pretty pink dildo to cum to my words

Shane drops his phone onto the bed like it’s burned him.

He’s not even sure why. He’s the one who started this. He’s alone. He doesn’t have anywhere to be.

And if he’s being honest, he’s already half-hard just from the way Ross keeps typing.

Ross seems to sense the hesitation, because another message comes in almost immediately.

Ross: can you get it out for me?
Ross: start prepping yourself for me?

Heat floods Shane’s face and then travels lower, slow and unmistakable. He still obeys.

He reaches into the drawer and pulls out the dildo and lube, setting them beside him. He uses the lubricant to stroke himself a few times, spreading the slick mixture of lube and precum over his hand and fingers before pressing one finger inside.

The tightness closes around him immediately.

He’s done this before—alone, a handful of times—but never like this. Never with someone else guiding him. Never with Ross.

The thought alone makes his head tilt back, breath breaking as he works himself open.

Ross: how does it feel?

Shay: good
Shay: really good

Ross: are you imagining my fingers working you open?
Ross: preparing you for my cock?

Shay: yes

Ross: good
Ross: keep going until you’re ready for it

Shane keeps the thread open on his lap as he adds another finger, the familiar burn mixing with pleasure. He lets Ross’s words wash over him, tries to picture what Ross looks like—

And realizes he never has.

He has no face to imagine. No body.

Just the certainty of him.

And the idea of his cock.

He doesn’t need to imagine that, actually.

Shay: i’m ready
Shay: please

Ross: put it in
Ross: but don’t move it yet
Ross: wait for me to tell you it’s okay

A pause. 

 Ross: can you do that?

Shane doesn’t know what it is about Ross telling him what to do—the anonymity, the control, the confidence—but it’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced.

Shay: yes
Shay: i think you’re bigger than this

Ross: of course i am
Ross: is it in yet?

Shane makes sure it’s seated comfortably, already having to fight the instinct to move. He feels impossibly full.

He can’t imagine Ross.

Shay: yes
Shay: hurry

Ross: who’s in control here?

Shane stills immediately. Not because Ross would know if he disobeyed—but because he listens.

Shay: you

Ross: correct
Ross: now move
Ross: slow
Ross: i want you to imagine me holding your hips down while i move inside you
Ross: i’d make sure you were sore the next morning, bruises on your hips
Ross: slow until i hit that spot that makes you weak

Shane can’t believe the effect Ross’s words have on him. The mental image alone is overwhelming.

Shay: fuck

He moves slowly at first, adjusting the angle until the sensation spikes—sharp pleasure shooting down his spine when he hits that familiar place.

Ross: are you picturing my cock inside you?
Ross: the way it reaches a part of you you didn’t know existed?
Ross: fuck shay i want to cum inside you

Shay: yes
Shay: of course it’s you

The messages come faster now, and Shane follows instinct, movements turning erratic as he gets closer.

Shay: ross i’m close

Ross: keep going baby
Ross: want you to cum thinking about my cock

Shay: fuck
Shay: i am

Shane finishes himself with shaky breaths, sounds spilling into the empty room, Ross’s name on his lips while the phone glows beside him.

It doesn’t take long.

After, his body goes loose all at once, breath uneven, mind hazy.

Ross: how do you feel?

Shay: fuck
Shay: better

Ross: good

Shane waits for something else.

A goodnight. Anything honestly.

Nothing comes.

Sleep pulls at him before he can overthink it too much. He cleans up only enough to be comfortable, phone still on the bed beside him.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

Unfortunately, he does.

He’ll deal with it in the morning—along with the reality of what they just did.

Shane wakes slower than usual.

Not groggy—just heavy, like his body hasn’t decided what time it is yet. The room is still dim, early light pressed thin against the windows, and for a few seconds he lies there without moving, cataloguing sensation the way he always does.

Sore. Relaxed. Spent.

Satisfied—until he isn’t.

The memory comes back in fragments. His phone on the bed. The sound of his own voice in the dark. The way Ross’s words had wrapped around him like hands he couldn’t see.

The way it ended.

He reaches for his phone without thinking.

Nothing.

No goodnight. No check-in. No lingering joke to take the edge off what they’d just done together. Just the last message sitting there like a closed door.

Shane exhales and scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly aware of how quiet the apartment is. How alone he is in it. He tells himself it’s fine—that this is exactly what they’ve been doing all along. That nothing changed last night except intensity.

Except it doesn’t feel that simple.

He swings his legs out of bed and stands, stretching automatically, body already shifting back into athlete mode. Muscles complain faintly. He welcomes it. Physical sensation is easier to deal with than whatever is tightening in his chest.

In the shower, the water is too hot. He doesn’t adjust it.

He tells himself the silence afterward doesn’t mean anything. Ross has always been careful. Controlled. Measured. This is probably part of that—knowing when to pull back, when to leave things unfinished.

Still, the thought follows him as he dresses, as he eats without tasting anything, as he grabs his keys and heads out the door.

On the walk to the rink, his phone stays dark in his pocket.

For the first time since they started talking, Shane doesn’t know if that’s a relief or a problem.

Ilya deletes the draft message without rereading it.

Not because it’s risky. Because it’s unnecessary.

He sits at the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, jaw tight, the room still dark around him. The night didn’t end the way he expected—not messy, not dramatic—just… unresolved. Like he stopped something mid-motion and now his body doesn’t know where to put the rest of it.

He told himself silence would be cleaner.

Professional. Contained.

Still, his thumb hovers over the screen longer than it should.

Shane didn’t ask for more.

That’s the part that stays with him.

Ilya sets the phone down face-down and stands, already pulling himself back into shape. Morning comes whether you’re ready or not. Discipline fills the space where feeling would go.

It always has.

But as he gets dressed, the thought slips in anyway—uninvited, precise, irritating:

If Shane reaches out first, this stops being a line.

Ilya doesn’t know whether that thought makes him steadier—or reckless.

