Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Time Loop, Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Memory Loss, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Existential Crisis, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unreliable Narrator Ilya Rozanov, Traumatized Ilya Rozanov, Texting, Slurs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Alzheimer's Disease, Grigori Rozanov Haunts the Narrative, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, The Narrative Haunts Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-09 Updated: 2026-09-28 Words: 70,005 Chapters: 12/15

in the dark i thought i saw you

Summary

Ilya knows this room. He’s woken up here before, more mornings than he could count. He is here again, which means he failed. Again.

He begins to write. The memories are sharp in his mind now, but soon they'll start to smear and dissolve across his consciousness, leaving only faint impressions that will disappear altogether in a day, two at most. This note, printed on cheap hotel stationery, is the only thing that stands between him and oblivion. 

1. You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.
2. June 2009, Draft Day -  go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water.
3. July 2010 - CCM photo shoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

 

Or, mom said it was my turn with the time loop/time travel trope.

Notes

I'm a sucker for a good time loop fic, and wanted to share my take.

I'll be updating the tags as the story progresses-- this thing is rapidly taking on a life of its own already and I'm just along for the ride.

Title is from "Prosthetic Love" by Typhoon.

Chapter 1

December 2008, Saskatchewan

The beeping of the alarm clock rips through Ilya's subconscious like a bolt of lightning, leaving adrenaline and a whiff of ozone in its wake. His eyes shoot open as he inhales sharply through his nose, trying to register his surroundings. He throws one arm out to silence the alarm, and blinks twice, feeling disoriented and foggy. 

The room slowly comes into focus. He is in a modest hotel room that is dimly lit by the thin, gray light filtering through a crack in the curtains. To his left, closer to the door, is another bed. A large lump huddles under the blankets, snoring softly. 

Fuck. 

Ilya knows this room. He’s woken up here before, more mornings than he could count. He is here again, which means he failed. Again.

Vivid, dreamlike memories flash through his mind. Ilya rolls onto his side and reaches for the nightstand drawer, where he knows without looking that he will find a pen and notepad. The next few minutes are critical, if he wants to make the last round count for anything.

He begins to write. The memories are sharp in his mind now, but soon they'll start to smear and dissolve across his consciousness, leaving only faint impressions that will disappear altogether in a day, two at most. This note, printed on cheap hotel stationery, is the only thing that stands between him and oblivion. 

The plan, as he begrudgingly thinks of it, isn't even an exercise in memory anymore. He forgets much more than he remembers, but this he somehow knows with certainty; it is his guide, a transcription of his final words in every life he lived before this one. He keeps it with him constantly. He carefully rewrites each word every time he finds himself reborn in this shitty fucking hotel room, adding to it on the rare occasions he figures out a new piece of the puzzle in which he is trapped. He has whispered the lines to himself over and over until they stopped being conscious thoughts, and had fused themselves to his very bones, becoming part of his DNA. Whatever discoveries or missteps he'd made in service of this incomplete plan are long gone, scattered across universes that don't exist anymore, and Ilya has no choice anymore but to trust in the cryptic list of instructions from the former versions of himself. It is the closest thing he has to scripture. 

Ilya clicks the pen and begins to write. First comes the numbered list— the steps he has figured out he must follow in order to keep this timeline moving forward.

1. You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.

2. June 2009, Draft Day -  go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

3. July 2010 - CCM photoshoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

Next, Ilya focuses all his concentration on what he can remember specifically from before he fell asleep last night. He begins to write, feverishly trying to get as much information onto the page as he could. 

He'd been wearing a tuxedo, somewhere uncomfortably warm, and he'd been in a foul mood. He was on a rooftop, above a busy city skyline. He’d been smoking. Had he been alone? No, he'd wanted to be alone, and some asshole wouldn't stop talking to him. Hollander. The name rose from the depths of his consciousness. Okay. Hollander, then, had been there, and he'd been angry. They had argued, then— had they fought? That seemed unlikely. Kissed? That seemed even more unlikely, although… Ilya considered. They'd been standing close together, maybe even pressed against each other, before Hollander had shoved past him and stormed away, hurling a parting blow over his shoulder. Don't ever fucking talk to me off the ice again. 

Ilya has no idea what had led to the confrontation, or why, even now, the words hit him like a blow to the gut, the finality of them knocking the air from his lungs like a wave of frigid ocean water. In that moment, Hollander had closed a door between them, forever, and apparently that mattered, because Ilya had gone to bed, angry and alone in a luxury hotel suite, and then he'd woken up in fucking Saskatchewan several years earlier.

He writes all of this down. Later, he'll have time to dissect it and make sense of it. If the numbered list is anything to go by, he'll have, at the barest minimum, a good year and a half to make sense of the rambling, prophetic message from a version of himself that no longer exists— had never existed, maybe. 

It was a lot to digest at 5:30am on a fucking Wednesday in fucking Canada.

Ilya's teammate stirs from across the room. Ilya throws down the pen, tears off the piece of paper and folds it nearly in quarters. He palms it as he swings his feet out of bed, turns on the bedside light, and strides into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. After, he gets dressed, slipping the note carefully into his jacket along with his cigarettes and lighter. 

Ilya's mind wanders as he warms up before practice begins in earnest. So, he is going to meet Hollander today. Hollander, who ostensibly is important, considering how his name is written all over Ilya's future. Ilya had spent an hour this morning trying to gather all the information he could on the kid: he was the captain of Team Canada. He is Asian— or half-Asian, Ilya guessed, given his last name. He is reserved, polite, professional, a PR wet dream. Perfectly palatable to the media, and off the ice, profoundly fucking boring. On the ice, however, it was a completely different story. His skill is staggering, rivaling Ilya's. Reporters called him a generational talent. Ilya remembers watching some of Team Canada’s practices earlier in the week, and he has to admit, he agrees. He was looking forward to facing off against him. It would be nice to have a challenge, for a change.  

None of that means that Ilya has to like him. Despite his promises to himself that he'd block out the fading memories until after practice, he keeps finding himself thinking of the way Hollander's face had gone harsh and cold, and the fury with which he'd spat those words at Ilya. 

Had they really kissed? If so… Ilya's gut churns at the thought, and he feels a small, painful glimmer of relief that he hadn’t woken up to a nuked career and revoked visa after outing himself to the wrong person. What the fuck had he been thinking? He could punch himself in the face. Ilya knows hockey, and he knows hockey players. As friendly and inoffensive as Hollander seems on camera, Ilya knows exactly what kinds of insults got flung around the locker rooms once the cameras were pointed elsewhere. It was disappointing, but hardly surprising, to learn that Hollander was probably just as much of a homophobe as most of the other players in the league. He thinks of the way Hollander appeared all over the roadmap that was tucked away in his jacket and grimaces. For better or for worse, Ilya was stuck with Hollander, at least for the time being. And, given the way the entire hockey world seemed frantic to position them as rivals, he doubts he’ll ever be able to play again without Hollander’s name attached to his. The thought makes him uneasy, and when he's uneasy, he is terrible at hockey.

Ilya does not have a good practice. He is unfocused, he makes stupid mistakes, and eventually his coach screams at him in front of the team, which he takes without a fight, becauses it's what he deserves. Why should his team care more about the win than their captain? Ilya will adjust. Or, he won't and it won't fucking matter, becacuse he can always just try again tomorrow. He completes a shooting drill and vaguely remembers being older, stronger, faster, better. This body, despite being young and eager, doesn't respond the way he expects it to. It feels as though the calibration is ever so slightly off. None of it matters. One way or another, when he opens his eyes again tomorrow morning, the residue of the last version of himself will be gone.  

You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.

After practice finishes, he stands hunched against the bitter December wind in the meager shelter of a garage behind the rink, cursing himself (probably not for the first time) for not buying a new lighter yesterday when he had the chance. He needs a smoke almost more than he needs oxygen; his head aches, he feels strangely detached from his body, and he can't shake the image of a furious, dark-haired man glaring at him against an unfamiliar skyline. 

“Ilya Rozanov?” calls a hesitant voice from behind him. He turns around, only mildly startled, to see a familiar-looking stranger standing awkwardly a few feet away, looking so much younger than he had last night. The last traces of baby fat still cling to his freckled cheeks, and a few strands of dark hair peek out from under the brim of an army green toque. He looks nervous; Ilya almost can't believe this is the same man who had looked at him last night with such contempt. 

“I’m Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself,” Hollanderr says, hesitating for the briefest moment before stepping forward and extending a hand. 

Here we go. Ilya thinks back to the note in his pocket. Don't be an asshole.

He reaches out and takes Hollander’s hand, shaking it perfunctorily. 

“Oh, I'm not sure you're supposed to smoke here,” Hollander says doubtfully as he eyes Ilya’s cigarette.  

Don't. Be. An. Asshole. Ilya stalls for time, taking a long drag on his cigarette to gather the last dregs of his patience. He's sorely tempted to tell Hollander exactly how much of a shit he gives about the rink’s smoking policy, and regrets the limits of his current grasp of the English language. 

Still, the former versions of himself had told him that, at least for right now, it was very important to not be a dick to this weird Canadian kid, even if it turns out later that the kid is a homophobic asshole. Fine. He exhales, and, because he can't think of anything nicer to say, simply says, “Okay.” 

Hollander seems to take Ilya’s response as an invitation to continue talking. “You're an awesome player to watch,” he says.

“Yes.” Ilya feels a brief flash of doubt; it's difficult to resolve the conflicting images in his head of this Hollander and the one that is rapidly fading from his memorry. He takes another drag on his cigarette, resenting the uncomfortable silence that settles over them. 

Hollander hovers for a moment longer, before saying, “Well, I should get back. They're waiting for me.” He hold out his hand for a handshake. 

Two handshakes in as many minutes. Ilya studies Hollander’s face for the first time with a flicker of curiosity. Dark eyes look back at him with an unpretentious seriousness that takes Ilya by surprise. The loud bravado or macho aggression that he’d come to expect from his teenage competitors is completely absent; Hollander either doesn't know how to project that kind of attitude, or he is actively choosing not to, preferring to let his talent speak for itself. Ilya feels a faint tug at the corners of his lips, and as Hollander starts to walk away, he can't stop himself from calling out. 

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.” 

Hollander turns around, and the careful mask he'd been wearing splits into a wide grin. “That's not happening,” he laughs.

Ilya smirks. “See you in final,” he calls as a final parting shot. 

He finishes his cigarette, and mulls over the interesting puzzle that is Shane Hollander. 

That evening, Ilya sits in bed and reads, and rereads, his note from the morning. Already the vivid memory has faded, leaving only vague impressions of emotion and color. He did his best to transcribe the memory, now he has to make sense of it. 

He’d been in a tuxedo-- or, Hollander had been in a tuxedo, so he probably had been too. So, they’d been at a formal event, most likely related to hockey. The MLH Awards seem like the most likely explanation. That would account for the warm weather, too, since the awards take place in summer, and typically in Las Vegas. 

So, maybe the 2011 MLH Awards. Ilya frowns. If he's correct, that means there's a year between the final item on his numbered list, and the point at which he achieves critical failure. The variables he’ll need to account for are endless. It also means he'll have two and a half years to ruminate on all the things that could go wrong. Perfect.

Ilya lets his head fall against the headboard with a heavy thud. His roommate looks up from his phone with a surly glare. 

“Fuck off,” Ilya says, without any real venom. He's so tired. He has a championship to win. He’s done this so many fucking times already. Maybe this time he’ll figure it out. Maybe this time could be the last time. 

His phone buzzes. He glances at it, and feels his stomach twist as he sees the name flashing across his screen. He remembers, distantly, and then much too vividly, a phone call with his father, from the night before Ilya's world slipped off the tracks into this limbo. He felt the seething anger in his father's voice, the words hitting him in places that fists couldn't reach. Ilya lets the call go to voicemail. He knows he's only stoking his father's wrath by refusing the call, but he just can't bear it tonight. He'll deal with it tomorrow. Or he won't.

June 2009, Los Angeles - Draft Day

Go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

Ilya paces, and stubbornly does not look at the clock. 

Hours ago, he had been named the number one overall draft pick, chosen by the Boston Raiders to drag their team back into relevancy. He’d lived the moment with a sort of detached exhilaration; this was exactly the kind of achievement he’d dreamed of his entire life. Probably the first time it had happened, he’d been on top of the world. Now, though, having lived and forgotten it some unknowable number of times, his excitement was dulled with the knowledge that in this universe, it probably didn’t mean anything. He was still stuck, with no fucking idea of how to move past a rooftop fight that was still two years away from happening. He was following an incomplete roadmap, with no idea where it led or how far he was from the destination.

After he'd returned home from Canada, he'd bought a journal and carefully taped the scrap of paper to the inside front cover. He'd began jotting down notes from each day— nearly all of them were useless, but it gave him an excuse to reread the words, and a ritual by which to mark the passage of time. It was a small daily proof that the world wasn't moving forward without him.

Now, Ilya stands in his hotel room, keenly aware that he's reached the second point of interest on his journey.

He chances a glance at the clock. 10:42. Almost time. He takes a long drink from his water bottle, and then unnecessarily unscrews the lid and refills the liquid to the brim. 

Bring water, the note said. Okay? Does the gym not have a fountain? Is one of the machines going to catch fire? Ilya curses under his breath. This is so, so stupid. He crosses the room, turns, repeats the action.

10:47. What is he even expecting to happen? Oh, no point in including that information, Ghost Ilya. Thank you so fucking much for that. Go to the gym shortly before midnight. Ride a bike. Bring some water. This was some stupid fucking needlessly mysterious bullshit. It probably wasn't even real. Probably, Ilya had taken a bad hit on the ice, or done too many shady drugs with Sasha, and now was in a coma having the worst fucking extended nightmare of his life.

10:51. Fuck. Close enough. Ilya grabs his water and keycard, and stomps towards the door. He’ll go down to the gym for ten or fifteen minutes, absolutely nothing of consequence will happen, and he’ll come back to bed, feeling stupid and vindicated all at once.

Of course, it wasn’t bullshit. Ilya curses every past version of himself mentally with every applicable word he can think of. In front of him is Hollander, bent over one of two stationary bikes, eyes closed and headphones in his ears. Of course Hollander is here. Of course he's the sun around which Ilya is doomed to orbit forever.

Ilya approaches the second bike, throws a leg over it, and, because he's so irritated at Hollander for having the audacity to haunt him across time and space with total obliviousness, glances over at his machine. He sets the resistance on his own bike one notch above Hollander’s.

Hollander glances up at Ilya with mild surprise, and increases the resistance on his own in kind. Ah, so this is what we’re doing. Ilya nudges his resistance upwards again; Hollander counters, and the two volley back and forth until the resistance on both bikes is maxed out and they are pedaling at full out sprints. 

He isn't even sure who breaks first, but a few minutes later they've abandoned the machines, and are sitting across from each other on the floor of the gym, sweaty and flushed, chests heaving from the exertion.

Bring water. Ilya begrudgingly sends a mental thank you to whichever idiot version of himself had suffered through this bizarre encounter without proper hydration. Maybe that Ilya had stood up from the bike and, without water, had passed out, smashing his stupid head on the nearby rack of weights and dying spectacularly in front of a terrified Hollander. The idea gives him a satisfying jolt of dark humor.

Ilya drinks, and observes that Hollander hasn’t brought his own water. Probably he hadn’t expected to find himself in an impromptu stationary bike race. 

“What a fucking day, huh?” he says, just to see how Hollander responds. 

“Totally.” He answers flatly. 

“Everything you dreamed of?” asks Ilya, because there had been nothing in his notes about not being an asshole tonight. He’d seen the sting of disappointment in Hollander’s eyes at being drafted second; surely he’d had the same dream and expectation that Ilya had, and probably resented him for taking it away from him. Whatever. As far as Ilya could tell, It was at least 50% his fault that they were in this stupid gym for probabably the hundredth time.

“Almost,” Hollander answers, and Ilya can't hold back his laugh.  

“Sorry,” he smirks, not feeling apologetic at all.

“No you’re not,” says Hollander, but Ilya is surprised to see that there's no anger in his face— just the faint, resigned smile of someone reluctantly accepting defeat while planning their redemption. It's not what he expected; it's a pleasant surprise. Encouraged, Ilya keeps talking.

“Montreal… is nice, yes?” Fuck, he hates how difficult it is to speak in English. Of all the terrible things about this situation, the most annoying is the knowledge that he’d lost things: hockey skill, muscle mass, money, fame, and most of all, language. 

Hollander answers his question; Ilya asks about Boston, more to keep the conversation alive than out of genuine curiosity. It doesn't matter if Boston was nice; that’s where he's going, and since no former Ilyas had thought it worth mentioning, it was probably fine. 

The conversation dies. Ilya takes a sip of his water and studies Hollander, who is still panting heavily. Ilya's eyes drift over Hollander’s chest, taking note of the way his shirt clings to his muscles, leaving little to the imagination. It dawns on him, now that he has the opportunity to look properly, that Hollander is kind of fucking sexy. 

A sudden urge comes from somewhere within himself. Give him your water. He examines the thought curiously and finds he can almost remember doing this before. 

No real harm in trying, he supposes. In the worst case scenario, Hollander will storm out, and he’ll save himself a few years' trouble.

Hollander refuses the water at first with a quick gesture of his hand, but Ilya insists, waving the bottle at him insistently. Hollander hesitates, then sits forward and takes the water. His fingertips brush against Ilyas, which does nothing to quell the growing interest Ilya has in him. Hollander takes a quick, perfunctory drink of water, not nearly as much as he surely wanted after exerting himself to such an extent. 

“More,” Ilya isn't sure if he even spoke out loud, or just mouthed the words. He hadn’t meant to say it. Maybe he’s been possessed by one of his former ghosts. Maybe he's just getting horny and stupid. 

Hollander doesn't hesitate. He takes another sip, and Ilya’s head reels. Oh my God. He files this moment away for future reflection, and curses his former selves again, this time for not bothering to write any of this down. Surely this was important— or at least, something worth remembering. Ilya considers his roadmap. He considers his initial assumptions about Hollander, about the confrontation on the rooftop. He considers the slight possibility that he may have been wrong.

Hollander holds out the water bottle. Ilya leans forward to take it, letting his legs splay out. Let this be a little experiment, he told himself. As he reaches for the bottle, he lets his fingers brush over Hollander’s hand again, more than is necessary. He takes another long drink of water, watching Hollander closely, and observes with a deep sense of satisfaction as well as a growing sense of arousal how Hollander’s eyes linger on his throat as he swallows, before traveling slowly down the length of his body. 

Shane Hollander. You are more interesting than I expected.

Ilya returns to his hotel room a short time later. His mind is a mess; he needs to collect himself and make sense of everything that just happened. He needs to lay out the pieces of the puzzle in front of himself and begin to look for connections that will help him get safely past that rooftop and the fight with Hollander.

But first, he needs to jerk off. Right now.

He comes hard, painting white stripes against the glass of the shower door as his body convulses with the pleasure of release. He wonders if elsewhere in the hotel, Hollander had gone back to his room to do the same thing.  

Ilya falls into bed loose and exhausted, eyes heavy. He pushes off the impulse to sleep, just for a few more minutes, and pulls out his journal to document.

This is a crucial part of his system. If he had fucked up today, he'd wake up tomorrow with only the memories of the last few hours at most, so he needs to focus on the most important parts of the last 24 hours. He doesn't think he's failed today; he followed the instructions he had, but he can't afford to take chances. He writes:

• Draft day. I went first, for Boston. Hollander went second for Montreal.

• Reception was predictable. Nothing to note. 

• 11pm - went to hotel gym as instructed. Hollander was already there. We raced on the bikes, talked about the draft. I offered him water. He could not take his eyes off me. Probably not homophobic. Definitely not straight.

Ilya reads over his notes, running through the memories in his mind again, trying to imprint them into his brain. Then, as he always does, he whispers his three instructions to himself, says goodnight to Mama, sets his journal to the side, and finally lets himself into sleep. 

Chapter 2

July 2009 - June 2010

The days stretch out, long and monotonous. Ilya trains, attends practices, wins as many games as he can. He endures harsh reprimands from his father and lazy cruelty from Alexei. When he can, he meets up with Sasha or Sveta, but even these brief respites feel routine in their own way. The days smear across each other, sticky and heavy, meaningless except when taken as a total sum of hours: the portion of his life he needs to sacrifice to have a chance at something real one day.

Ilya wakes up, reads his notes, recites the instructions to himself, and waits for July. His daily journal entries are sparse. Won game today. Texted Sveta. 5k to Alexei to shut him up. Nothing important.

Practice today. Took a hard hit, left knee is swollen but nothing serious. Will be out for a few days. Papa was angry. Will need to buy more plates tomorrow. Saw Sasha. 

Junior cup finals qualifying round. Won against Germany. Saw Hollander with his team, didn’t talk to him. 

They lose to Canada in the finals. Hollander looks fucking radiant, a triumphant smile plastered across his flushed, freckled cheeks as he makes his way through the handshake line. 

“See you in October,” he says with a grin as he shakes Ilya’s hand. Ilya meets his gaze and almost feels a smile trying to form on his lips. Later, he opens his journal to write.

Junior cup final round. Silver medal. Lost to Canada. Hollander was very happy.

He finishes his journal entry and recites the words:  You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole. June 2009, Draft Day. Go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. He sighs before continuing. July 2010. CCM photo shoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

He lies on the bed in silence for a few minutes, gently rubbing the gold cross nestled against his collarbone. Look at me, Mama. You always wanted me to say my prayers. Is this what you had in mind?

 July 2010, Toronto - CCM Photo Shoot

He can't help the laughter that spills out of him as he skates up to the face-off circle for what must be the hundredth time this afternoon. Across from him, Hollander’s look of intensity falters and breaks, revealing a smile of mischievous glee. Ilya can't hear his laughter over the echoes of his own, but he sees Hollander’s shoulders shaking as he doubles over. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya calls out between gasps, fully aware of how annoyed the director is with him. “I can do it, I can be serious.” He skates backwards, afraid to look Hollander in the eye, trying to breathe deeply and settle himself. God, he is practically giggling like a schoolgirl. He should feel embarrassed to be acting like this at his first real opportunity to establish his relationship with a huge sponsor, but all he feels is a giddy rush of exhilaration. He tells himself it's because he's made it to the third item on his list. It's because when he leaves here he'll be going not back to Moscow, but to Boston to start his rookie season and establish himself as the hockey legend he knows he can be.

It might be, maybe, because Hollander is looking at him again with shining eyes and lips pursed tightly, failing to hold back the grin that is trying to spread itself across his face.

The director calls action, and Ilya forces his game face back on. He skates forward, and adopts his most menacing face off stance. Because he has to for the shot, he looks across the circle at Hollander.

He never stood a chance. The corner of Hollander’s mouth quirks up, and his dark eyes sparkle with amusement. Ilya dissolves, taking Hollander out with him. 

“Okay, I think that’s about all we’re going to get here, go take five and then we'll do some individual shots,” says the clearly exasperated director. Ilya straightens with relief, still shaking with the last waves of amusement. He can't remember the last time he laughed this hard, and quickly decides not to dwell on the thought. Hollander stands too and takes off his helmet, snickering. 

“I think we’re in trouble,” he says to Ilya as if they were schoolboys who’d been caught misbehaving in class. The two skate over to the boards and Ilya can't resist giving Hollander a friendly shoulder nudge to push in front of him.

"Beat you," he calls over his shoulder as he reaches the boards.

"Cheater," Hollander shoots back with a grin. His cheeks are delightfully pink from laughing. Ilya finds that he's mesmerized by the delicate splash of freckles across his cheeks, and quickly turns to reach for his water.

Do not fuck this up.

It had been no problem arranging for Hollander to be part of the photo shoot. Even before they'd been drafted, the league had been looking for ways to position them as rivals. They hadn't even made their official MLH debuts, and yet everyone knew a good story when they saw it. He'd followed his instructions, and now he sat on the bench, watching Hollander show off precise footwork for the cameras as a nervous anticipation curled in his gut.

Maybe this really was the full extent of it. The shoot would end, they would return to the hotel, fly to their respective cities in the morning, and meet again on the ice in a few months. He didn't understand the significance of the ad campaign on its own, but maybe it will become clear in time.

Or, maybe, the photo shoot isn't the part that matters. Maybe, a voice whispers in the back of his mind, the photo shoot was just an excuse to see him again. Maybe the part that's actually important hasn't happened yet.

He thinks of the story he wrote down 18 months ago, the original memory long since erased, reduced to a few sentences on a page. You had a very bad confrontation with Hollander at the 2011 MLH Awards. You might have kissed him. He did not react well.

Ilya needs to be smart. One misstep and he'll be seventeen again, and he's not sure he can survive another minute in his father's house. Nothing is worth that risk, least of all a kiss with Hollander.

Hollander returns to the bench, out of breath. He opens his mouth to say something to Ilya, but something catches his eye behind him. Ilya turns, and sees the woman he has come to recognize as Hollander's mother sitting a few rows back in the stands. She is gesturing at him insistently.

Hollander nods at her and looks back to Ilya. He gives him a slight smirk. "Sorry. My mom is a little intense sometimes."

"Yes, I see that."

Hollander grins again. "Sometimes I think she cares more about hockey than I do."

Ilya stretches, and stands as the director looks in their direction. "Maybe you should give her your skates. That way, when I face off against a Hollander this fall, it will be a challenge."

"Fuck you," laughs Hollander in a way that sends a rush through Ilya that he is determined to ignore. "Last time I checked, you went home with a silver medal the last time we played."

Ilya hears his name being called from across the ice. He holds Hollander's gaze for half a second longer, before stepping onto the ice. Before he turns away, an insane urge overtakes him, and he winks. He does not wait to see Hollander's reaction.

The locker room is empty when Ilya enters it and begins to strip off his gear. He hears the sound of running water coming from the showers. Hollander must be in there already. The thought sparks a flicker of curiosity in Ilya's gut that he knows he should ignore.

He grabs a towel and enters the showers, choosing one a few down from where Hollander was currently rubbing shampoo through his hair. Far enough away to maintain a respectful distance and plausible deniability, close enough to be distracting, if, as he suspects, Hollander is prone to be distracted by a body like Ilya's.

Ilya starts the shower and steps into the stream of warm water. He adjusts the temperature and lets the water run over his chest. He ducks his head under the water, wetting his hair and pushing it back off his face. He makes a point of looking nonchalant, of ignoring Hollander.

He's keenly aware that Hollander's movements have slowed in his periphery. Ilya turns, pretends to notice him for the first time. Hollander doesn't even attempt to act as though he wasn't staring. Ilya's looks back at him, and— ah. Suspicion confirmed.

Hollander is clearly hard. Ilya's eyes flit between Hollander's face and his erection, raising his eyebrows as an unspoken question.

"Fuck off," says Hollander, abruptly, turning away, hunching his shoulders slightly before whirling back around to face Ilya. His lips are pressed together in a thin, defiant line and his breath comes in rapid pants.

He's scared?

Ilya wonders whether this has happened to Hollander before. He wonders how poorly the last guy took it. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't like the look on Hollander's face. Rational thought abandons him, and suddenly it becomes the most important thing in the world to Ilya to make sure Hollander understands exactly what is going on, that he realizes he isn't going to get the shit kicked out of him. That maybe this could be something else entirely.

It's an insane move, completely stupid and irrational. It's the kind of thing that Ilya knows would get his own teeth kicked in at minimum if it were anyone but Hollander, probably, and honestly he has no guarantee that this won't still end horribly for him. He does it anyway.

Ilya holds Hollander's gaze, and slowly, deliberately, moves his hand down his torso and begins to stroke himself. See. I'm not what you thought I was. We have more in common than you realized.

Hollander's mouth drops open. He's transfixed for a few seconds. Ilya can almost hear his brain trying to process what's going on. He takes another chance, and with his free hand, cautiously gestures at Hollander. An invitation.

That's all Hollander needs to snap out of his spell. He tears his eyes away and returns his attention on getting himself clean. "Not here," he says, and he finishes his shower without acknowledging Ilya again.

Not here. Okay, then where? Ilya's heart hammers in his chest as he washes his hair. Has he made a terrible mistake? He takes his time rinsing off, to give Hollander time to escape if he wants to. But as he finally walks into the locker room a few agonizing minutes later, Hollander is still there, perched uncomfortably on a bench in front of an open locker, trying and failing to look busy, as if he weren't specifically waiting for Ilya.

"So, we can forget about that, yeah?" he says, his eyes firmly fixed on the inside of the locker.

Ilya smirks. "Is what you want?"

"Sure." Hollander attempts to sound casual, light, but it comes out all wrong, strained and dull.

Ilya lets out a short laugh. "You are a really bad liar." Shane says nothing, just stares into his locker. A red flush peeks out from the collar of his shirt. Ilya crosses the room to stand next to Hollander; he's very aware that he's wearing nothing but a towel, and he hopes Hollander is aware, too.

"What is your room number?" he asks, somehow still half expecting the answer to be a slur hurled in his direction.

Instead, Hollander looks up at him with wide, earnest eyes and says, "1410."

"And if I come to 1410 tonight at, oh, 9:00?" Ilya feels drunk. What are you doing? This isn't in the notes.

"I might open."

"I might knock."

When Ilya returns to his hotel room later that night, he sits at the edge of his bed, dazed. Eventually, he reaches for his journal. He stares at a blank page and thinks, hard.

This is it— he'd failed. There is no fucking way he was supposed to suck Shane Hollander's dick, tonight or ever. He will fall asleep and the timeline will reset as punishment for his weakness.

He sighs heavily, before picking up the journal again and turning to the correct page. He writes:

After the photo shoot, you went to Hollander's room. You kissed and then sucked each others dicks. He liked it, but he got nervous when it was over. This was probably very stupid of you.

He tosses the notebook on the bedside table, discards his clothes in a pile on the floor next to the bed, and curls up on his side. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and grinds the heel of his hand angrily into one socket, then the other, sending flashes of color across the inside of his eyelids. He came all this way, dragged himself through an agonizing year and a half, and now, on the threshold of a brand new life in Boston, he threw it all away for a ten minute hookup with a kid who could barely even wait until Ilya had left to have a panic attack about it. I hope it was fucking worth it.

Ilya thinks of Hollander's mouth, tentative against his at first, before turning hungry, needy as he dropped to his knees and took Ilya in his mouth. He thinks of the way Hollander stacked a neatly folded pile of clothes on the corner of a desk, before turning to join him on the bed. He thinks of how Hollander had apologized for coming down Ilya's throat, as if that wasn't exactly what Ilya was trying to accomplish. Was it worth it? If I can remember it when I wake up… maybe.

Ilya turns out the light. He's exhausted, empty, wrung out. His eyes slide shut and he doesn't see the point in opening them again.

The alarm beeps. Ilya opens his eyes. He props himself up on an elbow and lets his eyes adjust to the dim light of the hotel room. For a moment, he takes in the sight of the familiar surroundings— the soulless art on the wall, the boring desk in the corner. His journal rests on the table next to him. The jacket he wore to Hollander's room last night is slung over the arm of the chair.

It is 2010 and he is in Toronto, and he sucked Hollander's dick last night and was still allowed to wake up in the morning. Ilya feels a big, stupid grin spread across his cheeks, lets himself fall back into the mattress, and dares to wonder for a few moments if this is what it's like to be happy.

Fall 2010

Rookie season hits him like a train, in the best possible way. He's not surprised by the intense training regimens, brutal practices, and busy schedules packed with airports and hotel rooms. He played in Russia; intense is his baseline. What does surprise him, though, is Boston.

Boston is an incredible city; Ilya loves it immediately. The hockey fans are amazing— the roar that reverberates through the arena during their season opener is almost enough to knock Ilya off his skates. He feels immediately possessive— he has barely been here two months, and already this is his team and his city. His teammates are loud and boisterous in a way his teammates in Russia never were; like they forgot that hockey, at its core, is just a game. The Bears haven't forgotten. Ilya watches them take to the ice shift after shift and embody their namesake, turning into animals as they wrestle the puck away from their opponents, shove and check bodies out of their way. They snarl and drop gloves when tempers begin to flare, and roar in triumph every time a puck goes sailing past the other team's goalie. Ilya gets an assist on the winning goal; his line mates swarm him as the roars of the crowd threaten to bring the arena down around them. Ilya doesn't know if he's ever been this happy.

That is, until Marlow takes him to a club after the game and Ilya leaves with an absolutely stunning blonde woman who can't keep her hands or lips off him. He spends a few blissful hours putting his body to excellent use, teasing filthy, beautiful noises out of her mouth and arrives late to the airport the next morning, exhausted and triumphant. On the plane, he wonders if he could get Hollander to make noises like that. He decides to think about something else.

It's not just hockey. Sveta lives in Boston; she is busy but she always seems to make time for Ilya when he asks. He loves her so much. She puts him in his place without making him feel small; her barbs are both honest and kind. She's beautiful and funny, she knows hockey better than he does. She forces him to practice his English and drags him along to shops and restaurants and teases him until he buys her something. He doesn't care; he has more money than he knows how to spend, even despite Alexei's best efforts at bleeding him dry, and anyway, what does it matter if could all disappear at the end of the night? He likes to spoil her; he knows, deep within himself, that she's the only reason he survived those first few years after Mama died. She knows the ugliest, weakest, most broken parts of him, and somehow she loves him anyway. She makes room for him in her bed, in her life, without making him feel like a fool for asking for it.

Ilya trains. He studies. He puts on muscle, he picks up speed and power. He coach pushes him almost as hard as he pushes himself. Every game they win is like a hit of the best drug Ilya can imagine. He's starving for it. He needs to win. He needs to beat Hollander; the thought plays on a loop in his mind as he watches tape two weeks before their first Montreal game. It will be their debut as MLH rivals, and he intends to set the pace. Let Hollander try to keep up.

He practices English until his tongue feels numb; it helps. The words begin to flow easier; his mouth begins to learn how their shapes and patterns without stumbling over them. Reporters interview him; he answers with jokes instead of single words.

They ask him if he is looking forward to facing Hollander in Montreal. He throws a chirp out and wonders if Hollander will see it.

Every day, he documents in his journal, a reluctant but dutiful worshiper at the altar of his own dubious immortality. He recites his prayers. He thinks about that night in Toronto frequently; he worries about the MLH Awards.

He tells a reporter he will score 50 goals this season. He meets a girl with dark hair and freckles, makes her come three or maybe four times as she moans his name, and tells himself she doesn't remind him of anyone in particular.

He stands across the face off circle from Hollander to start the third period. The score is tied at two goals each. Hollander's face is unreadable. He does not look at Ilya; he wears a mask of intent concentration that blocks out all distractions. Tonight, apparently, Ilya is just one more distraction.

"Shane Hollander, will you disappoint them?" he asks, searching for any vulnerability he can find.

Hollander does not look at him. "Nope." And then he has the puck, and he's gone.

After the game, Ilya tries to catch his gaze as the teams file off the ice. Hollander doesn't look in his direction.

He thinks he's figured out what went wrong the last time. He's been watching Hollander's games closely. He's always focused; the frown of concentration is just one more piece of gear he puts on before games. Against Ilya, though, he's not just intent on the game. He's closed off, keeping some wall between himself and Ilya, setting a boundary that is imperceptible to everyone else but clearly evident to Ilya.

It is a rejection. It is as polite as it possibly could be, under the circumstances, and Ilya should be relieved. He tells himself he is relieved. He still doesn't understand how Hollander fits into the larger picture of his life, but this, at least, is information he can work with.

He will leave Hollander alone. Simple. It's better this way, anyway. Safer, easier. Let Hollander work through whatever sexual awakening he's having on his own, or not. It's not Ilya's problem.

The All-Star's Weekend arrives, and Ilya breaks Scott Hunter's record for the shot accuracy competition. He feels a rush of satisfaction for about two minutes, until it's fucking Hollander's turn, and he shaves a second off the record Ilya just set. Asshole. Ilya turns to the player next to him, a Swedish left wing for Detroit who is mind-numbingly boring, just so he can pretend he didn't even realize Hollander was on the ice.

They don't make it to playoffs, but neither does Montreal. His teammates and coach are optimistic, though. They seem to believe that Boston is turning a corner. Ilya occupies himself with Sveta, with other beautiful girls, on rare occasions with handsome men. He buys a Porsche and avoids thinking about the summer.

June 2011, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

The rooftop is quiet, as he knew it would be. It wasn't late yet, not even midnight, but he felt a fatigue in his bones that had began sometime around 6pm and had only gotten worse with each passing hour.

Ilya hadn't won Rookie of the Year. It wasn't surprising to him; he'd sort of suspected he wouldn't. The memory would have felt different, he would have documented it if he'd won. So, when Hollander's name was called, he felt hardly any disappointment at all. Good for Hollander, genuinely. He'd had an outstanding season. Ilya had too, but this is what they do. They fight for every win, and, evenly matched as they are, they're bound to trade victories and losses back and forth.

None of it matters. Tonight, Ilya stands in front of two doors and does not want to open either of them. Behind the first door is failure; yet another winding back of the clock. The burden of Sisyphus. Behind the other is a tomorrow where he will never have Hollander again. And behind both doors is, of course, Russia, beckoning for him with bony fingers ready to tighten around his throat.

The air is warm and sticky, too hot. He thinks he remembers this, or remembers remembering it. He pulls a second cigarette out of the carton in his pocket. He feels Hollander's approach before he hears it.

"I don't think it's worth jumping over," he says. His words are ever so slightly slurred, just barely in soft focus at the edges. "People are looking for you."