Chapter End Notes

now that you've read it can we imagine me writing explicit smut on an airplane?? yeah. i was just locked in okay??!

another side note he called him baby... let's circle back

Chapter 11: eleven

Chapter Notes

YALL HI!!! did you miss me be honest?? (it's been one day)

so i started class today (already stressed) and will be figuring out a schedule for updating (all my fics!) but will probably be once/twice a week for sure and then more if i can! for now i am writing when i can before the semester gets super busy :)

enjoyyyyy!!

They win late.

Not cinematically—no overtime miracle, no perfect final shot—but decisively, undeniably. The kind of win that drains you down to the bone and leaves nothing behind but shaking hands and a roar you barely register until it’s already passed.

The horn sounds and Shane doesn’t move right away.

His chest is on fire. His legs feel loose in a way that’s almost dangerous, like if he stops paying attention he’ll fold. The ice blurs for half a second before snapping back into focus. Gloves hit shoulders. Someone yells his name. Someone else pulls him into a hug that knocks the air out of his lungs.

They did it.
They fucking did it.

The adrenaline spikes so hard it makes him lightheaded. Every sound feels too loud, too close. The crowd is on its feet. The bench spills onto the ice. Cameras are everywhere, hungry for something worth replaying.

Shane lifts his helmet, drags in a breath, and forces his face into something that looks like composure.

Captain.
Calm.
Controlled.

Inside, everything is screaming.

The skate to the tunnel feels unreal, like his body is moving half a second ahead of his thoughts. He shakes hands out of habit, muscle memory carrying him through the line. Faces blur together—opponents, officials, flashes of red and white and blue. Someone mutters hell of a season. Someone else grips his arm a beat too long.

In the locker room, chaos detonates.

Music blasts before the door even finishes swinging shut. Gloves and tape fly. Someone cracks open champagne and misses the trash can by a mile. Laughter ricochets off concrete walls, loud and unfiltered and earned.

Shane sits at his stall and just breathes.

His hands are still shaking.

Hayden drops down beside him, already grinning, towel slung over his shoulder. “You alive?”

“Barely,” Shane says, and it’s the truest thing he’s said all night.

Someone shoves a bottle into his hand. Another arm hooks around his shoulders. A phone appears in his face, recording, waiting.

“Say something, Cap.”

Shane smiles for the camera. Says something about the group, about buying in, about how proud he is. The words come out smooth, practiced, exactly what they’re supposed to be.

They don’t touch the noise in his chest.

The Cup comes through the room eventually. There’s shouting, cheering, the weight of it when he lifts it—heavier than he expects, solid and real and earned. For a second, it cuts through everything. Grounds him.

Then it passes on.

Someone starts talking about going out. Someone else already has a plan—reservations, a place downtown, somewhere loud enough to match what they’re all feeling.

“You coming, Shane?” JJ asks, eyebrows lifted, hopeful. “One night. We earned it.”

A few heads turn. It’s not pressure—just expectation. He’s the captain. This is the part where he goes, where he leads.

Shane opens his mouth.

Pauses.

The idea of noise, of bodies pressed too close, of shouting over music he doesn’t want to hear—it makes something in his chest tighten instead of loosen.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he says.

There’s a beat of surprise.

JJ blinks. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. He keeps his tone easy. Casual. “Just… tired.”

No one calls him on it. They shouldn’t—he’s earned this choice, whatever it is. A few guys nod. Someone claps him on the shoulder and tells him to get some rest.

But Hayden watches him for a second longer, something thoughtful flickering across his face.

“Text if you change your mind,” he says.

Shane nods. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t.

Outside the rink, the air hits him harder than he expects.

By the time he leaves the rink, the adrenaline hasn’t faded—it’s sharpened. His body is wrecked, but his mind is wired, thoughts circling the same point without ever landing.

Cold. Clean. Sharp enough to cut through the leftover heat clinging to his skin. Shane pauses on the top step, helmet tucked under his arm, breath fogging in front of him as he exhales. The building behind him is still vibrating—bass from the locker room music bleeding faintly through concrete, laughter leaking out every time the door opens.

He should feel lighter out here.

Instead, the quiet presses in.

He rolls his shoulders once, testing the stiffness there, then starts walking. The city is awake in that muted, post-game way—cars idling at lights, a few fans lingering on the sidewalks, jerseys pulled tight against the cold. Someone shouts his name from across the street.

“Cap!”

He lifts a hand in acknowledgment without stopping.

The adrenaline hasn’t faded. It’s sharpened into something restless, buzzing under his skin like he’s still waiting for a whistle that never comes. His fingers flex unconsciously, like they’re searching for a stick that isn’t there.

The city feels quieter than it should, like it’s holding its breath. He walks instead of calling a car, letting the cold air bite at his skin, grounding him in something physical.

Halfway down the block, he realizes he’s already reached for his phone.

He stops himself.

Lets it sit in his pocket for another ten steps.

Fails.

He walks slower than necessary, dragging the moment out like if he stretches it thin enough, it’ll resolve itself.

The win hasn’t landed yet. It’s sitting somewhere above him, hovering, waiting for permission to exist fully. Every time he tries to let it sink in—we did it, it’s over, it counts—his mind skids sideways instead.

Ross.

Not even in words. Just the shape of him. The expectation of grounding. The way his chest always settles when Ross answers like nothing needs explaining.

Shane scrubs a hand over his face, breath hitching briefly as he laughs under his breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters to no one.

He hates that this is where his head goes. Hates how easy it feels. Hates how right it feels even more.

By the time he reaches his building, the noise inside him hasn’t quieted—it’s reorganized. Focused. Narrowed down to one point he refuses to name.

When he gets back to his apartment, he drops his bag by the door and doesn’t turn on the lights. Just stands there in the dark, chest still rising too fast, fingers buzzing like he’s gripping a stick that isn’t there.

He pulls out his phone.

The Ross thread sits exactly where it always does.

Safe.
Familiar.
Waiting.

His first instinct is so immediate it almost scares him.

Ross.