Ilya hums without looking at Hollander. "Are they? What people?"

Hollander steps up to the railing and leans against it. "Hunter wanted to do shots with the rookies. I had to do yours for you."

Ilya feels his lip curl in amusement in spite of himself. "Oh? That explains…" he trails off and gestures towards Hollander.

"I'm not drunk," protests Hollander. His eyes are glassy, and he'd untied his bow tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

"Of course not," says Ilya. "That would be irresponsible. Bad look for Canada's Golden Boy. Illegal, too, yes?"

Hollander's face flushes with something akin to embarrassment or anger. He mumbles something indistinct. When Ilya doesn't respond, he frowns and tries again.

"Did I piss you off, or something?"

It's Ilya's turn to frown. "What you mean? Why you think that?"

"You've been ignoring me. I mean… I know we're not, like, friends or whatever, but… "

He should walk away. Instead, he says "But? You're right, we aren't friends. We aren't anything." It comes out harsher than he means, and he feels a stab of guilt as Hollander's face does something strange. He tries again. "I go home in three days, Hollander. For the summer. And then I go to Boston, and you go to Montreal, and that is how it will be. Is… Is not anything else."

"Last summer—"

Ilya cuts him off. "Last summer, yes, was fun. Will be good memory for me, I hope for you too. "

"Just a memory, then?" The words are so quiet, Ilya almost doesn't hear them.

He takes a final drag on his cigarette before responding. He wants to take it all back. Yes, a memory. Let's make another one tonight. He can't do that; not to himself, and not to Hollander. He needs to escape, and he needs to not trap Hollander in here with him, in whatever the fuck this is.

Hollander stands looking out over the city, looking unhappy. For a moment, Ilya allows himself to replay the memory of their time in Hollander's hotel room— a fragile, hopeful thing between them that died before it had barely had time to live. He remembers the way Hollander's body felt against his, and then carefully files the memory away. He knows, if he fails tonight, he will never see that memory again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hollander looking like he wants to say something else. Before he can, Ilya pushes himself back from the railing, straightens his jacket, and turns to face him. He extends a hand.

"Congratulations, Hollander. Have a good summer. See you next season." Hollander takes his hand with a strange expression on his face. Ilya shakes it once, then breaks the handshake, turns, and walks back across the rooftop. He doesn't stop until he reaches his hotel room.

The alarm clock jolts him awake. His eyes shoot open as he inhales sharply through his nose, trying to register his surroundings. He throws one arm out to silence the alarm, and blinks twice, feeling disoriented and foggy. 

The room slowly comes into focus. He is in a modest hotel room that is dimly lit by the thin, gray light filtering through a crack in the curtains. To his left, closer to the door, is another bed. A large lump huddles under the blankets, snoring softly. 

A slow, awful wave of nausea crests in his stomach, and he barely makes it to the toilet before he vomits. Tears sting the corners of his eyes as he tries to get control of his breathing.

Today you will meet Shane Hollander. Don't be an asshole.

Chapter 3

Ilya glares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that looks back at him is that of a child he barely recognizes. He takes a deep, grounding breath, sniffs, and promises himself that this will be the last time, before stalking out of the bathroom.

He sits down heavily on his bed, pulls the notepad and pen out of the bedside table, and begins to write.

1. You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.

2. June 2009, Draft Day -  go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

3. July 2010 - CCM photo shoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

He doesn't pause to collect his thoughts; he lets them spill out of him onto the page as quickly as he can scrawl them across the paper. He remembers Hollander's face, flushed from the alcohol and summer heat, looking at him with some combination of confusion and disappointment. He writes every detail he can remember, every word he can remember passing between them. More than anything else, he remembers an overwhelming emotion, the grim determination of someone who was certain that they had finally succeeded, even if it had cost them greatly.

Such a funny joke.

Ilya finally finishes and looks grimly at the messy, frantic lines of Cyrillic that he has scrawled across the front and back of a few pieces of hotel stationery. He rips them off the pad, folds them, and crosses the room to tuck them neatly into the open carton of cigarettes that is nestled in his coat pocket. As he gets dressed, he holds onto the image in his head of Hollander, looking at him as if he were asking Ilya for something important. Something worth having.

As he undresses in the locker room after practice, he wonders what happens after he resets. Does the entire world reset with him? Or does it continue forward without him? Is there a Hollander in some other universe waking up this morning who is disappointed in him, who will play the rest of his career without anyone to challenge him? Has he trapped Hollander in this limbo with him, or set him adrift, alone? Ilya exits the rink through a service door he somehow knows will lead where he's supposed to go, and isn't sure which option he hates more.

This time. This time I will get it right, Hollander.

"Oh, I'm— I'm not sure if you're supposed to smoke here," Hollander says uncertainly.

Ilya smirks. The memory of a drunken Hollander on a rooftop has already begun to fade, but something in the earnestness of his concern and the awkward, flat affect of his voice feel familiar to Ilya in a way he finds almost comforting. He shrugs at Hollander and gestures with his cigarette at the prominently displayed "No Smoking" sign about ten feet away.

"Sign is over there, so I smoke here. I follow the rules." he says dryly, before remembering that he is specifically supposed to not be an asshole right now. He flashes Hollander a grin that he hopes will smooth the abrasive edges of his remark.

He doesn't need to worry. Hollander looks at the sign, then at Ilya, then laughs. He shrugs in defeat.

"Fair enough, man. It'll make it easier to beat you if your lungs are full of that shit."

"Oh, you will beat me in final?"

"We're going to destroy you." Hollander's eyes twinkle as he lobbies the chirp in Ilya's direction.

Ilya smirks and shrugs one shoulder as he takes another drag on his cigarette. "Hmm, no. But maybe you get lucky next year."

Hollander rolls his eyes but laughs. He glances back towards the rink.

"I should probably get back, they'll be waiting for me."

Ilya nods and watches him go with a grim determination settling over him. Step one is done. Six months until step two. Ilya breathes in, and breathes out. Breathing is easy. It is all he needs to do for the next six months.

June 2009, Los Angeles - Draft Day

Go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

Ilya walks into the hotel gym and is unsurprised to see Hollander hunched over one of the bikes.

Ten minutes later, he hands Hollander his water and not so subtly lets his legs fall open wide. When Hollander hands back the water bottle, he is greedy; he brushes his fingertips over Hollander's hand, savoring the contact. He wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle and winks at Hollander. He sees the way Hollander responds to his body. He wonders whether he would break this world if he invited Hollander back to his room right now. He thinks it might be worth it if it means a chance at licking the sweat off Hollander's chest. Before he has time to give the thought further consideration, Hollander stands abruptly, tries and fails to subtly adjust his shorts, and makes a hasty retreat out of the gym.

July 2010, Toronto - CCM Photo Shoot

CCM Shoot - Make sure Hollander is also there.

Ilya's heart pounds in his chest as he gently pushes Hollander back against the wall of his hotel room. His hands are on Hollander's waist; one reaches up to curl around the back of Hollander's neck. He slowly leans in until his lips brush against Hollander's; they are still for a split second, before Hollander moves, kissing him back, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. Hollander's hands begin to move; Ilya feels them on his arms, his chest, unbuttoning his jeans— Fuck, Hollander.

It's over in a matter of minutes. Ilya reclines in Hollander's bed, wishing he had a cigarette.

"You aren't going to tell anyone, right?" Hollander's voice is laced with anxiety. Ilya almost laughs— Yes, Hollander, should I call my Papa or ESPN first?— but he looks at Hollander and reconsiders.

Hollander, whose mind had been blissfully quiet just seconds before. He sits up, tense, as though he expects a news reporter to jump out of the bathroom with a camera and a microphone. Ilya feels a small pang of sympathy. He's never felt the need to think too deeply about his sexuality; he enjoys beautiful people regardless of what's between their legs, but he isn't an idiot. He knows what the world is. He knows what Hollander must be thinking in this moment.

"No, Hollander, I will not tell anyone. Ever. Same secret, remember?" Ilya says quietly, seriously. Hollander looks up— not at him, but in his general direction, and nods minutely.

Ilya shifts, unsure of what to do next.

"Maybe I should go, I have early flight," he says lamely, because it's true, and because he suspects Hollander would prefer to freak the fuck out in private.

"Yeah, okay. Me too." Hollander's reply is polite, but frayed at the edges. He sits on the edge of the bed, fumbling with his socks.

Ilya quickly dresses in awkward silence. He should say something before he leaves. Just… something to keep it light, a reassurance of— what, exactly?

Hollander had exhausted the limits of his ability to pretend to adjust his socks. He sits on the bed, covers pulled up to his waist, arms crossed across his chest.

"Good night, Hollander," says Ilya with a small smile. "Was fun," he says "See you in the fall."

"See you in the fall," says Hollander. As he turns to go, Ilya thinks he might see the barest hint of a smile on his face.

Later, he flips back to the first page in his journal, where he had carefully copied his note from that December morning 18 months earlier. His eyes rest on one line: He said something about last summer and I said it was a nice memory. Last summer. Nice memory.

Hollander had wanted attention that Ilya had not given him— at least, had not given him since the previous summer.

Pieces begin to fall into place.

Ilya flips back to the newest page. I went to Hollander's hotel room tonight. It was his first time with a man. He was nervous, after, but I think he enjoyed it. I think he will want to meet again. I think maybe I avoided him after this, the last time, and it was a mistake.

He finishes writing and closes the notebook softly, and sets it on the table. He falls back into bed and stares up at the ceiling. No part of this makes sense; he can't figure out any way that hooking up with Hollander doesn't eventually lead to disaster for both of them, but at the moment, this is what the universe seems to be telling him. The universe wants him in the bed of an unbelievably sexy and talented hockey player, and who is he to argue? He falls asleep with the memory of Hollander's freckles dancing across his eyelids.

Ilya has never felt more alive than he does as he settles into his rookie season. He knows he's done this before, and discovers that he settles into his new life with surprising ease. It's little things— tiny, inconsequential details that he plucks out of his brain without realizing they were there in the first place. He realizes it one morning a few weeks after settling into his new apartment; he goes for a run without mapping it out first, and somehow he ends up exactly where he expected to, in line at a small coffee shop. He orders a specialty drink off their menu, and realizes after he paid he hadn't even bothered to read the menu. Somewhere buried in the depths of his memory, he just knew it existed. The realization makes the drink taste even more delicious.

It's a strange sort of déjà vu. He knows he's lived this before, but holding the knowledge in your brain isn't the same thing as feeling a memory unexpectedly bubble up from the depths of yourself. It's arriving at a hotel a foreign country, only to discover your own belongings furnishing the room. It's a strange familiarity, equal parts terrifying and comforting. He's done this before. He's lived this life before, and he survived. He is here again because after a certain point, he stopped surviving.

He thinks about hockey, he thinks about Hollander. His team travels to Montreal in December and Ilya catches a glimpse of him. Even under his hockey gear Ilya can tell he's filled out, put on muscle over the last 6 months. Halfway through the second period, the coaches give the people what they want. He lines up at center ice— Hollander, a vision in blue and red, squares up across from him.

Ilya can't help the smile on his lips. Hollander doesn't look at him; Ilya is undeterred. Above them, all around them, Montreal fans scream Hollander's name.

The puck drops. Hollander drops it back to a Montreal defender, and Ilya spends the rest of the shift trying to catch up. He doesn't, and Hollander neatly deposits the puck in the Boston net after an intense 100 seconds.

Ilya thinks this might be the most fun he's had playing hockey all season. Maybe his whole life. Hollander steps off the ice and glances in his direction with a grin.

January 2011, Nashville - All Stars Weekend

Ilya hates press conferences more than almost anything else. Reporters clamor to ask him the same questions he answered last week, their words running together and over each other, attacking Ilya's head like a swarm of angry hornets. He knows his English is better than it was at the start of the season, but sitting in front of a bank of microphones, he feels as though he's a child again, faltering under the harsh disapproval of his tutor.

Hollander sits to his left, and Ilya slides into his role as Hollander's foil by default. Hollander's answers are polished and bland; Ilya's are curt and taciturn. Let them think it's because he is rude, because he's arrogant, because he's Russian, as long as they don't think it's because he's stupid. He can bear their dislike and distrust much more easily than their pity.

A reporter asks him a question that goes on for far too long. Fuck. Ilya loses the thread of it— he doesn't even begin to know what the man is asking or how he can answer it. The reporter looks at him expectantly. A camera shutter clicks. He is taking too long to answer; the silence begins to take on a life of its own.

Hollander's foot taps his under the table and he begins speaking. "Sorry— not to jump the gun, but with Rozanov's permission…" he ventures, glancing over. Ilya nods, and he continues smoothly. The room relaxes. Hollander fields the question with expert professionalism. He gives the answer they want to hear, apparently, and when Ilya deadpans, "What he said," they laugh politely.

That night, Ilya watches as Hollander smashes a puck through the last of 5 targets, and with it, Ilya's newly set record for the shot accuracy competition. Irritation and admiration bloom in equal measure in his chest, as they have begun to do anytime Hollander is concerned.

He considers ignoring Hollander, and decides that would be unwise. If his notes were to be believed, ignoring Hollander had resulted in him getting punted back to 2008. He turns towards Hollander, where he is seated on his team's bench, and opens his mouth to speak.

Speaking had been the right choice, Ilya thinks as he plants kisses across Hollander's collarbone as Hollander moans and writhes around under him. Intoxicating heat radiates off Hollander's skin; Ilya wants to press every square inch of their bodies together. He presses a thigh between Hollander's legs and is rewarded with a breathy moan as Hollander grinds up into him. It's completely different from the last time— before, Hollander had been unsure; he knew he wanted something, but he didn't know what. This Hollander knows. He is hungry. It's so fucking sexy, better and more potent than any party drug Ilya has ever tried.

"On your stomach," Ilya pants into Hollander's mouth. Hollander tenses ever so slightly before rolling over, doing as Ilya asked. Ilya senses the shift immediately and stills his own movement.

"Have you ever?" he murmurs. Hollander shakes his head.

"Do you want to?" most of Hollander's face is obscured by the angle, but he doesn't need to see him to guess what he's feeling. "You are scared."

"I'm not scared," Hollander retorts, defensively.

"No, is okay," says Ilya quickly, mentally scolding himself for not handling that better. He's fucking this up.

"I'm not scared," reiterates Hollander. "Just… I don't know. There's hockey players all over this hotel— fucking Scott Hunter is right next door. It's a lot."

Ilya grins. "We could let him listen like mating call."

Hollander laughs at that, the tension mostly gone. He rolls over onto his back and looks up at Ilya earnestly. He shakes his head almost embarrassed to be saying no.

Ilya kisses him. "Okay," he says as he pulls away. "Next time, then."

Hollander looks at him. "Next time?"

"We play Montreal in two weeks," says Ilya, as if this is obvious. Hollander looks as though his brain is overheating. Ilya needs to do something to slow his thoughts down before he spirals too far out of control. He's beginning to suspect that this is something that happens to Hollander a lot. He sighs and stands from the bed.

"Where is your phone?" he asks Hollander, glancing around at the piles of abandoned clothing.

"Um— It's in the pocket of my pants, why?" Hollander gestures vaguely at the clothes on the floor. Ilya retrieves the pants and digs Hollander's phone out of the pocket. He hands it to Hollander. "Unlock."

Hollander hesitates, then types in the phone's pass code. Ilya plucks it out of his hand and navigates to the contacts. He types quickly, and after a minute, tosses the phone down on the bed.

"There. Now you have my number and I have yours. We figure out details later." Hollander's mouth drops open slightly, but he nods. Satisfied, Ilya crawls back onto the bed and pushes a firm hand into Hollander's chest, pushing him back down onto the mattress. He climbs on top of Hollander, straddling his waist, and leans down to nip at the corner of his jaw.

"Now. No more thinking. Your brain is too loud, very hard for me to concentrate." Hollander hums and turns his head in search of Ilya's mouth. Ilya indulges him gladly.

"You want me to blow you here or in the shower?" he purrs. Hollander's answer is more whine than words. Ilya doesn't fucking care. He could drown in the sound and be hungry for more of it.

After Hollander leaves, Ilya sits in bed and thinks. He'd become acclimated to the persistent feeling of déjà vu, barely noticed it anymore outside of the occasional moments where he realizes he knows something he has no logical way of knowing. It's become almost comfortable, which makes it all the more unsettling when he notices its absence. Tonight, as soon as Hollander had pushed his way into Ilya's hotel room, he'd felt a refreshing breeze of novelty, completely unable to anticipate Hollander's next move. Well— okay, not entirely. Hollander is, he was learning, a fairly predictable presence. Steady, boring, and familiar to Ilya in a way he has no reason to be.

So, Ilya surmises, he'd never met up with Hollander like this before. Interesting. He opens his journal and flicks through the pages as he thinks. He looks at the very first note, now more than two years old. He reads it, and wonders how he'd gotten to that point on the rooftop of pushing away a confused Hollander. He must have made so many mistakes that time around; he hopes he's made fewer this time.

Ilya knows how to take direction. When he's properly motivated, he can be extremely coachable— he wouldn't have had a chance at a career in professional sports otherwise. He has tried desperately to follow the trail of breadcrumbs his former selves had left for him, and now all he can do is hope.

Two Weeks Later

Ilya wonders whether there is anything more personally insulting as a Russian than being cock-blocked by a snowstorm. He lets out a string of curses under his breath as his teammates gather up their bags and shuffle out of the terminal.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out; the name that flashes across the top of his screen is a small consolation to the disappointment he feels.

Jane: Too bad about the weather. Next time, I guess?

yes very annoying

was looking forward to destroying you

Jane: I wasn't talking about the game.

neither was I 😈

Ilya drives home, unsettled. The messages from Hollander had put a smile on his face, but had done nothing but stoke the arousal which is simmering in his veins with no place to go. And now, Ilya has no idea when, if ever, he'll have the opportunity to get back into bed with Hollander. Boston is not scheduled to play Montreal again this season, and neither team has much of a shot at the playoffs this year. He won't have an opportunity to see Hollander again before this year's MLH Awards in June. The realization pisses Ilya off more than he anticipates. He considers trying to sext Hollander later— maybe that will take the edge off his frustration. Even if Hollander doesn't go along with it, the idea of just talking to him does something to settle Ilya's mood. Ilya chews his lip as he unlocks the door to his apartment.

There is movement in the dim light of the kitchen and Ilya almost throws his phone across the room.

"Surprise!" calls a familiar voice in Russian. Ilya's shoulders drop and he throws his head back in exasperation.

"Sveta, what the fuck? What are you doing here?"

"Surprising you, but clearly I shouldn't have bothered!" she protests, feigning offense. "Silly me, I thought you'd be happy to see me after nearly two whole months in Europe."

His initial shock has passed, and it's replaced with the comforting, warm affection he feels for her. "I am happy to see you."

"Are you sure?" she teases. He realizes she's wearing his jersey— oh. Only his jersey. She looks up at him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. He grins, drops his bag, and deftly scoops her up.

"Very happy," he says, burying his face in her neck. Sveta hums, unconvinced.

"Prove it," she laughs. He carries her through to the bedroom, and does.

It's not what he'd hoped for tonight, but even a routine night with Sveta is better than almost anything else. She is his Sveta, his home. He falls asleep with his chest pressed against her back and his cheek against her shoulder, feeling safe and almost happy. He has no idea why she wastes her time with him, but he has learned not to question miracles when they happen to him.

congratulations 🎉 

Jane: For what?

you broke new record tonight yes?

world's most boring post-game interview

not easy record to break 

Jane: Asshole.

was very good!

I am so sleepy and ready for bed now

Jane: Do you always watch my interviews before bed?

I lost tv remote

Jane: Sure.

very very impressive

you score a hat trick tonight

and still you are the most boring player in the league

what is your secret?

Jane: Fuck you.

come to boston and I will 😈

June 2011, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

Ilya does not win Rookie of the Year. He didn't expect to, and the loss doesn't sting the way it probably did once. Hollander accepts the award with a giant smile on his face, and stumbles through a charmingly awkward acceptance speech.

"I want to acknowledge the other nominees. The competition for this award was steep and they both deserved to win, too."

Ilya disagrees. As far as he could tell, Lemaire's biggest accomplishment of the season had been managing to skate forwards while holding a stick without falling down. Most of the time. Still, he understands Hollander couldn't, or wouldn't say that— in public, at least — and he appreciates the sentiment behind the words. He also appreciates the way Hollander glances in his direction as he says them.

The awards ceremony ends and the reception begins. Ilya can't stand still. His body buzzes with an uncomfortable restlessness, aware that each heartbeat is taking him closer to the moment where he will learn whether he did enough this time. He drifts slowly around the reception, directionless and unanchored, pausing only to force himself through polite interactions with the people who approach him. The hours are slipping away from him. He doesn't know whether to surrender himself to bed and oblivion now, or whether to cling desperately to every last minute. He wonders if inmates sentenced to execution feel similarly in their final days. At least they know there will be an end to the torment; Ilya is guaranteed the opposite.

Hollander stands stiffly across the room. The Montreal GM stands next to him, clapping him on the shoulder while speaking in an animated and self-congratulatory manner to… some other old, formerly athletic white man that Ilya vaguely recognizes but who clearly wasn't important enough to remember. Hollander is nodding politely at regular intervals as the two men apparently discuss him like a prize show pony, and for the first time, Ilya actually feels a small sense of relief that he didn't win tonight. He feels too tightly wound already; he is grateful that everyone's eyes are on someone else.

He tries to be cheerful— or, at least, to seem cheerful. He has one drink, and feels the outline of the carton of cigarettes in his pocket. He is sick of these people breathing his air. He wants to escape to the rooftop he has never seen with these eyes, but could somehow draw from memory. He thinks about texting Hollander. He does not think about Russia. He plans to ask for a glass of water but accidentally orders vodka instead. He glances over to where he'd last noticed Hollander, but he's nowhere to be seen. The room is a sea of tuxedos and Ilya suddenly just feels tired. He takes a sip of his drink and checks the time— 10:30pm. Ilya wonders if he should just leave— no one would miss him here.

"Hey, good season, Rozanov." The familiar voice pulls him out of his gloomy thoughts with a jolt. He looks up abruptly to see Hollander standing in front of him, grinning. His hand is outstretched. Ilya smirks and accepts the handshake. It's the first thing tonight that feels like it means anything.

"Congratulations," he says. He can't quite bring himself to come up with a sarcastic chirp. He doesn't quite see the point in it. Hollander's grin falters slightly and Ilya feels his universe slip sideways. No. Keep it together. Do not upset him or you fail.

"Is a very nice trophy," he ventures. "You have a spot ready for it in your house?"

"Oh— I guess," says Hollander, a bit awkwardly. "I hadn't really thought about it yet."

Ilya continues seriously. "It is important to display it properly, you know. After all, it will be the last one you win. The rest will be mine."

"Fuck you," Hollander scoffs, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that Ilya finds reassuring, and he smiles in spite of himself. Something loosens in his chest, the air suddenly doesn't feel quite so stifling.

"Hey boys!" a friendly voice calls out. Ilya suppresses a wave of irritation at the interruption. He glances in the direction of the voice only for the feeling to intensify. Scott Hunter was striding towards them, with all the good-natured arrogance of a handsome, talented, well respected man with many friends and very few actual problems.

"Congrats, Hollander— hell of a season," he says, shaking Hollander's hand enthusiastically. He turns to Ilya. "Same to you, Rozanov. I have a feeling we're going to see some big changes in the Atlantic Division over the next couple of seasons." His smile as he addresses Ilya is polite, but there's a wall there, something hiding just behind his eyes that Ilya knows was not present when he'd shaken Hollander's hand.

Ilya is the enemy, after all. He's the big, bad Russian, the one who isn't afraid to start fights and play dirty. The one who is arrogant, obnoxious, rude. A party boy, a womanizer. It's all true, because Ilya knows it will hurt less if it's true, and so he plays the role they have assigned to him. The heaviness in the air returns.

Hunter has turned back to Hollander. "So listen— we've got a tradition. Me and the other old fucks always do a round of shots with the rooks. You two in?" Ilya sees the briefest flash of discomfort on Hollander's face, before he smiles and nods. He turns to Ilya. "Yeah? Shots?"

Ilya shrugs and nods. "Sure." He wonders whether Hunter would have bothered to invite him to this so-called tradition if he hadn't been standing next to the Golden Boy. Stop, Ilya. Just get through tonight, you can be a miserable asshole in the morning.

He trails a few steps behind Hollander and Hunter as they make their way to the bar. Hunter is chatting away at Hollander, working hard to project the air of mentor, or an older brother who isn't a total shithead. Ilya wonders what that's like, then reprimands himself. Fucking pathetic. No wonder Alexei hates you so much.

Hunter and Hollander have reached the bar, where a few other players greet them with that familiar jock attitude. Hunter signals the bartender who begins lining up shot glasses. Hollander glances at Ilya; he might be crazy, but he almost thinks Hollander is sending him an unspoken plea: Can we please get out of here?

Of course he's imagining it. Why would Hollander want to go anywhere with him, except for maybe his bed? He knows he's deluding himself, and he's confused as to why the delusion is comforting, but it is, and right now he'll cling to whatever will get him through the rest of this night.

The vodka is cheap; he swallows it without even feeling it. Next to him, Hollander grimaces and coughs. Tradition complete, the rest of the players seem more interested in obtaining a second round than spending any more time with Hollander or himself. Ilya looks down at the empty shot glass on thebar. He is aware of Hollander standing next to him. Close. Watching him. He looks up and meets Hollander's gaze.

"I need a cigarette," he murmurs. "I hear there's a nice view from the roof. Think I will go check it out."

Your move,Hollander. He turns and leaves without stopping to see if Hollander is watching him go.

The rooftop. It is achingly familiar in a way that tears at Ilya's soul. He has been here before, probably more than once, and every time he has failed. he has hurt Hollander in one way or another. He doesn't want to hurt him; he tells himself it's because he needs to break out of this prison, and he lets himself believe it is the whole truth.

There are tentative footsteps behind him. Then, as familiar as gravity, there is Hollander. He stands at the railing to Ilya's left, silently observing the city below.

Neither speaks for a minute. Ilya remembers he hasn't actually lit his cigarette; it dangles from his fingers like a lifeline he forgot he needs. He brings it to his lips and sparks his lighter.

"You'll never be faster than me if you keep that up, you know."

"You already made this joke."

"I did?" Hollander looks confused. "When?"

Ilya tuts. "You forgot our first conversation. Terrible memory. And I beat you in that game, so…" he trails off. There is silence for another minute.

Eventually, Hollander breaks.

"Are you… okay?" He does not look at Ilya when he asks. He is hesitant, like he's not sure he wants the answer. Ilya isn't sure he wants to give it. It surprises him when the words come out anyway.

"Not really."

Hollander is definitely uncomfortable now. "Do you want to talk about it?"

This answer is easier. Ilya can't help but give a lopsided smirk. "Not really."

Hollander nods, visibly relieved, then frowns. "Oh— fuck. You came up here to be alone. I probably should have figured that out." He turns back towards the door.

"If I didn't want you to follow, I wouldn't have told you where I was going."

Hollander looks as though he's not sure how to take the remark. He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. Ilya takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales slowly.

"Kind of a shame our last game got cancelled," Hollander says finally.

"Hm," Ilya nods and can't help the small smile that forms at the corner of his mouth. "Yes. It is too bad."

Hollander takes a small step towards him. When he speaks, his voice is low. "I was thinking, maybe…" he trails off and searches Ilya's face, looking for an answer to an unspoken question.

Ilya pauses. He thinks of his notebook. Last time he'd rejected Hollander, or something like it, which had been decidedly the wrong choice.

Fuck it. He's going to hell tomorrow one way or another. He might as well give himself a going away present.

Ilya makes a point of looking around the rooftop, ensuring that they are alone. He knows they are, somehow, but he suspects it will put Hollander at ease. Then, he looks directly at him and slowly closes the gap between them. His lips brush against Hollander's with a restraint he clings to desperately, and he pulls away before the last of his impulse control crumbles. Hollander chases him as he goes, before he seems to remember where they are. He steps back and looks around, rubbing one hand over his mouth.

"There is no one here," says Ilya, feeling a sudden fear that he has done something irreversibly wrong.

But Hollander pauses, looks around once more, and seems to collect himself.

"We should go somewhere," Hollander says. Ilya nods. He straightens his jacket and takes a step towards the door.

Hollander moves to follow, but then curses under his breath and pulls his phone out of his pocket. It's buzzing; Ilya sees the name across the screen: Mom. Hollander gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry, it'll be easier if I just get rid of her now, you know?"

The words hit Ilya's ears with a dissonant note. He shakes them off. He doesn't mean it like that.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I just needed some air, it's just a lot of people. No, I'm good, I— Mom— yeah, I know…"

Hollander rolls his eyes in clear annoyance. Ilya can hear a woman's voice on the other end of the phone speaking in a brisk manner.

"Mom, stop. I'm tired, it's been a long day. I'm going to bed, okay? I'll see you in the morning."

He hangs up and sighs in exasperation.

"God, sorry about that."

Ilya shrugs. "It's okay."

Hollander continues, clearly annoyed. "I know she means well, but come on. It's almost midnight and we're in Las Vegas at the fucking MLH Awards. But she can't stop, not even for one night."

"Sounds tough." Ilya says coldly. He knows on some level he's being unfair, but Hollander doesn't even seem to notice.

"I wish she'd just leave me alone. Just… stop, and let me live my life."

Ilya is silent. The heat and anticipation that had been pumping through his veins a few minutes ago had cooled into something hard and painful.

"I mean, normal moms don't worry about whether their son did enough networking to be allowed to go to bed, right? I bet your mom never tried anything crazy like that," He laughs and looks over at Ilya, before registering the shift in mood. His face drops.

"Uh— Rozanov? Are you okay?"

Ilya stared at the door and clenched his jaw.

"No. My mother never did anything like that."

Hollander seemed to realize he'd made a mistake.

"Yeah— no, I know, sorry— I was just joking around. Just bad timing, you know?" He keeps babbling, but Ilya isn't listening anymore.

He steels himself to look back at Hollander, who is looking at him with concern. The anger which had flared up in his chest disappears, leaving only a deep exhaustion. He is so, so tired. He tried so hard, he really thought he had figured it out this time. At least, he thinks grimly, this time the reset won't be his fault. Not that it'll be much consolation when he wakes up.

"I am tired, Hollander. And I have early flight tomorrow." He takes a step towards the door.

"Rozanov…" Hollander's voice is small.

"Is fine. Have a good summer, Hollander. See you in the fall."

Chapter 4

Ilya wakes before the alarm goes off. He rolls onto his stomach and buries his head under the pillow, keeping his eyes screwed shut. He's not ready to face the reality he knows is waiting for him. The memory of the night before had chased him through a restless sleep, shifting and dreamlike, but never far enough removed to feel unreal. He'd been right there— right at the finish line, and he'd been so in his head, so emotionally raw that a few uncomfortable comments had destroyed him?

He doesn't know about Mama. He would never have been cruel like that on purpose. It had nothing to do with you. Why do you make everything about yourself?

He needs to write. As painful as this one is, as angry as he is at himself for not just muscling through last night, he needs to get this on paper before it disappears. Next time, next time… he can do the same things. If he knows what's coming, he can prepare for it. He knows from experience: It won't hurt as much if he is expecting it.

He slowly stretches an arm out in the direction of the bedside table without looking. He misjudges the trajectory of his hand and curses as his hand collides with a glass he doesn't remember being there. It tips off the edge of the table and lands with a heavy thud on the carpeted floor. Ilya curses again and hauls himself up to check whether he'd just spilled water all over the floor.

He blinks in surprise.

The glass is forgotten. Water seeps into the carpet of his Las Vegas suite.

A minute goes by, then another.

Ilya's heart beats rapidly; he feels it in his throat. He slowly stands and gasps as his feet touch the wet carpet. The sensation pulls him back into his— his body. He looks down, wiggles his toes, and feels a massive, stupid smile spread itself across his face. He doesn't try to hide it.

He is in Las Vegas. It is 2011. His rookie season is over. He will be going home to Russia in a few days, but only for the summer. He made it. He made it.

Ilya strides over to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror— yes, it's him, newly 20 years old, looking only a little like shit after the events of the previous evening. He laughs, the sound practically spilling out of his mouth. He turns the shower on, hot, luxuriating in the scalding water against his skin. It is so fucking real. He thinks there might be tears mingling with the streams of water on his face.

Ilya hears his phone chirp as he exits the bathroom. He checks the time on the hotel clock as he crosses the room and frowns. It's only 7:30— barring some kind of team emergency, he can't think of any reason why anyone here in North America would be texting him this early. He braces, but instead of a spray of harsh Cyrillic across his screen, he sees the name Jane.

Ilya inhales deeply. Suddenly, the events of the previous night feel like a distant memory. How could he bring himself to be upset when he was alive, here and now? He unlocks the phone and reads the message.

Jane: Hey. I just wanted to say sorry about last night.

It is nothing. I told you, I was tired. It was a long day.

Jane: My mom has terrible timing.

I don't care that you talk to your mother. Is not a problem.

Jane: I probably should have shut up afterwards.

No, it's very sexy to listen to you complain about your mother.

This is a joke. I don't know if you know about jokes.

Jane: I know what jokes are.

Jane: Anyway I'm sorry. I'm an idiot sometimes.

It is okay, Jane.

Jane: Not mad?

Furious.

But, I think you can make it up to me in the fall.

Jane: Deal. 🙂

Something warm and pleasant settles over Ilya as he rereads the words on the screen. Hollander should have been upset with him— after all, he's the one who went cold and distant, he's the one who left. If the positions had been reversed, he would have been annoyed to be suddenly dismissed so abruptly. Not that that would ever happen; he would rather set himself on fire than talk about his family with anyone, let alone a clandestine hookup.

Hollander had apologized. Maybe he was used to shouldering the responsibility for the actions of the collective. He seemed like the kind of player to take losses personally; Ilya knew this because he recognized it within himself, too. Or, maybe Hollander was just braver than he was, more willing to admit his shortcomings than Ilya. Maybe he'd grown up in a home where he was allowed to be flawed.

Ilya sets his phone aside and begins to pack. He needs to leave for the airport in 25 minutes. From there, a flight back to Boston, two days to pack for the summer and wrap up the few remaining business items, and then to Moscow. He is not looking forward to it, but the thought of a return to Boston, more hockey, and another chance to meet up with Hollander in the fall soothes the unpleasant feelings.

On the plane, he pulls his journal out of his backpack and taps his pen against his chin thoughtfully. He flips back through the pages, slowly, focusing on the ones which center around Hollander.

He reads and rereads the very first entry. Something doesn't make sense. If his note is to be believed, Hollander had sought him out, and he had rejected him. The clock had reset. Last night, Hollander had sought him out, and again, he'd ended up rejecting him. But this time, he'd been allowed to move forward. Same action, different outcome.

He reads through two and a half years of notes about a man he barely knows. He is left with a foggy impression of a former life where he'd started something with Hollander, and had then been too much of a coward to continue it.

His fingers still as he reaches the entry from All Stars weekend. Big day. Press conference with Hollander. He covered for me when I didn't understand a question. Came up to my room after the game. Wanted to fuck but he was nervous. I got his number and we plan to meet up again next time we play each other in a few weeks. This all feels new.

New. All Stars Weekend. Ilya thinks. Got his number. Plan to meet up again.

They'd made a plan. That night, something had shifted. No longer would they be able to dismiss their meetups as spur of the moment encounters fueled by hormones and the thrill of danger. Ilya had looked at Hollander and said, in not so many words, that he liked this enough to ensure it could happen again. And Hollander had felt the same way.

And, after things had fallen apart last night, Hollander had texted him this morning to apologize.

Ilya slowly turns to an open page and writes the date at the top. He marks it with an asterisk— an important day, one to refer back to. At the top, he writes:

1. You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.

2. June 2009, Draft Day -  go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

3. July 2010 - CCM photo shoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

He pauses, then slowly continues:

1. January 2011 - All Stars Weekend - Get Hollander's phone number.

Russia - Summer 2011

Ilya wakes up every morning to dust motes floating in the morning light that peeks through his bedroom window. He gets out of bed, eats a small breakfast, goes for a run. He comes home and eats more. He skates, he weight trains, he bulks, he watches tape. He avoids Alexei. His fathers moods are growing more erratic than ever. One day, he calls Ilya and screams at him for twenty minutes for missing a hockey practice. The next day he tells Ilya to join him for dinner. He spends the evening rambling about the summer home they used to have when Ilya was a child. It makes no sense, and once or twice, he seems to think they are at that old house now. Ilya nods along and does not correct him. He doesn't mention Mama, and with an ache in his chest, Ilya can't help but think it's probably for the best.

Sasha visits, once. Ilya brings him back to his apartment. They do lines of coke, and Sasha gets stupid and mean like he always does until Ilya bends him over the arm of his sofa, shoves his head into the cushions, and calls him a whore while he fucks him hard, just how Sasha likes it. After, he takes a shower, and by the time he is done, Sasha has already left.

He wakes up. His apartment is silent in the early morning light.

Jane.

Jane: Hi?

I am bored.

Jane: What time is it in Moscow?

night time. what are you doing

Jane: I just looked it up, it's 3 in the morning?

you are so bad at this hollander

Jane: Did you text me just to insult me?

no

i tell you i am bored

entertain me

what are you wearing

Jane: Go to bed Rozanov.

boring.

Ilya wakes up. He watches the clock. He falls asleep.