The thought lands fully formed, unquestioned—muscle memory. Not the team. Not the guys. Not the Cup sitting somewhere under fluorescent lights.

Ross.

He opens the thread.

The cursor blinks.

Patient.

Shane stares at it longer than he should.

He types.

we won

Deletes it.

big night

Deletes that too.

still shaking

Gone.

He can’t say what they won. Can’t say where he is. Can’t explain why tonight feels different from every other night he’s come home restless and buzzing and reached for Ross to ground him.

The silence stretches.

He realizes, distantly, that this hurts more than any loss ever has.

Not the loss of a game.

The loss of a moment.

The fact that the one person he wants to tell—wants to hear him, wants to feel present with—can’t know the shape of this win without everything else coming into focus.

That the wall he built so carefully is doing exactly what it was meant to do.

And it feels awful.

He sends a message before he can think too much about it.

Shane leans back against the couch, head tipping into the cushions, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The adrenaline is still there, but it’s tangled now with something softer. Sadder.

He won.

He should feel whole.

Instead, he feels the exact shape of what he can’t share.

His phone buzzes.

Ross doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t press. Messages come in slow and steady—grounding, present, careful not to demand context.

still awake?

let me guess…brain still doing laps

this is the part where you pretend you’re not boring

It works to ease him immediately. 

That’s what scares him.

Because whatever this is—whatever he’s built around Ross without naming it—it’s the first place his mind went when everything mattered.

Shane’s eyelids grow heavy despite himself. His body finally starts to give up the fight. 

He doesn’t remember deciding to lie down.

One second he’s sitting on the couch, phone warm in his hand, ceiling fan ticking softly overhead. The next, his head is tilted back, eyes drifting shut in that dangerous, half-awake way where thoughts lose their edges.

The adrenaline finally gives way to gravity.

His phone buzzes once more—something gentle, unintrusive. He doesn’t open his eyes, just shifts slightly, thumb brushing the edge of the screen.

Ross is still there.

That’s the strange part—the thing Shane can’t quite name without disturbing it. Not loud. Not demanding. Just present in the way a steady hand on your back is present, even when it isn’t moving.

It’s enough.

The adrenaline finally starts to lose its grip, ebbing into something heavy and dull. His thoughts blur at the edges, no longer sharp enough to cut. The phone rests against his chest, warm through the fabric of his shirt, its weight grounding in a way nothing else tonight has managed to be.

Sleep takes him mid-thought.

Across the city—across whatever distance Ross refuses to define—the typing bubble appears.

It vanishes.

Appears again.

Ross hesitates, fingers hovering, rewriting something that doesn’t quite fit the moment. Something too close. Something that would land heavier than Shane can carry tonight. Eventually, the bubble disappears for good, the message unsent.

Shane never sees it.

Sleep pulls him under fully now, somewhere adrenaline can’t follow. His grip loosens, and the phone shifts against his chest, sliding just enough to remind him it’s still there before settling again.

Still warm.

Still real.

And tonight, that has to be enough.

Even if it hurts.

Ilya watches the end alone.

Not in the dark—he hates that—but with the lights low, the TV volume turned down just enough that the noise doesn’t overwhelm the room. The broadcast fills the space anyway: crowd roar bleeding through the speakers, commentators talking over each other as if volume might make meaning.

Montreal wins. Hollander wins.

Not spectacularly. Not poetically. Just clean. Final. Undeniable.

The horn sounds and Ilya doesn’t move.

He’s standing in the middle of his living room without remembering when he got there, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set so hard it aches. The screen flashes red and white, players spilling over the boards, helmets knocked loose, bodies colliding in celebration.

Hollander disappears under his team.

There it is.

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flaring on instinct—at the noise, at the smugness of it, at the way the broadcast lingers on Montreal like they’ve earned the right to exist loudly in his space.

Which they have.

That’s the problem.

He tells himself he’s annoyed because Boston isn’t there. Because the season ended too early. Because watching another team lift what you didn’t get to chase feels like salt in a cut that never quite closed.

All of that is true.

None of it explains the way his chest tightens when Hollander resurfaces, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, expression stunned and restrained like he’s trying not to let the moment own him.

That familiar calm-after-chaos look.

Ilya scoffs under his breath. “Of course,” he mutters. “Of course you look like that.”

The apartment is too quiet for the words to disappear into.

His phone vibrates on the counter.

He doesn’t look at it.

He knows who it is.

The second buzz follows a moment later, softer somehow, as if the phone itself has learned restraint.

Still, he doesn’t reach for it.

He forces himself back onto the couch, sits with his elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on the screen as the Cup is carried out. The commentators are saying Hollander’s name now—talking about leadership, composure, the weight of captaining a team through a season like this.

Ilya laughs once, sharp and humorless.

The door clicks open behind him.

Svetlana steps in quietly, keys dropped into the bowl by the door without looking. She doesn’t speak right away. She doesn’t need to.

She watches him watch.

“Guess that answers that,” she says eventually, tone neutral.

Ilya doesn’t turn. “Answers what.”

“Who was walking away with it,” she replies, shrugging out of her jacket. “Montreal was due.”

He hums noncommittally.

On screen, Hollander is being handed the Cup. The camera zooms in, catching the way his hands hesitate for just a second before he takes it—like he’s grounding himself before letting go.

Ilya’s fingers curl against his knee.

“Annoying,” he says flatly.

Svetlana arches a brow. “Winning?”

“Him,” Ilya corrects.

She moves closer, perching on the arm of the couch without crowding him. Her gaze flicks from the TV to his profile, sharp and observant.

“I told you they had it this year, Boston will have it next year,” she notes.

“We'd better,” he replies.

She huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. Might be something else.

The broadcast cuts to interviews. Hollander is breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright but steady as he answers questions he’s clearly answered a thousand times before in his head. He says we more than I. He deflects praise with practiced ease.

Svetlana watches Ilya instead of the screen now.

“You look pissed,” she says lightly.

“Good,” he answers. “That would be appropriate.”