Sveta comes home for two weeks. She takes him out dancing almost every night. They get drunk and happy in basement clubs and she lets him whisper stupid things into her neck between kisses.

One morning, Alexei shows up at his apartment and doesn't leave until Ilya gives him another ten thousand dollars. He calls Ilya a spoiled whiny faggot as he accepts the money.

Ilya trains, eats, sleeps, and misses Boston. He misses his team. He tells himself he does not miss anything else, because there is nothing else to miss.

October 2011 - Boston @ Montreal, 8:00 PM

Any plans tonight?

Jane: I've got a hockey game to win.

Optimistic.

Jane: Just stating facts. Boston is going down hard tonight.

I know one Voyageur who will be going down hard tonight too 😈

Where are we meeting?

Jane: Fuck off. I'm trying to focus before the game.

Jane: I'll text you after.

Jane: Now leave me alone.

❤️ 😈 No.

Ilya sits in the visitors locker room of the Bell Centre and watches as a new message pops up on his phone. A street address, and instructions to use the rear entrance.

Anticipation curls in his gut, drowning out the sting of the loss. They'd been tied 2-2, only for Hollander to swoop in with two and a half minutes left in the game to put one more in the net. It had irritated Ilya almost as much as it had turned him on.

He strips off his gear quickly and heads to the showers. He lets his teammates think his lack of usual bravado is due to the loss.

Later, he stands in Hollander's kitchen half-listening to him babble on nervously about real estate. He considers letting Hollander continue to chatter away until he runs out of words, mercilessly watching him try and fail to be casual. He is so awkward, and Ilya finds it so deeply charming that he can barely stand it. In the end, desire wins out and he shuts Hollander up, pressing their bodies together against the refrigerator. Somehow they make their way to the bedroom.

Hollander is breathtaking underneath him. He takes Ilya so well, his body falls easily into rhythm with Ilya's. He breathes gorgeous, unapologetic noises with every thrust of Ilya's hips. His hands pull at Ilya's arms, waist, neck, hair, pulling their bodies together as closely as he can.

Ilya repositions Hollander onto his knees, spreads one hand between his shoulder blades almost reverently. Hollander moves back into him, impatient, and Ilya is happy to oblige him. He loses himself in the sensations, drunk on Hollander's scent, the taste of his sweat, the moans and whimpers that fall shamelessly from his lips, the rippling of muscles under his skin and the tight heat of his body.

He struggles to write his journal entry that night. It feels wrong, detached, to reduce the evening to a series of bullet points. Lost in Montreal. Went to Hollanders apartment. Had sex so good I almost saw God.

After his third attempt at rewriting the entry, he closes the book, dissatisfied. He'd gotten the facts across, and that was all that mattered. Whatever he'd felt about it wasn't important. Feelings wouldn't help him survive through the night.

Still, when he wakes up the following morning in his Montreal hotel room, he replays the memory and feels a sense of gratitude. Memory was such a fragile thing, so fleeting and ephemeral, so easy to lose without even realizing it. He'd been allowed to keep this one, for at least one more day; he recognized it for the gift that it was.

December 2011 - Montreal @ Boston, 7:30 PM

When do you fly out?

Jane: Not until the morning.

Come over after the game?

Jane: where?

2886 Beacon Street

Jane: see you then

March 2012 - Boston @ Buffalo, 8:00 PM

Jane: Ouch. How's your face?

Don't worry. I am still very sexy.

Jane: I wasn't worried about that.

Oh? So you agree that I am very sexy?

Jane: Never mind. I don't care about your face anymore.

☹️

Jane: What did you say to him, anyway?

I tell him he looks like one of those elves

The ones that live in trees and make cookies

And that he plays hockey just as good as one of them

Jane: You called him a Keebler elf? Wow.

Am I wrong?

Jane: Haha. No, but I can see why he punched you.

You are not very nice, Jane.

Jane: And you're an asshole.

I think you like it.

Jane: I'm going to bed. Ice your stupid face.

Summer 2012

What is Canadian summer like?

Jane: What do you mean? Like, the weather?

oh my god. yes. Jane, please tell me about weather.

Jane: I'm pretty sure you're joking again.

No, no. Weather is so sexy. Is so hot in Canada right now?

Maybe so hot you can only wear tiny little shorts?

Jane: Fuck off

Show me your little shorts, Jane. I want to see your perfect ass.

Jane: No. I'm not sending you photos.

😢 pleaseeee

I will send you something nice too

[Image Attached]

Jane: Jesus Christ Rozanov

Your turn 😈

Jane: Fuck. Fine. Give me a second.

Jane: [Image Attached]

Fuck, Jane. 🥵

Jane: delete that before you go to bed.

so bossy.

September 2012 - Preseason

Jane: I just saw Tremblay got traded to Vancouver

Yes, good. I'm not sorry to see him go.

Jane: Really? He's a decent player.

He's only okay. And he has a bad attitude.

Jane: He does?

Yes. Almost punched him last season.

Jane: Really? Why?

Always talking shit about the players he doesn't like.

Jane: Like who?

Carter Vaughan. Boiziau. A few others.

Jane: Oh. I see.

Will be good for Boston. We can get someone much better to replace him.

Jane: It doesn't matter. Montreal will still kick your ass all season long.

Oh really?

You want to know what Boston will do to your ass all season long?

Jane: I hate you

No you don't.

Two Days Later

I heard an interesting rumor about Tremblay.

Apparently his wife is not going with him to Vancouver.

Jane: How the fuck do you know that?

WAG chat

Jane: Wait, what? How do you know what the wags talk about?

Connors girlfriend is a gossip. So is Connors.

Jane: So are you.

You started it.

Jane: Wait, so his wife is leaving him?

Apparently she said she loves Boston too much

Jane: More than her own husband? Wow, haha.

It is very funny. I never understood why she was with him.

He is so ugly and stupid and bad at hockey.

Jane: I mean, he's definitely an asshole but he's not that bad at hockey.

You think Hayden Pike is a good player. Your opinion is meaningless.

Jane: I changed my mind. You're the asshole.

Yes? And?

I think maybe I will get her number from Connors.

Jane: Who, Tremblay's wife?

Sure. She is very beautiful.

Jane: Oh.

She is single now. She deserves a warm welcome back.

Is the least I can do.

She was stuck with his pasty, pimply ass for too long

and his terrible coffee breath

Jane: Okay.

I will invite her out after a game

have drinks, go dancing

have so much fun

and then send her home with Marly

Jane: What?

oh, you think I mean something else?

No, no, Jane.

I think she would be perfect match for Marly.

He is an idiot but has a good heart.

And she apparently has very poor judgment, if she was willing to marry Tremblay.

It will be a perfect match, I think.

Jane: I fucking hate you.

❤️

April 2013 - Playoffs

Boston clinches a spot in the playoffs and with it, Ilya finds himself appointed to Captain. The first time he sees the "C" on his sweater he finds himself unexpectedly emotional. Marly claps a big, meaty hand on his shoulder.

"Congrats man. Not even two seasons under your belt, but management knows a franchise star when they see one." The rest of the team echoes similar sentiments as he pulls the sweater over his pads. There's a warmth spreading through him, a tightness in his throat. He swallows, takes a steadying breath, and plasters a grin on his face. He turns back to face his team who are looking at him expectantly.

"Let's go show New York how to play a fucking hockey game!" he bellows, to a chorus of banging sticks and whoops of excitement.

They win the series, and lose the next. It stings, but his team goes out for drinks. They get drunk, and Ilya corrals them out of the bar before they can cause too much trouble. Somehow Connors convinces the rest to follow him to a nearby playground with an intimidating metal slide. Ilya laughs so hard tears stream down his face as his wonderful, idiot teammates launch themselves down the metal chute, tumbling out at the bottom at alarming speeds. They cheer for him as he takes his turn, and when he crashes into Carmichael at the bottom of the slide, he has only one thought in his head. This must be what it's like to have real brothers.

2013 Summer

Jane

...

Jane

Jane: Hey. Sorry I'm with my parents. What's up?

Oh. Nothing.

Jane: I can talk later if you want?

Can't talk tonight, I'm going out with friends.

Jane: Oh, okay.

Jane: Have fun.

December 2013 - Montreal

Ilya falls back into a nest of pillows, feeling thoroughly satiated. Hollander lies next to him, breathing hard, a blissed-out smile on his face. Ilya stares at the ceiling in contentment; the two enjoy a moment of comfortable silence, save for the sounds of their own breathing. Eventually, Ilya shuffles to rest his head on Hollander's shoulder; it's more comfortable for his neck than the absurd mountain of decorative pillows Hollander insists on adorning his bed with. Hollander obliges, and wraps his arm around Ilya's neck, letting his fingers trace soft circles over his upper arm.

It's comfortable. It's familiar. It's disconcerting in how right it feels. An uneasiness grows in Ilya's gut as they lie there in the afterglow. He's been trying to ignore this for two years, purposely plugging his ears against the feeling that grows louder with every text message, every face-off, every hook up.

This can't be anything. He and Hollander can't have more than this, can't want more than this. But the feeling is insistent and warm, and so dangerously, tantalizingly close to the feeling of arriving home after a long trip.

He should tear himself away— leave, take some time away. Allow this thing to course correct into the arrangement of convenience it is clearly supposed to be. That would be the smart thing to do, it would protect them both. Instead, he settles for a half-measure.

"The Olympics are soon."

"Yeah, it's pretty crazy. Your parents must be excited they're in Russia this year," Hollander murmured, eyes half closed.

"My father, yes. He is hoping for Russian gold."

"Tell your father I'm sorry, he'll have to settle for silver." Hollander smiles as he makes the joke. Ilya does not laugh.

"Hollander," he sits up. Hollander opens his eyes and looks at him with a lazy contentment that clears and resolves into attentive curiosity as he registers the serious expression on Ilya's face.

"We will not see each other during the Olympics," he begins. Hollander looks at him, puzzled.

"Yeah, of course, I didn't think we would."

"It is not…" he hesitates "…like here. It would be bad if anyone saw us."

Hollander nods. "Yeah, I get it. You don't need to worry."

Ilya holds his gaze. A small smile spreads across Hollander's face.

"Rozanov. Come on. Same secret, remember?"

Ilya smiles at that. He leans forward and kisses Hollander again.

"You know, it does kind of suck that we won't have All Stars this year," says Hollander between kisses. "It's the only time we ever get two nights in a row."

Ilya murmurs his agreement into Hollander's mouth.

"Maybe you can stay a little longer?" he pants, throwing his head back to give Ilya access to his throat. Ilya responds by pushing Hollander back down onto the mattress and lowering himself on top of him. Fuck curfew. Fuck the Olympics. Fuck Russia. Here, under him, is the only thing in the world that seems to make any sense. He has no idea where this path leads, he knows it will probably all end in disaster, but tonight he'll take as much as Hollander will give him.

December 2008 - Saskatchewan

The alarm blares in Ilya's ears, piercing, like a siren. He flinches at the noise, curling himself inwards instinctively. His arms come up to wrap around his head, protecting him from a blow he knows is coming.

It doesn't come. Ilya remains frozen, waiting. His heart pounds. There are tears in his eyes he can't explain.

He forces his eyes open. He is in a familiar, shabby hotel room and he is sobbing into his pillow as quietly as he can. He is alive. He is unharmed. He thinks that maybe, in another universe, another version of himself isn't so lucky. He manages to tear himself away from the mattress and stagger into the bathroom, where he runs the shower for far too long while he sits curled on the tile floor.

His mind is terrifyingly blank. No memories cling to the crevices of his brain. There is nothing but a void, the emptiness so fucking loud and heavy in his head.

Ilya's mouth is dry. He is panting. He is aware of phantom pain radiating through his body, distant and nonspecific, detached from himself, more remembered than truly felt.

Breathe. It's not real anymore. Whatever it is, it's over. That was before. Focus. He fumbles for the chain around his neck, his fingers find the cross and wrap around it desperately. The edges dig into his fingers and he focuses on the pain. It's sharp and real and he clings to it.

Ilya manages to clumsily pull off his clothes, stagger into the shower, and let the water run over his trembling body. He turns the temperature up; the heat is uncomfortable but grounding. He feels his breathing slowly begin to even out.

He closes his eyes and focuses. There has to be something beyond the void; there is always something.

There's an arena— packed with fans. A game, then?

No. Ilya isn't on the ice, he's watching from above. Figure skating, he thinks, and it sounds like it could be right.

"You didn't answer my text." The words echo through his mind and he flinches. They are quiet, but laced with concern. The voice is familiar, soothing, but so, so wrong. Somehow, he knows that it belongs to Hollander.

What the fuck? He'd been… watching figure skating with Hollander?

Sochi. Olympics.

A terrifying chasm yawns across his consciousness. A question he wasn't sure he was brave enough to know the answer to.

What the fuck did you do, Hollander?

1. You will meet Shane Hollander today. Don't be an asshole.

2. June 2009, Draft Day -  go to the hotel gym at 11pm. Use the bike. Bring water. 

3. July 2010 - CCM photo shoot. Make sure Hollander is also there. 

1. January 2011 - All Stars Weekend - Get Hollander's phone number.

2. DO NOT TALK TO HOLLANDER IN SOCHI.

The words are shaky and messy, scrawled in ugly lettering across the paper. It was all he could manage. The panic in his body had retreated but only partially; the tide threatening to rush back in at any minute.

His fingers fumble clumsily with his lighter. The cigarette hangs uselessly between his lips.

"Ilya Rozanov?"

He whirls around, flinching as if someone had set off an explosion behind him.

Hollander stands in front of him. A flash of memory springs forward, leaking through a crack in his defenses. Hollander, a few years older, a bit bigger, looking at him with a worried expression. The roar of an audience floods his ears. He blinks and he's back in a parking lot. It's just him and this other Hollander. He holds out a hand to Ilya.

"Shane Hollander, I play for Team Canada."

Ilya stares at the outstretched hand as if it were a poisonous snake. He takes a step back.

"What the fuck is this?" a voice snarls in Russian, tearing against the fabric of his mind.

"Are you okay?" Hollander is looking at him, concerned. "Do you want me to get someone for you?"

He needs to get out of here. He stumbles backwards. An iron vice closes around his ribs. The sound of a crowd cheering fills his ears so loudly, he can barely hear Hollander calling after him. He is aware that he has fallen to his knees. There are hands on his back— there are fists against his stomach— there is something tightening around his neck— there is the taste of blood in his mouth— there is—

The alarm goes off. Ilya grabs the phone from where it sits and throws it against the wall as hard as he can. He sinks back down into bed and rolls over, folding in on himself. His roommate curses at him in anger and surprise. He squeezes his eyes shut and does not move.

"Get the fuck up, we have practice."

"Fuck you. I'm sick."

When his coach begins to pound angrily on the hotel door, Ilya drags himself into the bathroom. He locks the door and turns on the shower. He sits on the floor of the shower, still wearing his sleep clothes, and watches the droplets of water trickle down the glass.

The alarm goes off. Ilya jumps out of bed, throws on the nearest clothes he can find, and is out the door before his roommate is even fully awake.

He exits the hotel and walks across the street to a convenience store. He buys a new lighter and a package of painkillers. He does not go back to the hotel. He turns left, for no reason in particular, and begins to walk again. He takes three pills and smokes a cigarette, then another one. His pack is half empty.

There is a void in his mind. He is left only with the knowledge that he does not remember why he's back here again.

Yesterday— some yesterday from a previous life, his father had called him. He'd spoken with an icy, cutting contempt that somehow hurt even more than the unbridled rage that Ilya also knew well, that was often immediately followed by bruises and the smell of antiseptic.

Look at you. No discipline, no strength. Your coach tells me you missed two easy shots last game, you didn't score at all. Shameful.

We won that game, Father, 2-1. I assisted with both goals.

That doesn't matter. You should be better than that. It should have been 4-1. Or 4-0. You let your team carry you, how can you call yourself the captain? You are weak. You are weak just like your mother. I gave you every opportunity, I did everything I could to raise you to be a strong man, but there is too much of her in you. You are just like her and it will be your downfall.

Ilya pulls out his phone and tosses it into the street. It skids across the salt-stained asphalt before coming to rest near the center line. Ilya watches for a moment as a few cars pass by. One clips the edge of the phone and sends it flying into the opposite lane of traffic, directly under the path of an oncoming truck.

Satisfied, Ilya pulls out another cigarette and keeps walking.

The alarm goes off and Ilya forces his eyes open.

He feels wrung out. Empty.

"Turn that shit off," complains his roommate from under a pile of blankets. Ilya complies.

Last night he dreamed of a man with dark hair and serious eyes. He had been watching Ilya tear himself apart. Waiting patiently. Ilya focuses on the face; he can't place it, can't put a name to it, but he knows that face. Somehow he knows that man.

He turns to the bedside table. He pulls out the notepad. He writes five lines that mean almost nothing to him.

Hollander. Hollander. He knows the name. That's the Canadian kid the media keeps trying to position as his rival. He frowns at the list. He knows he's missing something.

He gets ready for practice. What choice does he have?

Hours later, the man from his dream stands in front of him shaking his hand and Ilya doesn't know how to feel about it. Who the fuck is this kid?

Ilya pushes everything down. He focuses on his game. He growls at his teammates and throws himself into practice with the ferocity of a rabid animal. Russia wins gold and when he sees Hollander in the handshake line, he twists his face into an expression halfway between a smile and baring his teeth.

"See you at the draft."

Chapter 5

Ilya wakes each morning, pinned to his mattress by the weight of horrible, directionless familiarity. He has done all of this before, so many times, but all he has to show for it is the deafening silence of absolute nothingness. There is a growing chasm inside of him; no matter how many lifetimes he has lived, the days slip through the cracks, a tiny piece of his soul attached to each one. They disappear, leaving him hollow. He wonders if this is what it is to lose one's mind. He wonders whether this is how his mother felt before she tipped that bottle of pills into her mouth.

He tells himself it's just Russia. It's the slow monotony of weeks spent waiting for the next part of his life to begin. Surely he felt this way all the other times, including the very first time. After all— the actions of his life can be so neatly reduced to a series of bullet points on a list. Wake up. Train. Skate. Endure. Eat. Drink. Come. Sleep. It's the same few actions, shuffled and replayed day after day.

One day, in mid-February, for reasons Ilya can't even begin to explain to himself, he buys a discounted calendar on his way home from the rink. It has pictures of kittens on it. He's never cared much for cats, but for some reason, the ferociously angry looking ball of dark fluff on the front cover sends a flood of warmth through his chest. He clings to the feeling as he sets the calendar on the small desk in his bedroom. Every morning he crosses out the previous day, a solemn reminder that he, Ilya Rozanov, is still here.Yesterday tried to kill me, and failed.

Somehow, he wakes up one morning and it is June. He boards a plane to the U.S. with his father. The draft is in a few days; he will put on the best suit he owns and stand politely at attention while rich men decide his future. His father scowls in the seat next to him. He murmurs in Russian, Sit up straight. Don't slouch. It will be nine hours until they land on US soil; Ilya obeys anyway.

June 2009, Los Angeles - Draft Day

Hollander practically seethes next to him as photographers take their picture. A perverse pleasure floods Ilya's veins as he glances to his right and sees the barely contained disappointment and anger on Hollander's face. This strange, intense boy who seems to be the cause of so much of Ilya's strife stands next to him with a smile that is 90% pained grimace, choking on the mere idea that someone could be better than him at hockey. Get used to the feeling. You are stuck with me, one way or another.

That night, Ilya saunters into the hotel gym at 11:08. Hollander is bent over one of the bikes, pedaling as if he were being chased by something. In a way, Ilya supposes, he is.

July 2010, Toronto - CCM Photo Shoot

"This is such a bad idea," Hollander pants breathlessly into Ilya's mouth, even as his hands are frantically working at the button of Ilya's jeans.

"Is what makes it fun, yes?" Ilya pulls Hollander's shirt over his head. He stoops to plant a line of kisses along Hollander's collarbone.

The familiarity is still there, the constant undercurrent to every waking minute, although Ilya has found that its presence is almost comfortable now. In Russia, it had felt like a siren, drowning out everything else with a warning of imminent danger. Here, breathing in the scent of Hollander's shampoo and deodorant, it feels more like a homing beacon, pulling him toward something rather than urging him to brace for impact.

Hollander gets Ilya's pants undone and drops to his knees. He glances up to meet Ilya's eyes— a wordless request. Ilya nods, his mouth half open as he watches Hollander peel the waistband of his underwear down. There is no hesitation. He opens his mouth and— Ilya's head falls heavily back against the wall of the hotel room with the sensation. He forces himself to return his gaze to the angel kneeling in front of him.

"Fuck— stop, stop," he pants after a minute, "Too good. Will be over too quickly."

Hollander lets his dick fall from between his lips, an obscene trail of saliva stretching, then breaking across his chin. He looks up at Ilya with a smug grin.

A flicker of doubt crosses Ilya's mind. He pulls Hollander up— "Is this your first time with a man?" He had assumed it was based on Hollander's nervousness earlier in the showers, but now, as he rises slowly, he meets Ilya's gaze with nothing but a lusty smile bordering on cocky. Either he's done this before, or he's somehow just as infuriatingly skilled in the bedroom as he is on the ice.

Hollander nods his head once, looking at Ilya now with an appraising expression to see what his reaction will be. Ilya almost laughs incredulously. Of course you're fucking perfect on your first try.

So, Hollander is just a born talent at sucking dick, so what? Good for him. Good for Ilya.

Ilya pulls him in for a rough kiss and is pleased by the way Hollander opens his mouth, letting him in deeper. His hands move to Hollander's hips and he pulls him closer, grinding against him. Hollander lets out a small whine.

"Bed," Ilya directs, hoping he sounds more in control than he feels.

Hollander smirks and squeezes Ilya's bicep as he guides him back towards the bed. Clothes come off— Ilya's discarded across the floor, Hollander's stacked in a neatly folded pile on top of the dresser. And then, Hollander is above him, trailing kisses down his chest, his abdomen, and Ilya's entire universe shrinks to this moment, in this bed, with Hollander.

January 2011, Nashville - All Stars Weekend

Hollander lies under him, naked and sated with a lazy grin on his face. Ilya presses a kiss into his jaw.

"What is your phone number?" he asks. "Will make it easier to plan for next time."

As he asks the question, he rolls off Hollander, prompting an unhappy whine from him. Ilya clicks his tongue in gentle admonishment as he fishes through the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. He finds his phone and settles back onto the bed next to Hollander. He wraps an arm around him, and tries to ignore the flush of warmth he feels as the other man practically nuzzles into his chest.

"Well?" Ilya says with an amused grin, "What is your number? Or is it a secret?"

Hollander lets out a contented sigh. He doesn't bother to open his eyes as he rattles off a series of numbers. Ilya types them in, and sends a quick text. He hears a distant buzzing as his message presumably gets sent through to Hollander's phone.

That's point number four: complete.

Ilya puts down his phone and lets his head fall back against the headboard. Hollander lies heavily at his side, his head still resting in the crook of Ilya's shoulder, his breathing slow and deep. It's more intimate than anything they'd done over the last hour. This should feel wrong, awkward, too much. Hollander shifts his weight and Ilya finds himself tensing. There— the spell is broken. Hollander will retreat to the shower to rinse off the remnants of Ilya's touch and reestablish the distance that exists between them. But instead, he props himself up on an elbow to look at Ilya with a smirk.

"Don't make me regret giving that to you," he says with mock sternness. Ilya grins and moves forward to kiss Hollander's beautiful lips.

"You will regret not giving it to me sooner. I am very sexy and funny, good to talk to."

Hollander snorts and lowers himself back down onto the bed, letting a comfortable silence fall over the room.

They are practically strangers. They've only met like this twice, have probably exchanged fewer than a hundred words.

He knows that's not really the truth— for him, at least. But, says an annoying little voice in his head, it should be true for Hollander.

Hollander— who, as far as Ilya can tell, possesses a near-pathological need for control in all aspects of his life. Hollander doesn't stop; he exists in a state of perpetual forward momentum, always focused on arriving at the next task to complete, the next obstacle to overcome. And yet, here he is, perfectly at ease, cuddling with Ilya as if this is all part of his meticulous system of routines, like the entire world wouldn't fall apart if they were discovered.

Ilya isn't sure how he feels about any of this. He knows that every minute he allows Hollander to stay in his bed is a step further into dangerous and unfamiliar territory.

He should say something. Make a joke. Ask Hollander how it's possible he is so fucking good in bed if he's truly only ever sucked one dick a total of two times. Ask him if he's practiced with the dildo he mentioned. Maybe ask him whether he likes girls too— Hollander hasn't mentioned either way. But, maybe Ilya doesn't actually want the answers to any of those questions. He doesn't want to know if Hollander has a string of hookups as long as Ilya's, and he definitely doesn't want to think too closely about the irrational surge of jealousy he feels at the thought.

March 2011

Jane: Hey.

what is this?

very sexy hockey player texting me after 11:00 at night?

I didnt know you stayed up this late

Jane: Fuck you. I just finished a game.

congratulations to other team on their win

i did not watch, i am just assuming

Jane: Never mind. Bye.

no come back ☹️

Jane: Fine.

Jane: We won 3-1, by the way.

Jane: I just wanted to see about our game on Thursday. Meet up after?

😈 yes

Jane: Cool. I'll send you my address.

June 2011, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

He turns away from the Vegas skyline before he even hears the footsteps. He wants a cigarette, but he's resisting the urge. He can have one after. Hollander will be a good distraction, and he won't be as pissy about the cigarette if Ilya fucks his brains out first.

As if conjured from Ilya's thoughts, Hollander suddenly stands between him and the door, looking self-assured and expectant. He looks victorious. Ilya wants to devour him.

He means to respond with a quip. Instead, what he manages is, "I'm in 1502."

The corners of Hollanders mouth curve upward. He nods, and scans the rooftop, ensuring their privacy before taking one small step forward.

"Meet you there in ten minutes?"

Ilya nods. He steps closer to Hollander; too close, there's no excuse for them to be standing this close together. He can practically feel the heat radiating off Hollander. Their foreheads nearly touch. He stays here for a fraction of a second before smoothly stepping to the side and calling over his shoulder, "See you soon."

Hollander stays until 4:30am. Ilya finds, with an uneasy twist in his stomach, that he's sad to see him go.

Summer 2011

[Image Attached]

Like what you see?

Jane: Not now. I'm at a shoot.

a sexy one?

let me see

are you in tiny little underwear

Jane: Fuck off. I can't talk right now.

just one picture please

Jane: I don't even look that sexy. I'm just pretending to work out.

are you all sweaty and flushed?

maybe wearing a shirt so tight i can see your nipples through it?

Jane: Jesus.

Jane: I mean I guess it's a tight shirt.

let me see

Jane: [Image Attached]

Jane: There. Now shut up, I need to get back to the shoot.

fuckkk

[Image Attached]

look what you do to me

i will sleep very well now

thank you jane 😘

Jane: Holy shit Rozanov.

Jane: That's fucking hot.

Jane: Now STOP FUCKING TEXTING ME WHEN I'M WORKING.

September 2011

"Hey, Roz! Have a good summer?" Marly's voice echoes off the walls of the locker room, warm and welcoming. Ilya feels the smile start to spread across his face, and makes only a cursory effort to temper it.

"Yes, thank you. Good summer for you, too?"

"Fuck yeah, brother. I met this girl, super hot, and we hit it off, right? So I invited her to Cabo for a week…"

Marlow keeps recounting his story to a boisterous locker room, his voice booming out over a chorus of laughs, chirps, and the occasional wolf whistle. Ilya tunes out on the details and regards his team. After a summer off, everyone is full of laughter and energy, hungry to continue the momentum they had started to build last season.

Ilya is hungry, too. He feels stronger, faster, sharper than he did this time last year. He's ready to get back on the ice, to score more goals than last year. He's ready to hit his favorite clubs and laugh at Marly when he inevitably gets too drunk and tries to get them to go to a karaoke bar instead. He can't wait to fly all over the continent, winning games, making headlines, seeing his goals and fights replayed all over sports channels and social media.

He can't fucking wait for their first game against Montreal.

He files out of the locker room with the rest of them, down the tunnel to the ice. He steps into the ice and takes what feels like the first real breath in months.

Home again. At last.

November 2012 - Winnipeg @ Boston, 7:30 PM

Jane: Nice goal tonight.

does it turn you on when I score?

be honest

Jane: Fuck you.

not until you answer

Jane: You already know the answer.

want you to say it

Jane: God, you are such an asshole.

Jane: Yes. It's hot when you score.

did you get hard watching me play tonight, Hollander?

Jane: Fuck. Yes. I did.

did you touch yourself?

Jane: Not yet.

waiting for me?

such a good boy

Jane: I hate how hot that is.

go get your dildo

pretend its me

Jane: Fuck.

Jane: I can't text and do that at the same time.

then i call you. tell you what to do

get to hear those pretty little noises you make

[Call with Jane — 41 minutes 37 seconds]

April 2012 - Playoffs Round 1, Game 3 - Detroit @ Boston, 8:00 PM

Playoffs are fun. How come you're not here?

Jane: Asshole.

yes, yes.

I make you a deal.

Watch game tonight

Touch yourself

Do not come until I score.

Jane: Fuck, Rozanov.

Jane: What if you don't score?

then you don't come.

lucky for us both, I will score 😉

you can watch my celly and know i am thinking of you 😘

Jane: You are killing me. Fuck.

be good. I will call you later.

Jane: Good luck tonight.

💋

[48 minutes later]

Jane: Holy fuck. Oh my God.

Jane: [Image Attached]

Jane: I think I'm dead.

Jane: You're fucking crazy.

[2 hours later]

fuck, look at you

I call when I get home?

Jane: Okay 😊

wont be too late?

don't want to interrupt your beauty sleep

Jane: No its fine. I'm ready for round two.

Jane: Great game, by the way. You played fucking great.

I always play fucking great

Jane: Bullshit.

99% of the time, then, mr. boring numbers

but yes I played very well tonight

had someone to show off for 😉

[Call with Jane - 37 minutes 12 seconds]

Summer 2013

Jane: Hey. Are you free?

well hello jane

is very early in the morning in moscow

i only fell asleep 3 hours ago

Jane: Oh, shit. I'm sorry.

is okay.

you need something?

Jane: It's not important, I'm sorry for waking you up.

jane.

i already said its okay

is not the worst way to wake up you know

text from beautiful boy with freckles

Jane: Okay. 

so? i hear you thinking all the way across the ocean.

tell me why you texted me.

Jane: I can't sleep.

Jane: Sorry. I told you it was stupid.

Jane: I forgot about the time difference.

Jane: I just thought… you know.

jane are you trying to sext me right now

i am scandalized

i am good Russian girl

you scoundrel. trying to ruin me

Jane: Fuck off I don't want to anymore.

Jane: How do you know the word scoundrel anyway?

is in a lot of romance books

i read them for english practice

and the new yorker

Jane: Are you serious?

no, new yorker is boring.

call me and let me help you relax 😘

[Call with Jane - 1 hour 13 minutes 4 seconds]

December 2013

"Hey, are you okay?"

The words pull Ilya back into his body. He stirs and turns to look at Hollander, who is lounging next to him, one leg lazily draped over Ilya's thigh. He looks at Ilya with curiosity.

"Yes, good. I don't think my brain works anymore— too much sex, you know."

Hollander smirks, then lets his face return to neutral. "You sure? I know I'm boring but you don't usually completely zone out while I'm in the middle of a sentence."

"Sorry," says Ilya. He considers making a joke, but at the last minute, decides to go with honesty, or something close to it.

"I am thinking of the Olympics."

Hollander nods, understanding. "It's a lot of pressure. Especially with them being in Russia this year, I bet?"

Ilya nods. Hollander doesn't understand, not really. Some of it, maybe— Ilya has been selected as the captain of team where most of the players are older than him, and most of whom he hasn't played with in years, if at all. The weight of Russia's expectations is heavy; it threatens to crush him if he can't carry it properly. He must lead the team to gold; there simply is not another option.

Hollander is no stranger to the pressure of competition, or of the responsibility of representing an entire group of people. But, of course, the games themselves aren't the only thing on Ilya's mind. The warning siren has started up in his head again, after more than three years of generally humming comfortably in the background. It's gotten louder and more discordant and he knows, he just knows it's because of Sochi. There is something that looms just out of reach; when he tries to think about it he finds his adrenaline spiking, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest, and absolutely no idea of the reason.

He thinks— he knows— something bad happened at the Olympics, last time. Something that rendered five years of his life moot, sent him hurtling half a decade back into the past with absolutely nothing to show for it. The larger the games loom over him, the more he suspects with a terrible sinking feeling that the Bad Thing had nothing to do with hockey. A small voice whispers in the back of his head: He doesn't know Russia. Does he know how to keep himself safe? Does he know how to keep you safe?

He is aware of Hollander's gaze on him again, and the silence that has fallen over the room. He takes a deep breath and tries to respond.

"Yes, it is a lot of pressure, but… I think maybe it is more than this." He is surprised with himself, allowing Hollander to ask questions like this, and making himself vulnerable to him. He's surprised, and scared, to learn that he wants to answer Hollander's questions, he wants to be able to explain all of this to him. If he could open his mouth and let the whole unbelievable story tumble out onto the bed between them, what would Hollander do?

Leave— of course he'd leave, as quickly as possible. He'd be absolutely right to do so. So, Ilya can't tell him the truth, not the whole truth, at least.

He makes a choice. He shifts, and turns to lie on his side, facing Hollander, who is regarding him with an air of quiet attentiveness. Giving him space to share as much or as little as he wants.

"Russia is… a complicated place," he begins. "Is home, but maybe not the kind of home you are used to. Something like this—" he gestured between them— "it would be very, very bad if anyone found out. You understand?"

Hollander nods, a frown forming on his face. "How bad?"

Ilya can't help looking away for the briefest moment. "Very bad, I think."

"I'm so sorry. That must be… hard. Going back there every summer."

Ilya doesn't respond. What is there to say? He has weakened himself enough in front of this man. He has stripped away his own armor, ensuring the first blow Hollander decides to strike will be fatal.

He can't give Hollander more. He will not cut into the flesh of his chest, tear at his rib cage with desperate fingers, pluck out the bloody, beating mess from inside and give it to Hollander. I know it's not enough, but it's all I have.

He won't do it, because he knows what would happen. Hollander would look at Ilya's offering the way a cat owner looks at a dead bird dropped on the doorstep, and he will leave. He will feel terribly guilty about it and he will be apologetic and kind, and Ilya will not survive it.

Ilya needs to leave. The danger isn't in Sochi, it is here in this bed, looking back at him with serious, dark eyes. How the fuck had he let things get this far? He is weak, so fucking weak, just like his father always told him. Never willing to put up with a little discomfort for the good of his career, his legacy, his family, his country—

Ilya turns away from Hollander and swings his legs out of the bed.

"I need to go," he hears himself say in a curt voice. He is dimly aware of Hollander sitting up behind him, can almost taste the confusion and hurt radiating off him. He does not turn around to look. He grabs his clothes and puts them on as quickly as he can.

"Ilya?"

It's just one word. His name. His first name. He's never heard it from Shane's lips before. It is so sweet it nearly sends a flood of tears to his eyes. He has lost his mind, he recognizes this now. Somehow this hookup, convenient and safe in their mutual need for secrecy, mutated in his brain into an impossible fantasy. He has conned himself into believing this could ever be more than a quick fuck a few times a year. He hates himself for every choice he's made that has led to this moment. He hates himself even more for what he knows he has to do next.

"Goodbye, Hollander."

He does not look back as he opens the bedroom door and leaves.

2014 Winter Olympics, Sochi

Team Russia does not play well.

Worse, Ilya does not play well.

These items, taken alone, are painful. Together, they are the perfect recipe for a storm of national humiliation, and profound familial disappointment to match. Ilya stands in front of a bank of microphones and takes full credit for his team's failure on the world stage as his father seethes from the back of the room.

Look at the shame you have brought home with you. You were supposed to lead, to be a man for once in your life. Your team trusted you, Russia trusted you. You have made us look foolish and weak.

And with that, his time at the Olympics ends abruptly. He is expected home; his father had made that clear in no uncertain terms. You will visit with the minister— God knows why he still wants to see you, after that disgrace. You will be on your best behavior.

He'll leave, soon. There's no reason for him to stay. He watches a Canadian figure skater pick up speed and land a complicated-looking jump. The crowd in the stands below cheers.

He would be lying if he said his play hadn't been affected by Hollander. Of course it had. What a coward he had been, leaving without even turning to look at him. Weak. Just like your mother.

Hollander has not texted. Has not called. It is exactly what Ilya had been trying to accomplish, and exactly what he deserves.

He deserves this, too: a humiliating early loss to a team that has no chance of medal contention. A father who can barely stand to look at him with anything less than naked contempt. A phone that does not chirp with new messages from the only person he wants to talk to ever again.

"Where the fuck have you been? I've been calling you for an hour, asshole."

Ah. And here is the punchline to the joke that is his life: here is the person he could happily go the rest of his life without ever speaking to again. Ilya forces his face to relax and turns away from the ice, where the skater is bowing and waving to the crowd.

"I've been here, obviously. What the fuck do you want, Alexei?"

"Father wants you home. He's getting impatient, you should have been there yesterday."

"I had business to finish. I can find my own way back to Moscow. You can go back to your girls and cocaine now."