She studies him for another second, then nods, accepting the surface explanation without agreeing with it.

“Don’t break anything,” she says, standing. “I’ll be in the other room.”

She leaves him there without another word.

That’s the grace of her—never forcing him to say what she’s already clocked.

The TV keeps talking. The celebration keeps unfolding.

Ilya finally reaches for his phone.

The Shay thread is open.

There’s a message sitting there, unread.

He doesn’t open it yet.

Instead, he looks back at the screen one last time—at Hollander lifting the Cup, smiling like he’s trying not to let the world see how much this means.

Ilya exhales.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Ilya stands and crosses the room without looking at the screen again. The kitchen light hums softly when he flips it on, too bright, too ordinary for the moment it’s intruding on. He pours a glass of water he doesn’t drink, just stands there with it in his hand, fingers tight around the rim.

Winning looks different when you’re watching from the outside.

He tells himself again he’s irritated because it wasn’t him. Because it should’ve been Boston. Because the season ended before it was supposed to mean anything.

But that’s not the truth that keeps circling.

The truth is simpler. Quieter.

Hollander earned it.

That fact sits uncomfortably in his chest—not because it’s false, but because it feels undeniable.

When he finally picks the phone back up, he doesn’t open the thread again. Doesn’t read the message. Doesn’t type.

He sets it face-down and lets the silence do its work.

Across the city, Shane is asleep with his phone still in his hand.

Ilya knows this without knowing how.

Then he locks the screen.

He’ll answer Hollander later.

He needs a minute to pretend this loss is the only thing he’s feeling.

He sets the phone face-down on the coffee table instead, like proximity alone is enough to keep it contained. The TV is still on, volume low, images looping—confetti, smiles, the Cup changing hands. He lets it run. Turning it off would feel too deliberate.

He sits back, exhales slowly, counts the seconds until his pulse evens out.

It doesn’t.

Eventually, he flips the phone back over.

Shay
1 new message

He opens it.

Shay: feels like one of those nights that won’t shut up

Ilya stares at the screen.

Of course it’s that. Of course Shane doesn’t say why. Of course he doesn’t need to. The words are loose, vibrating with leftover adrenaline, the kind that crawls under the skin and doesn’t leave until it’s grounded somewhere else.

Ilya’s thumb hovers over the keyboard.

He types.

Ross: you did something big tonight

He stops.

Deletes it.

Too close. Too knowing.

He tries again.

Ross: sounds like a win

Deletes that too.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. The problem isn’t what he wants to say—it’s how easily it comes. How natural it feels to meet Shane exactly where he is, to steady him without being asked.

He types slower this time.

Ross: adrenaline’s a liar
Ross: it always tells you you’ll feel like this forever

He pauses.

Reads it again.

Deletes it.

Too intimate. Too familiar. Too much like he’s been here before.

The phone feels heavier now. He shifts it in his hand, rolls his shoulders once like tension can be shaken loose if he treats it like something physical.

The TV cuts to another angle—Shane laughing, breathless, pulled into another hug by a teammate. Ilya looks away before he can stop himself.

Focus.

He types again.

Ross: you home?

That one stays.

He sends it before he can second-guess himself.

The reply comes quickly.

Shay: yeah
Shay: finally still

Ilya closes his eyes for a brief second.

Still. After that. After winning something that people spend entire careers chasing. Still because he’s alone, because the noise has nowhere to go.

Ilya types.

Ross: good
Ross: sometimes that’s when it hits hardest

He hesitates.

Deletes the second line.

Leaves the first.

The typing bubble appears on Shane’s end. Disappears. Appears again.

Shay: feels weird
Shay: like i should be happier than this

There it is.

Not sadness. Dislocation.

Ilya leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone cradled loosely in his hands like it might bruise if he grips it too hard.

He types without thinking.

Ross: sometimes it’s just quieter than you expected

He reads it once.

Twice.

Keeps it.

Hollander doesn’t answer right away.

The typing bubble flickers, then goes dark.

Ilya watches the screen until it times out, then locks the phone and sets it back on the table like the decision has been made for him.

He leans back into the couch, stares at the ceiling.

This is the dangerous part—not the wanting, not the restraint, but the fact that he knows exactly what Shane needs and can give it without revealing anything at all.

Presence without context. Care without cost.

Across the city, Hollander is probably still holding his phone. Probably still awake. Probably falling asleep with the ache of something unfinished sitting quietly in his chest.

Ilya closes his eyes.

He tells himself this is fine.

That this is what Ross is for.

That not sending the other messages counts as discipline.

The phone vibrates once more.

He doesn’t look this time.

He already knows what it says.

And he already knows he’ll be there in the morning.

Shane wakes with the sun already high and his phone dead against his chest.

For half a second, disorientation wins—then memory crashes back in all at once. The horn. The Cup. The walk home. The silence.

Ross.

The ache settles in first. Legs heavy. Shoulders stiff. That familiar, earned soreness layered with something sharper underneath. His chest tightens as the night rushes back in fragments — the horn, the noise, the weight of the Cup, the walk home alone.

He won.

The thought lands flat.

His phone is still in his hand.

At some point he must’ve shifted in his sleep, because it’s warm against his palm, screen dark. He doesn’t unlock it right away. Just stares at the ceiling, letting the quiet press in.

Notifications buzz in waves once he does.

Group chats exploding.
Media requests.
Congratulatory texts stacked so thick they blur together.

He scrolls without reading.

Somewhere between a video clip and a headline, the Ross thread appears.

No new messages.

Not absence — just pause.

Shane sits up slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. He waits for the feeling he’s supposed to have. Pride. Satisfaction. Closure.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s this low, persistent awareness — the same one that’s been following him for weeks now — that the best part of last night never actually happened.

That the person he wanted to hear him didn’t know what he’d done.

He types.

Stops.

Deletes.

He sets the phone down on the mattress beside him like it might bite if he holds it too long.

Across the city — across whatever distance Ross refuses to define — life is probably continuing in a perfectly reasonable way. Coffee. Morning light. A body that isn’t sore in all the wrong places.

Shane exhales and leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Winning didn’t change what he reaches for.

It clarified it.

He stays there until the noise from his phone fades into background static again, until the day forces its way back in whether he’s ready or not.

Eventually, he picks the phone up.

The disappointment is immediate, sharp enough that he sits up abruptly, chest tightening before he can stop it.

Then—

One message. 

Ross: morning
Ross: hope it finally shut up for you

Shane exhales, slow and steady.

It didn’t.

But this helps.

Chapter End Notes

i just love this chapter and i love them and i just needed a moment to appreciate the softness they are developing for each other!!

also i have been writing this so i haven't been responding to comments (BEEN SO BUSY) but i will after i do some homework but i wanted to get this out for yall!!!

Chapter 12: twelve

Chapter Notes

hi everyone!!! the reveal is getting closer and closer...

somehow i have homework and end up writing instead??? sryyyyyy bout it

The offseason doesn’t arrive all at once.

It thins out instead—noise receding in stages. Fewer interviews. Fewer mandatory appearances. The city loosening its grip around the rink. Shane wakes up one morning and realizes there’s nothing scheduled for him until noon, and the thought feels almost foreign.

He doesn’t sleep in.

His body still wakes him early, wired for repetition that no longer exists. He lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing sensation the way he always does: shoulders stiff but manageable, legs heavy in a good way, mind oddly clear.

No game tonight.

That should feel like relief. (It doesn’t)

He gets up anyway. Makes coffee. Stands at the counter and drinks it without distraction, watching steam curl toward the ceiling like something escaping. The apartment is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty, just paused.

That’s new.

He doesn’t reach for his phone right away. That’s new too.

It buzzes before he does.

Ross: morning

Shane exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of something close to amusement.

Shay: you psychic or something

Ross: no
Ross: consistent

Shane leans against the counter, mug warming his hands, and types back without thinking too hard about why it feels natural to report his internal state to someone who technically exists nowhere in his real life.

Shay: body forgot the season ended
Shay: still up too early

Ross: yeah
Ross: that part takes longer than people admit

People.

The word catches for half a second. Ross says things like that sometimes—plural, abstract, like he’s positioning himself as adjacent instead of included. Shane notices, but never presses.

Shay: what about you
Shay: sleeping like a normal person yet

Ross: depends how we’re defining normal

Shane smiles faintly and takes another sip of coffee. He doesn’t picture Ross when he does it—not consciously—but he feels the shape of him anyway. Steady. Observant. Always slightly amused.

They fall into the rhythm they’ve built without ever naming it.

Nothing heavy. Just touchpoints. A comment about sore muscles. A joke about how Shane’s fridge is still embarrassingly empty. Ross suggestively offers more sexy photos; Shane does not deny his offer. (Why would he?) Ross suggests something he should cook; Shane admits he probably won’t.

Ross doesn’t scold him for it.

That might be the point.

By the time Shane leaves the apartment, the city feels less like it’s watching him. No cameras. No jerseys. Just sidewalks and sun and people who don’t care that he captained a team to a championship less than a week ago.

He likes that.

He texts Ross from the street without thinking about the time difference.

Shay: it’s weird not being recognized
Shay: i keep waiting for someone to yell at me

Ross: give it time
Ross: you’re still tall and look stressed

Shane laughs out loud at that, startling a woman walking past him.

Shay: rude
Shay: i look calm, and you don't even know how tall i am

Ross: sure you're calm and short now to me

The days settle into something like routine, stripped down to essentials. Training, but lighter. Meetings that feel ceremonial. A few sponsor obligations he tolerates with polite detachment.

Ross stays threaded through it all.

Not constantly. Not intrusively. Just… there.

A message when Shane gets home too quiet for his own good. A check-in after a workout. A dry comment when Shane complains about his shoulders locking up again.

Ross never asks for photos.

Never asks where Shane is.

Never asks what team he plays for, even now, even when the season’s over and it might be easier to let something slip.

That restraint becomes its own kind of intimacy.

One afternoon, Shane lies on the couch with his legs stretched out, phone balanced against his chest while Ross types in short bursts on the other end.

Ross: you’re not great at resting
Ross: you treat it like something you have to earn

Shane stares at the ceiling.

Shay: yeah well
Shay: if i stop moving i start thinking

Ross: about what

Shane considers lying.

Doesn’t.

Shay: expectations
Shay: next year
Shay: whether i deserve any of this

There’s a pause long enough that Shane feels it in his ribs.

Then—

Ross: nobody accidentally survives a season of competitive hockey

Shane swallows.

Ross: you don’t fluke your way into being good
Ross: or discipline
Ross: or being trusted when things get tight

The words are calm. Not dramatic. Not performative.

They still do something to him.

Shane shifts on the couch, pressing his heel into the cushion like grounding helps.

Shay: you always know what to say

Ross: i just pay attention

That’s worse than flattery.

Shane closes his eyes.

Later, when the light outside shifts and the apartment fills with dusk, Shane realizes he hasn’t checked social media all day. Hasn’t thought about headlines or analysis or the inevitable expectations that will come with defending the Cup.

Instead, he’s thinking about the way Ross pauses before answering certain questions.

About the care in the timing.

About how it feels to be held in someone’s attention without being owned by it.

That night, Shane falls asleep with his phone on the pillow beside him, screen dark but close enough to reach without effort.

Ross doesn’t say goodnight.

He doesn’t need to.

Shane does.

The connection hums quietly in the background, steady as a heartbeat—unannounced, unclaimed, already essential.

And Shane lets it.

Training camp doesn’t announce itself either.

It leaks back in through the cracks—emails marked preliminary, optional skates that aren’t really optional, interviews framed as casual check-ins that still expect the right answers. Shane feels it like a shift in air pressure. Nothing dramatic. Just heavier.

He’s back at the rink more often now.

Not because anyone told him to be—because his body won’t let him stay away. The ice is quiet in the mornings, empty except for the echo of his own edges cutting clean arcs into the surface. No crowd. No music. Just breath and repetition and the familiar relief of movement.