Alexei's lips curl into an unpleasant sneer. He moves closer to Ilya, glancing around quickly to make sure no one is within earshot. "You think you're better than me just because you can skate around on a sheet of ice? You're no fucking saint, Ilya. I see the photos of you in the clubs. The girls, the booze. You're just as fucked up as I am, sad little Ilyushenka. Now fucking move."

Numbly, Ilya takes a step towards the exit. Alexei stalks behind him, giving his shoulder a small shove for good measure.

Ilya walks down a stairwell. He is so high up in these stands, how had he even gotten up that high? He doesn't remember walking up all these stairs. Alexei follows closely, guiding him towards an exit that Ilya barely remembers exists.

There are more people down here. They mingle, milling about in their seats or the open spaces behind them.

A group of men walk toward Ilya, chatting conversationally with each other. Ilya is floating above himself and realizes too late— fuck. No. not now.

"Rozanov!" Scott Hunter's voice is one of surprise. "Hey, man, wasn't sure if we'd run into you over here!" He holds out a hand for a handshake. Ilya takes it automatically, dropping it as quickly as he can. Carter Vaughn extends his hand next.

"Hey, Roz. Tough break out there, man." Vaughn has the fucking audacity to actually sound genuine. As if he actually thinks his sympathy means anything at all to Ilya.

Shane Hollander stares at a point in space somewhere to the right of Ilya's shoulder. Then, he seems to remember himself and, still without meeting Ilya's gaze, nods. His hands stay planted firmly in his pockets. "Rozanov. Good to see you."

Liar.

Ilya manages a nod of acknowledgement to the three men. Then, aware that Hunter and Vaughn, at least, seem to be waiting for some kind of response, he forces himself to focus. Fuck. Why the fuck did Alexei have to be here for this?

"Hunter. Vaughn. Hollander. I hope you are enjoying the games so far?" He phrases it like a question, but continues speaking before anyone has a chance to respond. "I am sorry, but I can't stay to talk. My brother and I are expected home." He gestures towards Alexei, and moves to step past the trio.

Alexei has other plans. He plasters on his smarmy, con man smile that Ilya finds nauseating, and holds out a hand to Hunter.

"Ahh, you are American hockey player, yes?" he says, his English stilted and slow. It's an act, Ilya knows. His English is better than he lets on; he uses it to his advantage when scoping out marks.

"Yeah, Vaughn and I play for New York," says Hunter, enunciating clearly as if Alexei were deaf. "Hollander is Canadian."

Alexei barely acknowledges Vaughn before turning to Hollander. He frowns, then his expression clears.

"Ah, yes! You I know. You are, how you say, enemy of my brother?" Alexei's smile is ugly and predatory. Shane holds his gaze evenly.

"Rivals," he says smoothly. "We play against each other often, and we both hate to lose."

"He can be… how you say… not polite, my baby brother." continues Alexei. Ilya feels a flush of embarrassment and anger creeping up from under the collar of his jacket.

"You have fights on the ice, yes? Put him in his place?" Alexei mimes a punch with a mirthless smile.

A dark, sickened look clouds Hollander's features for a fraction of a second before he blinks it away. He shakes his head, coolly. "No, that's not really my style."

Alexei feigns misunderstanding. "Style?"

"I mean, I don't really get into fights like that. I just try to play good hockey," Hollander speaks evenly. He hasn't looked away from Alexei since he first turned his attention to Hollander.

Alexei's smile widens and he steps in closer to Hollander. "Ah, yes. Play good hockey. Maybe Ilyusha can learn from you. Then," he gestures vaguely at the arena around them, "maybe he will not embarrass his family and all of Russia next time. If they let him back on the team, that is."

"Enough, Alexei. Let's go." Ilya manages to squeeze the words out through clenched teeth.

Alexei takes a step back. Hollander, looking grim but unshaken, holds his gaze.

"Enjoy rest of your time in Russia," drawls Alexei as he finally turns to look towards Ilya with a nasty grin. "We say goodbye now."

Hunter and Vaughn murmur awkward goodbyes. Hollander nods tersely in Ilya's direction. The three players slowly continue their way past Ilya, ready to shake off the encounter and enjoy the rest of their evening.

"Fucking Americans. So stupid, all of them. How can you stand to be around that shit all of the time? I think they must be getting to you, turning you stupid too. That would explain this fucking disaster. Father is furious with you, by the way."

Ilya lets himself be led out of the arena, out of the Olympic village, and onto a plane. He tries not to think about what he left behind in Sochi. He does not let himself dare to hope he could ever get any of it back.

2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs

He did it. Holy shit, he actually fucking did it.

Something had come alive inside Ilya when he'd stepped back on US soil after the Olympics, some part of him that always retreated to a deep, quiet corner of his mind when he was home. Now he was back, hungry, angry. He had something to prove. It was a comforting thought— the season had only two possible outcomes: either he would win the cup, or he would die on the ice. Simple.

He had deleted Hollander's number from his phone the day after he'd returned. He'd immediately regretted it, but the small sliver of his brain that focused on self preservation had been firm.

You made your decision. You weren't sent back. This was the correct call.

And now, Ilya stands at center ice, sweaty and exhausted, and absolutely overwhelmed with triumphant joy. He did this. He did this. He made the sacrifices, he pushed himself and his team harder than he knew he could, and now the NHL commissioner is shaking his hand and congratulating him on being the youngest captain to ever lead a team to victory.

He lifts the cup. It is gorgeous, shining, cool to the touch, heavy with the weight of legacy. He relishes the effort it takes to lift it above his head. He earned this, bled for this, sacrificed for this, endured for this.

There is a dull roar from the stands, but he hears nothing.

For you, Mama, he shouts, as tears mingle with the sweat on his cheeks.

For her. This was always for her.

She had taken him out on the ice before he'd been old enough to tie his own laces. She'd held his hands and taught him how to fall without hurting himself, showed him how to glide smoothly across the ice. Convinced Father to pay for hockey lessons and gear, convinced him that Ilya's future might be worth investing in.

She'd shown Ilya something that had brought her joy, and because of that, it brought him joy. The ice was his home, because it was where Mama was happy.

He hands off the cup to Marlow. Around him, his teammates hug each other and their loved ones who have joined them on the ice. They smile at each other and up at the stands with tears in their eyes. Connors collides with him, wrapping him in a bear hug.

"We fucking did it, Cap! The fucking cup!" he throws his head back and crows.

Later, after the champagne and sweat have been washed off his skin, after he has said goodbye to the pretty girl with dark curls he'd brought home, after he has fallen back into his bed in a warm haze of alcohol and victory, he lets the quiet wash over him. His phone screen lights up and he glances at it, prepared to ignore whoever it is, until he sees who is texting him.

Sveta: I told you this was your year, Ilyusha!

You were right, as usual

Sveta: I wish I could have watched in person

Me too. We will celebrate when you are back in Boston

Sveta: Why aren't you celebrating right now? Did Boston run out of vodka and pretty girls?

I was celebrating, she just left

How many girls am I supposed to please in one night?

I know I am a sex god, Sveta, but please

Sveta: You are so stupid

I am exhausted

I played 104 games this season

Let a man rest 😴

Sveta: Rest, then. The women of Boston need you 😘

Sveta: And congratulations, Ilyusha. I'm proud of you.

Sveta: Your Mama would be so proud of you, too.

❤️

Sveta: ❤️

Ilya sets his phone down and sinks into the mattress. He stretches his long, aching limbs, then rolls onto his side and curls into himself. He doesn't want to think about how big and empty his bed feels tonight.

Just for one moment, he allows himself to think of the one person he has kept locked away in a corner of his mind for months, the one person more than anyone else he wishes were filling up the empty space on the other half of his bed. He wonders whether, in some other life where things could be different, Hollander would be proud of him.

Stop.You chose this. It doesn't matter how he'd feel, and you wouldn't deserve it anyway.

You won. Isn't that enough? You should be grateful. Close your eyes and stop wishing for impossible things.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Chapter 6

June 2014, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

Ilya pushes open the bathroom door and makes a beeline to the sink. He rests his hands on the counter and closes his eyes, willing himself to breathe normally. His heart thuds rapidly in his chest and the back of his throat stings.

The morning after he won the Stanley cup, he'd woken up to a text from an unsaved number with a Montreal area code that must have been sent just after he'd set his phone down for the night. It just read, "Congratulations."

Ilya had deleted the message, and blocked the number. He'd gone for a run, longer than normal, and then had pulled his phone back out, unblocked the number, and deleted it again instead. Safer. That way he couldn't respond even if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't.

He'd spent the next few weeks thinking very hard about everything that wasn't Shane Hollander. He'd leaned all the way into celebrating the cup win with his team: he'd gone out with at least a few teammates every night, and gone home with a different girl every time. When Sveta returned from her trip, they spent the day together. He'd bought her a gorgeous new set of earrings, taken her to her favorite restaurant, then out dancing. He'd made her come three times that night, then woken up and made her coffee and an enormous breakfast, which they ate naked in his bed.

He couldn't help himself. No matter what, Hollander always found a way back to the front of Ilya's mind. He thought about the way Hollander had refused to meet his gaze in Sochi, the tight, closed off way with which he'd spoken in Ilya's direction. When Ilya had received the news that he was to present an award with Hollander at this year's MLH awards, he'd briefly considered fleeing the country instead. He couldn't begin to fathom how he could be in the same room as Hollander again— not after the way he'd disappeared.

He'd muscled through it. He'd arrived backstage at the last possible minute, stumbled through his lines with minimal embarrassment, announced the winner, and made a swift retreat. He'd managed to hold it together until now. Now, he can take a minute to compose himself, then he'll make his way out to the party, receive the MVP award he's sure to win, and then get the fuck out of here.

The door to the bathroom opens, and Ilya whips around. No. Fuck, no. Hollander closes the door behind him and turns to look at Ilya. Ilya notes with small consolation, that Hollander looks like he feels as shitty as Ilya does. He looks in Ilya's direction, not meeting his gaze, his jaw set. Ilya waits to see if he's going to speak. He doesn't, and a heavy, tense silence falls over the bathroom.

"Well?" Ilya says finally, unable to take it any longer. "What do you want, Hollander?"

"I texted you."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. A couple times."

"I didn't get them."

"Bullshit." Hollander snaps and looks at Ilya challengingly.

Ilya lets out an exasperated breath and turns towards the mirror. "Okay, sure, I got them. I didn't answer. Happy?"

"Happy?" Hollander scoffs in disbelief. "No, Rozanov, I'm not fucking happy. I'm, I don't know, confused, I guess? Maybe a little angry?"

"Confused, yes, I think so," says Ilya through gritted teeth. "I think you are very confused about what this is. Or was."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hollander's features twist unpleasantly as he absorbs the blow. "Okay. Sure," he said quietly, bitterly, "I'm the one that's confused. One minute we're having a normal conversation, the next you're running out the door. We've been texting at least once a week for over a year and then you disappear for six months?"

"Oh, so what, because I text you a few times, now I have to give you attention whenever you want it? You call and I come running like a dog?" Ilya snaps, the words cheap and vicious like broken glass.

"Jesus— no, that's obviously not what I'm saying, asshole," Hollander shoots back.

"Well, then what the fuck do you want from me, Hollander?" Ilya throws his arms up in frustration. "What you want me to say?"

Hollander takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He speaks, clearly trying to keep his voice level. "Is this because of what happened in Sochi? Because, look—"

A new wave of fury washes over Ilya. "Don't," he hisses, taking a step closer to Hollander. "You don't get to talk to me about that. Ever."

Hollander looks as though he's been slapped. He looks away, the muscles in his jaw working under his skin.

"I don't owe you any of this shit," Ilya continues. In a distant part of his mind, he knows it's too much, too far. He knows he is breaking something beyond repair in this moment; he knows it will kill whatever small part of him still believes in happy endings, and he doesn't stop. "We aren't anything, Hollander. You are no one to me." The words taste like acid. They feel like an amputation.

Hollander stands still, saying nothing. Slowly, he turns and takes a step towards the sink.

Ilya looks towards the door. He could just walk out. He could leave. He should. Fuck Hollander, for making Ilya want things he can never have. Fuck him for asking for something he doesn't actually want. Ilya takes a step towards the door.

"I hate this fucking city," Hollander murmurs. "I hate how we always do this."

Ilya pauses, trying to make sense of the words. Always do this? That must be a mistake— maybe an unfamiliar idiom? This is only the second time they've both been in attendance at the MLH awards, and the last time they'd happily made the most of Ilya's bed almost until dawn.

Hollander doesn't seem to notice Ilya, just continues to speak. "What is it about this place that makes us hurt each other over and over again?"

"Hollander," Ilya turns away from the door to face him. "What are you talking about?"

Hollander shakes his head and scoffs. "It doesn't fucking matter, Rozanov." He steps back from the sink abruptly and moves to go around Ilya.

"Wait," Ilya reaches a hand out. Hollander pushes it away fiercely.

"Fuck off."

"What did you mean, just now?" Ilya hears the urgency in his voice.

Hollander's hand reaches for the door handle. Ilya springs forward in desperation and throws his weight against the door. Hollander looks at him with renewed anger.

"Let go of the door." Hollander's eyes blaze with fury as he works his jaw.

"When did we fight?" asks Ilya, quieter.

"I need to go." There is a warning note in Hollander's voice.

"Hollander," he says, almost pleading.

"I said move!" Hollander shouts, cold fury on his face.

It hurts. He deserves it. He knows, in this moment, it's all over. In this lifetime, he has lost Hollander forever. Numbly, he steps aside. Hollander yanks open the door and steps through without a look back.

December 2008, Saskatchewan

Ilya's fingers brush against the lighter in his jacket pocket; he hasn't even tried to light a cigarette. He's been a mess all day— unable to focus on anything other than the blurry memory of last night. Hollander, absolutely furious at him, a deep sense of guilt that tells Ilya he deserved it, and piercing through it all, an insistent voice in his head repeating: he knows something. It's hazy, but impossible to ignore: Hollander had said something that made no sense, unless he'd lived those days before.

Ilya needs to see him, to ask him. If Hollander knows, if he's trapped here too, why wouldn't he have said anything? You never said anything, why would he? Probably didn't want to sound crazy.

If he and Hollander have been secretly going through loops together without telling each other, Ilya thinks he might have to throw both of them in the path of the Zamboni. It occurs to him that maybe they are both huge fucking idiots.

Finally, fucking finally, he sees Hollander approaching, and lets out a steadying breath. He doesn't wait for Hollander to get to him; he takes a quick few steps forward and closes the distance.

"Hollander?" he says, looking expectantly.

Hollander's eyebrows raise in mild surprise— that's not good, Ilya thinks. Hollander recovers and lets out a polite smile, extending his hand. Ilya's hopes begin to deflate as he accepts the handshake.

"Rozanov, hi. I wanted to introduce myself," he says.

Maybe, Ilya thinks desperately, he just needs a nudge— a sign that he doesn't have to pretend anymore. "Have a good night last night?"

"Um… I'm sorry?" Hollander looks at him with confusion.

"Last night— you have a hot date?" He's being an asshole— against the rules, he knows, but he's desperate. Maybe he can goad Hollander into reacting.

Hollander frowns at him, confusion being replaced by annoyance.

"I was with my parents last night," he says, his tone growing curt, "I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

"Is nothing," Ilya says quickly. He doesn't want to piss Hollander off too much. "I think I see you out last night, but maybe was someone else." Hollander's expression clears and he nods slowly.

"Oh. Yeah, must have been." Hollander clears his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, you're a great player to watch, and I just wanted to introduce myself."

Ilya tries to keep the disappointment off his face. "Okay."

"I should probably get back," Hollander glances back towards the rink. He turns back towards Ilya and smiles suddenly, as if struck by a thought. "Good luck in the finals, you'll need it."

He looks so pleased with himself that Ilya can't help the grin that spreads across his face. "Is good you watch me play," he calls after Hollander. "Will help you learn to play. Watch me in final, I show you how I win game."

Hollander laughs and shakes his head. "No fucking way, Rozanov."

A few days later, Russia beats Canada in the finals, and he leans towards Hollander. "See? Now you know how to win. Maybe next time you do." He winks and swears he sees the corner of Hollander's mouth twitch.

The euphoria of the win fades quickly as Ilya is dragged back into the harsh reality of life under his father's roof. Five years, gone, he thinks. He'd made it five years and in one terrible night, he'd undone it all.

Fine. There's nothing he can do about it now, other than to keep breathing. He could do that. He would survive, until he couldn't anymore, and then he'd wake up in a dusty, shitty hotel room, and try again. He'd wake up. Probably.

Ilya thinks about Hollander more than he should, for reasons he can't fully understand.

They had fought, badly, that last night in the bathroom. He'd been merciless in his written account of the night, recording every brutal word he'd remembered from the argument. He'd told Hollander he meant nothing to him— even now, Ilya knows it must have been a lie. Not that it matters anymore, since Hollander does not know him. Ilya laughs bitterly at the thought— he'd said the words, and in doing so, he'd made it true in reverse. He is nothing to Hollander, and probably it will be for the best if it stays that way.

He sees Hollander's face in the quiet moments of his days. He remembers the way he'd smiled, delighted by Ilya's chirp behind the rink, and he aches. There is an emotion lingering somewhere beyond his grasp when he thinks of Hollander, a silent force with a pull on him like the moon has on the tides. He wants to surrender and follow this thing drawing him towards Hollander. And then he rereads his note to himself, repeating the lesson he has learned from his father, his brother, and every hockey coach he remembers having: pain is a useful tool to correct mistakes.

He goes out to clubs and fucks girls in the bathrooms. He drinks too much, too often, and gets sad— maybe the way his mother was sad. Sveta says nothing but rubs his back when he vomits it all back up. None of it helps, not really.

If he'd ever really been anything to Hollander, he'd destroyed it that last night in Vegas. Had he had a good reason for it? Or was he just the kind of asshole who can't help but to hurt the people who dare to get close to him?

If, Ilya tells himself, he ever really cared about Hollander, if that ache in his chest is a sign that Hollander hadn't deserved Ilya's cruelty, if he wants to prove to himself that he isn't just following half a century behind his father's footsteps, he needs to do better. He can be better. Stronger. Less selfish.

June 2009, Los Angeles - Draft Day

He sits across from Hollander, panting heavily, surrounded by gym equipment, looking almost as if he were a rabbit cornered by some predator. Ilya tries to make conversation, tries to find the English words that will communicate I am not a threat. Hollander answers his questions with one word here, two words there.

"Montreal is nice, yes? You think you will like it?"

Hollander looks at the weight rack over Ilya's shoulder. "Yeah, it's awesome."

Ilya suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Be patient. "And Boston? Is also nice?"

"I think so." Hollander's chest heaves and Ilya takes a long drink from his water. He tracks Hollander's eyes, how they drift from a spot behind him to the water, then down his neck—

"I'm gonna head up," he says, standing abruptly. "Congratulations again." Before Ilya can even respond, Hollander flees the gym, the door swinging shut softly behind him.