This, at least, still makes sense.

After practice, he sits alone in the locker room longer than necessary, forearms braced on his knees, phone warm in his hand. Sweat cools against his skin as he scrolls through messages he’s already read.

Ross: did you skate today
Ross: you get twitchy when you don’t
Ross: i might have to help with that...

Shane huffs softly and types back.

Shay: rude
Shay: but yes

Ross: knew it
Ross: soo… 

That ease—knew it—slides under Shane’s ribs and settles there. It feels like being anticipated without being managed. He doesn’t have language for why that matters, only that it does. 

He responds to Ross’ second message as well, just as he climbs into the shower, letting the pressure of the upcoming season fall away when Ross is in control.

He dresses, heading out into a city that’s slowly remembering who he is.

A reporter catches him outside the facility, microphone already up like this is coincidence like they weren’t sitting outside of his place waiting for him to come out.

“Quick question, Shane—how does it feel heading into next season as defending champions?”

Shane slows, turns easily, posture already settling into the version of himself the media recognizes.

“Grateful,” he says. “But it’s a clean slate. Everyone starts at zero.”

The reporter nods, satisfied but not done. “Boston didn’t make it last year, but they’re expected to come back hungry. Any thoughts on facing Rozanov again this season?”

The name lands sharper than it should.

Shane keeps his expression neutral. Professional. He’s had enough reps at this to know how to let a moment pass without giving it teeth.

“He’s a good player,” he says evenly. “Plays smart. We’ll be ready.”

It’s the correct answer.

It still irritates him.

Later—too late to pretend he didn’t notice it—he texts Ross.

Shay: got asked about rozanov today

Ross: oh yeah?

Shay: media’s already bored

Ross: tragic

Shane smiles despite himself, thumb hovering for a beat before he adds—

Shay: i still don’t like him

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough.

Ross: noted
Ross: still think that makes him my favorite

Shane snorts.

Shay: you’re exhausting

Ross: you keep coming back

And… well, yeah.

Shane doesn’t reply right away. He doesn’t need to. The truth of it hums quietly between them, unspoken but undeniable. Ross has become part of how his days close. How his thoughts decelerate. How the space after effort gets filled.

That night, he lies awake longer than he means to, staring at the ceiling while the city murmurs below. His body is tired. His mind is not.

He thinks about next season.

About expectation tightening around him again. About the way leadership doesn’t reset just because the calendar does. About how the noise will come back louder this time.

And underneath all of it—steady, constant—he thinks about Ross.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with urgency.

Just as presence.

A fixed point his mind keeps returning to when things stretch too thin.

His phone buzzes softly.

Ross: you alone again?

Shane exhales.

Shay: yeah

Ross: don’t do anything too boring

Shay: i could never

And lets that sit between them, quiet and easy.

Outside, the city keeps moving. Training camp inches closer. Schedules begin to solidify. The season waits, patient and inevitable.

Shane rolls onto his side, phone tucked under his pillow like a secret he isn’t ready to name.

Whatever comes next, he knows one thing with unsettling clarity:

This—this—is already part of how he survives it.

And that realization settles deep, long before he understands what it will cost.

Ilya’s phone rings while he’s in the kitchen, barefoot on cold tile, a glass of water sweating onto the counter beside him. He’s halfway through nothing in particular—just standing there, letting the morning settle—when the vibration cuts through the quiet.

Alexei.

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t brace. He answers like he would a call from a numbers office or a travel coordinator.

“Что,” he says.

What

Alexei doesn’t bother with hello. “Мне нужно больше..”

I need more

There’s no hesitation, no softening. Just irritation baked into the words, like this is overdue rent instead of a demand being made before breakfast.

Ilya keeps walking, takes another step, then stops. The muscles in his back tighten—not from surprise, but from the familiarity of it.

“За что,” he asks, already tired.

For what

“для моей семьи,” Alexei snaps. “Цены растут. Всё дорожает. Вы же знаете, как это бывает. За неделю зарабатываешь больше, чем...”

For my family, Prices are up. Everything’s up. You know how it is. You make more in a week than—

“Нет,” Ilya says.

No

The word is flat. Absolute. It lands cleanly, with none of the heat Alexei seems to expect.

There’s silence on the line. Then a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Ты серьезно?”

You’re serious

“да.”

Yes

“Вы не можете просто так это решить.”

You can’t just decide that

“Я могу,” Ilya replies, voice cooling further as the conversation stretches. “Я пришлю еще в следующем месяце.”

I can. I will send more next month.

Alexei exhales hard, frustration bleeding through now. “Ты думаешь, что деньги — это единственное, что ты кому-либо должен. Ты всегда так думал.”

You think money is the only thing you owe anyone. You always have.

Ilya closes his eyes briefly. Not because the words hurt—but because they’re predictable.

“Я тебе ничего не должен.,” he says, evenly. “Никаких объяснений. Никакой поддержки. Ничего подобного. Ты можешь сам себя обеспечить в течение одного месяца, Алексей.”

I don’t owe you anything. Not explanations. Not support. Not this. You can support yourself for one month, Alexei.

“Это невероятно!,” Alexei spits. 

That’s unbelievable

Ilya doesn’t argue. He’s learned that defending himself only invites another angle of attack.

“Отвали,” he says instead, and ends the call.

Fuck off

The quiet afterward is clean.

No ringing in his ears. No lingering echo of guilt. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic filtering through the window.

He takes a slow sip of water and lets it ground him, the cold sharp enough to pull him fully back into his body. Whatever Alexei wanted to stir doesn’t take. It never does for long.

His phone vibrates again almost immediately.

This time, it’s Svetlana.

He answers.

“I’m coming to Boston,” she says, skipping preamble the way Alexei never manages to without sounding entitled.

Ilya frowns faintly and turns toward the window, city stretching below him in muted morning light. “Why.”

“Before the season starts,” she continues. “I have meetings. You have training. It makes sense.”

He considers it—not the logistics, but the timing. The way she says it like a decision already finalized, something that’s been penciled into her calendar for weeks.

“You didn’t ask,” he says.

There’s a smile in her voice when she replies. “I’m not asking.”

A pause.

Then, lighter—but no less intentional: “You don’t mind, do you?”

Ilya rests his free hand on the counter, fingers splayed, feeling the solid surface beneath him. The season is already tightening somewhere ahead—schedules forming, expectations narrowing, the quiet before everything sharpens.

“No,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“Good,” Svetlana replies. “I’ll text you dates.”

The call ends.

Ilya sets the phone down and exhales slowly, shoulders settling as the room returns to stillness.

Alexei fades the way he always does—loud, demanding, irrelevant once the noise stops.

Svetlana doesn’t.

She moves closer to the center of his life with the quiet inevitability of something planned well in advance, something that doesn’t need permission to exist.

And somewhere else—uninvited, unannounced, constant—Shane Hollander is already there. Not asking. Not demanding. Just present, threaded into Ilya’s days in a way that doesn’t require effort or explanation.

Ilya tightens his grip on the counter once.

Then lets go.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

There’s no single moment where the season flips from over to something else—just a gradual tightening, a subtle shift Shane feels before he can name 

Then it goes.

The offseason is supposed to feel like release—parades, interviews, ceremonial appearances that blur together into a kind of sanctioned victory lap. Montreal knows how to celebrate without demanding too much of him. There are speeches, smiles, jerseys already printed with CUP CHAMPS stitched into history before the champagne even dries.

Shane moves through it like muscle memory.

He wears the suit they give him. He shakes the hands he’s expected to shake. He laughs at the right moments, keeps his answers clean and generous and boring in the way captains are supposed to be.

It works.

That’s the problem.

The press conference room is bright in a way that feels deliberate—lights angled to catch faces, to polish emotion into something repeatable. Shane sits behind the table, shoulders relaxed, fingers laced loosely in front of him. The Cup is nearby but not centered, already transitioning from object to symbol.

A reporter asks about leadership.
Another asks about momentum.
Someone asks whether winning has changed how he sees himself.

Shane answers smoothly. Calm. Controlled.

Then—

“What about next season?”

The question comes from the left side of the room, tone casual but sharpened with intent. Shane’s gaze flicks over automatically.

“You’ll be defending the Cup,” the reporter continues. “Boston’s already being framed as a major obstacle. Any thoughts on facing Rozanov again now that the stakes are even higher?”

The name lands heavier than it should.

Shane doesn’t react right away. Not visibly. But something in his chest tightens, instinctive and unwelcome, like a bruise pressed too soon after forming.

He keeps his expression neutral.

“Rozanov’s a good player,” he says. Professional. Polite. “Boston always is. We don’t really think about individual matchups this early.”

A lie. A small one.

Someone else jumps in. “You two seemed to get under each other’s skin last season.”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that reads as easygoing on camera. “That’s hockey.”

A few people chuckle. Pens move. Cameras adjust.

But the name sticks with him longer than the question does.

Rozanov.

Not the rivalry. Not the noise around it. Just the way his body registers the thought—tight, alert, like something unresolved has brushed too close.

When the conference ends, Shane stands, nods, and moves offstage without looking back.

He doesn’t think about Boston again.

That night is quieter than the ones that came before it.

No celebration. No team dinners. Just his apartment, the city dimmed outside the windows, the hum of something ordinary reclaiming space.

Shane showers, lets the water run hotter than usual, steam fogging the mirror until his reflection disappears entirely. He stands there longer than necessary, head bowed, breathing slow, letting the noise drain out of him.

When he gets out, he doesn’t dry off right away.

He sits on the edge of the bed with the towel slung low around his hips, phone resting beside him like it’s been waiting.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

Shay: long day

The reply doesn’t come instantly.

That’s fine.

He dresses, pulls on a worn t-shirt, moves into the kitchen to drink water straight from the bottle. By the time he sits back down, the screen lights up.

Ross: you sound tired

Shane exhales, something easing low in his chest.

Shay: yeah
Shay: the good kind though

Ross: those are dangerous

Shay smiles despite himself.

Shay: how so

Ross: they trick you into thinking you don’t need to come down

He leans back against the couch, phone warm in his hand, the room quiet enough that he can hear his own breathing again.

Shay: maybe i don’t

A pause.

Then—

Ross: liar

Shane stares at the message longer than necessary. Not because it means more than it says—but because Ross always seems to land exactly where Shane is without being told.

Shay: you always talk like you know me

Ross: i know your body

Simple. Unloaded. True.

Shane lets his head tip back against the cushion, eyes closing for a moment. The day finally settles into something manageable—not gone, just contained.

Outside, the city keeps moving. Somewhere, people are still talking about the Cup, about matchups and rivalries and names that carry weight.

Here, none of that matters.

Here, he doesn’t have to explain what today meant or why it left him restless instead of full.

Ross doesn’t ask.

That’s the relief.

Shay: you doing anything tonight

Ross: not really
Ross: figured i’d stay in

Shane’s thumb hovers.

Then—

Shay: good
Shay: maybe i’ll text you later tonight for some help

Ross: funny
Ross: i was already planning on it
Ross: ;)

The alignment shouldn’t feel this intimate.

It does.

Shane opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet stretch between messages without needing to fill it.

This—this is what’s becoming routine.

Not the sex. Not the tension. I mean, that was nice too. Ross always had something new to say or do with Shane.

It was really the casualness of it all. The way that it was just a habit to go through his day with Ross. A stranger who felt like someone who knew him more than anyone.

The fact that when the world presses in, this is where he lands.

And he still hasn’t said where he plays.
Still hasn’t said what he just won.
Still hasn’t said why some names hit harder than others.

Ross hasn’t asked.

And Shane doesn’t know whether that’s kindness—or something much more dangerous.

Ilya feels the beginning of season pressure in the interviews.

Boston’s practice facility hums with the low-grade chaos of early-season press: cameras being adjusted, microphones tested, reporters clustering in loose groups like they’re pretending this isn’t the part of the job they enjoy most. Ilya sits at the podium with his arms folded, posture relaxed, expression neutral enough to pass for bored.

He’s been doing this long enough to know what’s coming.

The questions start wide—conditioning, offseason training, expectations. He answers smoothly, clipped and efficient, saying nothing that hasn’t already been said a hundred times by players just like him.

Then the angle shifts.

A reporter in the second row leans forward, voice a little too eager. “There’s been a lot of talk about Montreal defending the Cup this year. How much does that factor into how you’re approaching the season?”

Ilya doesn’t react immediately. He tilts his head slightly, considering, like the question actually deserves thought.

“It’s hockey,” he says. “Someone always has a target.”

A few nods. Pens scratch.

Another voice cuts in. “Any thoughts on facing Hollander again this year?”

There it is.

Ilya’s mouth curves—not quite a smile. Something sharper.

“Hollander’s good,” he says easily. “Very disciplined. Makes smart choices.”

A pause.

Then, casually, “Predictable, though. Boring.”

The room stirs.

A few reporters exchange looks. Someone chuckles. A camera zooms in just a little.

Predictable is not an insult you throw around lightly.

“Care to elaborate?” the same reporter asks, clearly pleased.

Ilya shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “Everyone has patterns. The best players just hide them well.”

He lets that sit.

He doesn’t say I know his.
He doesn’t say I can read him.
He doesn’t say I’ve already started.

But the implication hangs there anyway, subtle and deliberate.

Another question comes—about pressure, about expectations, about whether Boston feels overlooked after missing the playoffs last season. Ilya answers all of it without shifting in his seat, voice steady, tone controlled.

He doesn’t mention Montreal again because he doesn’t need to.

When the session ends, Svetlana falls into step beside him in the hallway, heels clicking softly against the concrete floor. She doesn’t look at him at first—just hands him a coffee like she always does, already knowing.

“That was… polite,” she says mildly.

Ilya huffs a breath. “I was restrained.”

She glances at him then, eyes sharp. “You called the defending Cup captain predictable.”

“Yes.”

“And you enjoyed it.”

A beat.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies.

She smiles anyway.

They walk in silence for a moment. The facility feels too bright, too loud, like the season is already demanding more than it should.

“You know they’ll ask him about you too,” Svetlana says eventually.

“I assume so.”

“And?”

Ilya takes a sip of coffee, gaze fixed straight ahead. “He’ll say the right thing.”

That’s what bothers him most.

Because Hollander always does.

Shane hears about it before he sees it.

Not from the clip itself—those always come later—but from the way the room shifts when his name enters a conversation that wasn’t about him a second ago. A trainer mentions Boston. Someone else adds Rozanov’s name. There’s a brief pause, the kind that exists only because someone is deciding whether to continue.

JJ doesn’t bother with subtlety.

“Rozanov called you predictable.”

Shane looks up from where he’s taping his stick, fingers pausing mid-wrap. “Did he.”

JJ nods, clearly pleased. “Media thing. Said it like it was nothing.”

Shane finishes the wrap, smooths the tape down with his thumb, and sets the stick aside. “Sounds like him.”

That’s it. No flare. No visible irritation. No defensive edge.

JJ watches him for a second longer. “You gonna say anything?”

Shane shrugs. “Why would I?”

It’s true. Mostly.

If Rozanov wants to talk, let him. The season hasn’t even started yet. There’s nothing to gain by biting back now—nothing but noise. Shane has spent too long learning how to keep himself level to throw it away on a quote meant to provoke.

Publicly, the comment doesn’t touch him.

Privately—

It sits.

Not like anger. Not even like offense.

Like friction.

Predictable.

Shane replays the word as he pulls his jersey on, as he laces his skates, as he steps onto the ice and lets his body fall into familiar patterns. He moves the way he always does—controlled, deliberate, efficient. The drills blur into muscle memory, each decision made half a second before he consciously registers it.

This is what discipline looks like.
This is what consistency looks like.

If Rozanov thinks that’s predictability, so be it.

Not because it’s wrong—but because it’s close enough to something Shane doesn’t like to examine too closely. The truth that he survives by building systems. By repeating what works. By choosing stability over risk every single time.

By choosing Ross.

The thought slips in uninvited, and Shane pushes it away just as quickly. He doesn’t have time for introspection today. He has practice. He has conditioning. He has another season bearing down on him with expectations already sharpened.

Later, when the media asks him about Boston, he answers the way he’s always answered.

“Rozanov’s a good player,” he says evenly. “Boston plays a structured game. We’ll be ready.”

Someone asks about the comment.

Shane smiles, polite and empty. “Everyone’s got opinions.”

The quote runs clean. Professional. Boring.

Exactly how he wants it.

That night, alone in his apartment, the quiet feels louder than it did yesterday.

He tosses his keys onto the counter, drops his bag by the door, and doesn’t bother turning on the lights right away. The city hum filters in through the windows, distant and unfocused. His body is tired in the familiar, earned way that usually settles him.

It doesn’t.

Predictable.

He sits on the edge of the couch and stares at the floor, jaw tight—not angry, just restless. Rozanov’s voice isn’t in his head so much as the implication behind it. The idea that someone could watch him closely enough to think they understand him.

The idea that maybe someone does.

Shane exhales and reaches for his phone.

The Ross thread opens without hesitation.

Shay: you ever get accused of being boring at your job

The reply comes quickly.

Ross: never
Ross: in your case however
Ross: is accurate & probably means your good at it

Shane’s shoulders loosen a fraction.

Shay: of course

Ross: why

Shane hesitates.

Not because he’s hiding anything—because he doesn’t want to explain something that doesn’t feel explainable yet. He doesn’t want to name Rozanov. Doesn’t want to pull that thread.

Shay: just media nonsense

Ross: the worst kind
Ross: at least real criticism has the decency to sting