It shouldn't bother him. He followed his rules. But, the encounter leaves Ilya feeling strangely hollow, as if someone had turned off the radio just as a song was getting to the good part. He falls into bed and stares at the ceiling for far too long.

July 2010, Toronto - CCM Photo Shoot

Ilya skates to the face-off circle, harsh light off to his right, illuminating Hollander across from him.

"You look pretty," he says, because everything else he's tried so far has been met with mere grunts of acknowledgement.

Hollander's eyes flash up to his, then away again. "You're wearing makeup, too."

"Yeah, but I don't look pretty," says Ilya with his most charming grin. Hollander ignores him. The director calls for a reset.

Something about this is off. Ilya watches Hollander skate backwards, tense as a coiled spring. This moment is so deeply familiar in a way Ilya can't place and yet everything feels wrong, shifted a few degrees off, plucked out of its spot in the timeline and then placed placed back down carelessly in not quite the right spot. Hollander is distant, closed off— should he be? Did Ilya fuck something up already? How would he have even had the time, when he's barely been able to say twenty words to Hollander? This must be some kind of record for him.

In and out they skate, on repeat. On the director's cue, Hollander makes intense eye contact with a spot on Ilya's forehead. They skate away, and back. Hollander does some solo shots while Ilya waits on the bench. In the stands to his right are two women— a Japanese woman in her 40's, and a young blonde girl, probably around 19 or 20. She waves to Hollander as he skates towards the bench for a break.

Ilya hands him a water bottle, and for the first time all day, Hollander willingly meets his eyes in a quick, grateful glance. "Thanks," he says before taking a long drink. A few beads of sweat shimmer on his upper lip.

Ilya nods his head towards the two women. "They are with you?" Hollander glances in the same direction and nods.

"Yeah, my mom. And my girlfriend." The last few words come out almost rushed, and Hollander takes the opportunity to take another long drink from the water bottle. Ilya isn't sure whether the pink in Hollander's cheeks is from the exercise under hot studio lighting, or whether it only appeared when Hollander mentioned his girlfriend.

Ilya showers, lost in a web of uneasy, opaque thoughts that he can't make sense of. After, as he gets dressed, he sees Hollander out of the corner of his eye. He's fully dressed, and looks as if he wants to say something. Ilya blinks, coming back to the present moment, and looks over to Hollander who shuts his mouth quickly, looking embarrassed.

Ilya raises his eyebrows, a silent question.

"Oh—uh, I'm heading out."

Ilya feels a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Okay," he says flatly, taking no pity. If Hollander wants so badly to build a wall between them, he won't waste his time trying to tear it down.

Hollander nods and turns away, walking towards the exit. Over his shoulder, he calls out, "See you this fall, I guess."

June 2011, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

The noise of the city floats up from the street below. Even now, a few minutes until midnight, the strip is busy with activity. Ilya ignores it, letting the sound wash over him without a second thought.

"Hey."

He flinches; he hadn't heard anyone approaching. A flash of annoyance, followed by resignation, crosses his mind. Hollander crosses the rooftop casually and leans against the railing, looking not at Ilya, but out over the skyline.

Ilya doesn't respond. Hollander doesn't seem to mind; his thoughts seem to be elsewhere. He doesn't look at Ilya. The silence between them stretches out, not entirely uncomfortable. After one season as the MLH's new pet rivals, and a handful of games against each other, Ilya has found that his center of gravity has slowly adjusted to account for Hollander. Still, his presence is unsettling; it's similar to the sensation of standing too close to a lightning storm, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up on end.

"Hey, I have a weird question for you."

Ilya turns to look at Hollander, feeling curious in spite of himself.

Hollander continues. "What was that thing you said to me back at Juniors? The first time we met?"

Ilya frowns. He opens his mouth, but Hollander is already talking again. "You know— when we were outside, behind the rink—"

"Yes, I remember," interrupts Ilya. He's not sure where this is going, but he's tired. He's usually tired, these days.

"You were being weird, asking me what I'd done the night before, and then right at the end you made fun of me. Told me that if I watched you skate maybe I'd learn something? That's what you said, right?"

Ilya thinks back, and shrugs. "Yes, I think so. Sounds right."

Hollander nods, as if this was the answer he'd expected. "Yeah, okay, that's what I thought."

The conversation lulls, and Ilya wonders how long he will need to stand here before he can politely excuse himself without flinging himself backwards in time. He stamps out his cigarette and makes a point of straightening up, glancing back towards the door.

"Here's the weird thing about that, though," Hollander continues suddenly, and his jaw is set. His voice is quiet, but serious. "I remember that conversation, just like that. But I also remember you saying something different."

Ilya turns slowly to face Hollander.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Hollander looks at him now, and it's like making eye contact with the fucking sun. "I also remember telling you that you weren't supposed to be smoking there, and you making a stupid joke about it. Which doesn't make sense, because you weren't smoking, were you?"

Ilya feels his heart thudding in his chest. His mouth is dry as he wordlessly shakes his head. Hollander continues.

"It's like… I have two separate memories of the same day. And they both feel real."

"Why are you telling me this?" asks Ilya, his mouth dry. He knows distantly that any pretense he might have had of disinterest in the subject had vanished. Hollander locks onto him, or the emotion in his voice, and continues, gaining momentum.

"It's not just that first day, either. I've been having— dreams, I guess, but they don't feel like dreams. I wake up and they don't fade away, and then they start to feel less like dreams and more like actual memories. And then when I go back to think about certain events, sometimes I can't remember which version is the real one."

There is a distant ringing somewhere in Ilya's head as he stares at Hollander.

"And the weirdest part about the whole thing," continues Hollander, holding Ilya's gaze intently, "is that all of these dreams, or memories, or whatever seem to be about you."

"Me." It's halfway between a question and a statement; it falls out of Ilya's mouth before he can think of anything else to say.

"Yeah. These things… you're always there."

"Hollander…" his voice is strained, he doesn't know what to say and he trails off, looking around helplessly. Hollander takes the opportunity to take one step closer to him. He looks at Ilya intently, determined to get an explanation, but not angry— at least, not as far as Ilya can tell.

"What the hell is going on, Rozanov? Because right now, it seems like you know something you aren't telling me."

He remembers.

Ilya's brain latches onto the words, and the desperate flicker of hope he feels at them. He inhales deeply and nods.

"Yes, okay. Not here… is too much to explain. You will not believe me, maybe, but I will tell. Come to my room in five minutes and we will talk."

Hollander looks surprised, as if despite his earlier assertion, he hadn't actually expected Ilya to say anything other than to tell him to fuck off. He nods slowly. "1502, right?"

Ilya blinks in surprise. "How—"

Hollander smirks. "Maybe you told me already. Or maybe it was a lucky guess." He regards Ilya as he speaks, assessing his reaction. The light from the city illuminates his profile softly. He's devastatingly gorgeous. Ilya suddenly knows that all he wants is to pin Hollander against the wall and press kisses to every inch of him until Ilya forgets everything that isn't him.

Instead he runs one hand through his hair, attempting to calm himself, and turns on a heel. "1502. Five minutes."

Ilya is grateful for the head start. He walks through the hotel like a man on a mission, his mind a swirling mess of emotion and thoughts.

Shane remembers— he can fill in the gaps, help Ilya see the path forward. This is good. This is really, really good.

Still, he is uneasy. Ever since the draft, Hollander had treated him with suspicion— someone to be avoided, feared, ignored, but never trusted. He'd assumed Hollander had known nothing, and was just acting in accordance with the sensible judgment of a good and rational man. But now, if Hollander knows things, remembers things? Ilya isn't sure what he's more afraid of: the memories that fueled Hollander's cold aloofness for the past year, or the ones that made him find Ilya on the roof to demand answers.

He shuts the door behind himself and immediately shrugs off his jacket, pulls off his bow tie, and unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt. The knock comes barely a few minutes later and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He wishes he had a few shots of vodka in him to steady his thoughts, but this conversation is dangerous enough without him making himself reckless with alcohol.

Hollander enters the room and stands in the entryway. His eyes drift around the room, looking everywhere but Ilya, lingering for just a second too long on the bed.

Ilya steps back into the space of the room and extends an inviting arm. He feels strangely nervous; what is the correct protocol for a situation like this? We're trapped in an endlessly repeating time prison and for some reason our souls have been tethered together. Would you like a drink? Maybe a blowjob?

"Okay," says Hollander, seemingly coming to a decision within himself. He steps past Ilya, towards the far wall of the hotel room, and stands next to the desk. He does not sit in the desk chair, but taps it with two fingers as he looks around the room again, before leaning back against the desk, bracing himself against it with his hands. His eyes land on Ilya, and stay there. "Tell me what's going on."

Ilya considers. "This is maybe not so easy to answer, but I will try." He takes another step into the room and leans back against the bedroom wall opposite from where Hollander is perched on the desk. If Hollander refuses to sit, so will he.

Hollander looks at him expectantly. Ilya opens his mouth to speak, and then realizes he has no idea where to begin. He closes his mouth again and frowns.

"Okay. You have these dreams— memories, maybe, yes?" Hollander nods, and Ilya continues, nodding. "I can't be sure, but I think that, yes, they are memories."

Hollander frowns at him. "How is that possible?"

"I think we are… stuck… in time. I don't understand it, but I think we have done this before, probably many times." Ilya waves a hand as he searches for words.

"Stuck in time? What the fuck does that mean, Rozanov?" Hollander's voice is steady, but his knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the desk.

"You say you remember meeting me back at Juniors in 2008, yes?"

Hollander nods.

"And you remember me asking about the night before, yes?"

"Yeah, Rozanov, I told you that already."

"I was not being an asshole when I asked you this," Ilya says, fixing Hollander with an even glance. "I asked because you had been with me the night before. Here, in Vegas, actually."

Hollander stares at Ilya, an unreadable expression on his face.

"One night it is 2014, I am in Las Vegas for MLH awards, I have a big argument with Shane Hollander, and when I wake up the next morning it is 2008 and I am in a shitty hotel room in a shitty town in Canada, and Shane Hollander doesn't know who I am."

Hollander doesn't say anything. He frowns at the floor, unblinking. Ilya's not sure if he's breathing. He waits for a few beats, giving Hollander a chance to digest this information. After a moment, Hollander rubs one hand across his forehead, covering his eyes, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"Okay," he says, drawing out the word, "Fuck, okay. I— Rozanov, I don't remember any of that. At all." He suddenly looks up at Ilya with a warning glare. "I swear to God, if you're just fucking with me right now—"

"I am not," insists Ilya, holding his hands up in a reassuring gesture. He looks around the room, thinking, before an idea hits him. "Wait— here, maybe I can prove it." He crosses the room to where his bag sits on an upholstered chair and digs in it until he finds his wallet. He opens it and fishes out a worn, folded scrap of paper from one of the pockets.

Ilya carefully unfolds it and hands it to Hollander, who takes it with a look of confusion. He unfolds it, and looks back at Ilya.

"What is this?" He shows the page to Ilya, who barely glances at it.

"My note. My rules for all of this. Every time I wake up back on that day, I write a note to myself of everything I remember from night before. To help me not make same mistake next time."

"Mistake?"

"Yes. I make mistake, I go back. Next time I don't make that mistake, I get to keep moving forward. At least, that's how I think it works." Ilya shrugs, suddenly keenly aware of how little he understands of their predicament.

Hollander seems to be having the same realization. He takes two steps away from the desk and sinks dazedly onto the foot of the bed. He looks back at the paper clutched in his hand.

"I can't read this."

"Ah, you can't read Russian?" asks Ilya sarcastically, earning him a glare from Hollander.

"Well? Tell me what it says, asshole."

"Fine. First is a list of rules. Things I learned I need to do. Number one: I meet you, I can't be an asshole."

"Well, you've broken that rule every single time you've lived that day, so we're not off to a great start, Rozanov."

Ilya laughs. "Ah, yes. Maybe 'asshole' is not the right word."

"What's next?"

Ilya holds up his fingers, counting as he lists off the remaining rules. "Two: Draft day. Use the hotel gym. Three: make sure Hollander is at the CCM shoot. Four: Get Hollander's number at All Stars, and five: don't talk to Hollander in Sochi. And then at the bottom is what I remembered from the night before when I woke up."

Hollander rubs a hand over his face again, and then rakes his fingers back through his hair. "Okay. Let me see if I'm following this. You wake up back in 2008, and you know you shouldn't be there— you know that you've gone backwards?" He looks at Ilya for confirmation.

"Yes," Ilya nods. "I wake up and know something went wrong. So I write down everything I remember, because I will forget it all very soon. In a day, maybe two."

Hollander furrows his brow and murmurs, "You remember that you've gone backwards, but not really anything else."

"And you?"

"I just woke up, like any other day. And then, like I said before, I started having these dreams. Just randomly, some nights I'd have a dream about the draft, or a hockey game or— well, it doesn't matter what, but at first I thought they were just weird dreams. But they kept happening."

With some difficulty, Ilya resists the urge to challenge Hollander on his assertion that the content of the dreams doesn't matter. Later.

"Is like a puzzle," he says, with a sardonic laugh. "We each get half the pieces."

"More like, I keep finding random jigsaw pieces, and you're the one who knows how they fit together into an actual picture."

Neither speak, and Hollander breaks the silence after a moment, his voice tentative for the first time since he'd entered the room. "How do we get out?"

"Hmm. Well, Hollander, one day at a time, probably. I have not figured out how to build time machine yet. Hockey keeps me very busy, you know."

"Fuck you," Hollander scoffs, although there's no venom in the words. "How do we avoid another mistake, or whatever?" He looks at Ilya, earnest in a way that Ilya has never seen before, but which feels achingly familiar nonetheless. He wants to wrap his arms around Hollander and pull him down onto the bed, kiss away his worries and— fuck, he needs to get control of himself.

Ilya adopts a serious expression and steps forward. He sits slowly on the bed, leaving a few feet of distance between himself and Hollander, and looks at him solemnly. "It is very bad news. I think we will have to work together. Talk to each other. Terrible punishment, I know."

A ghost of a smile appears on Hollander's face. "So, what— you make sure we follow your rules, or whatever, and I tell you when I remember stuff that might be useful?"

"Yes. And then we figure out where we fucked up before and we don't fuck up this time."

"Who says I fucked up?" Hollander laughs.

"I do. You will see, you will have memory that proves it was your fault and you will owe me a big apology," says Ilya, knowing that it's not true. Hollander shakes his head, and his shoulders relax slightly. Ilya feels a warmth in his chest that he knows he does not deserve to feel. With immense effort, he refocuses on the important topic.

"So, there. Now you know everything I know," he says. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Yes. Tell me the things you remember."

Shane scoffs, and Ilya sees a flush creep out from under his shirt collar. "What, all of them? There's kind of a lot, Rozanov."

"Okay. Then just one."

"One memory?"

"One day. All the memories of one day."

"Which day?"

"I don't care— Tell me about today."

Hollander hesitates, then begins. "They blend together a bit, and a lot of them aren't great. Like, we're fighting in some of them."

Ilya frowns, surprised. "Fighting? Like, hitting each other?"

"No, asshole," says Hollander, rolling his eyes. "Just arguing. Shouting sometimes."

"About what?" Presses Ilya. "Come on, Hollander."

"Fine, fine." Hollander screws his eyes shut. "Okay. We're always on the roof, just the two of us. One time I— I was drunk, and I was annoyed, or hurt, or something that you'd been ignoring me all season, and you basically told me to fuck off."

"Ignoring you? Hollander, we live in different countries. How was I supposed to pay attention to you?" Ilya deflects.

Hollander chews on his lip and speaks so quietly Ilya wasn't sure he hears the words correctly. "We'd hooked up. Over the summer. We… uh, that happens a lot, too."

There it is. Ilya makes a cursory attempt to hide the grin spreading across his face and fails, breaking into a laugh when Hollander looks at him and glares indignantly.

"Oh— fuck you, asshole. What, that's funny?"

"Yes, is very funny," says Ilya, still laughing, "but not for reason you think."

"Why then?"

Ilya twists at the waist so he's facing Hollander, his weight resting on one arm stretched out behind him. He fixes Hollander with a smirk.

"Who was that pretty girl you brought with you to the CCM shoot this summer? Not your mother—although she is a lovely woman—"

"Fuck you, don't talk about my mom—"

"She was your girlfriend, yes? That nice looking girl with blonde hair?"

Hollander says nothing, but his cheeks are flushed. He determinedly does not meet Ilya's eyes.

"Why?" asks Ilya, quieter. "You thought something might happen? Something you didn't want?"

The muscles in Hollander's jaw twitch but he doesn't look angry. "I thought I might end up getting the shit kicked out of me if I gave off the wrong vibe."

Ilya understands, but the suggestion still turns his stomach. He'd hoped, naively maybe, that even if Hollander didn't remember him, some part of him would still know Ilya. "I wouldn't."

"Yeah, I know that now," says Hollander, and he looks like he means it.

I promise I will not hurt you, he wants to say, but he knows better than to make promises he can't keep. It is best if we are nothing more than this, but what is 'this', anyway? Has Ilya ever let something being a bad idea get in the way of him doing what he wants? I told myself I would be better this time. Hollander looks at him like he wants Ilya to say something. It is late and this is a lot to process, you should get some sleep.

"How did you know my room number?"

Hollander looks at him, and oh— there, Ilya is looking at the sun again, for the briefest moment, before Hollander surges forward and kisses him.

It's over. He is weak. But Hollander remembers him, and he clings to that with both hands, and lets himself get swept away.

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to really quick give a shout-out to the folks in the comments-- y'all are truly amazing, thank you so much for walking with me as I rant to you about sad boys with terrible communication skills 😂.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

I was hoping to get this one out sooner, but I was possessed by the idea of Ilya and Scott Hunter being sad and drunk together and had to spend a few days writing that. As an apology, this chapter is the longest so far by about 1k words! Hope you enjoy it! <3

Summer 2011

Hollander, Ilya quickly discovers, is the most boring person he has ever met, and the realization delights him. It was fairly common knowledge that Hollander wasn't typically seen out at clubs or parties, he didn't dress in flashy clothes or drive fancy cars. He wasn't cocky or gregarious. He was the opposite of Ilya in how he presented himself to the world, and Ilya can't help but be completely charmed by him.

In Vegas, he'd sucked Ilya's soul out through his dick, and barely three minutes later, had started to come up with a plan for how to proceed so they didn't get sent back. Ilya had laughed, and had nearly gotten shoved off the bed for it.

Hollander's plan is simple enough, and straightforward. He'll keep a log of memories as he gets them, writing them down immediately in as much detail as he can remember, and he'll let Ilya read through them whenever they are together. Ilya had suggested that it would be easier if they used email, so that he wouldn't have to wait until they were in the same city to share notes, but Shane had glared at him with an incredulity that was almost as terrifying as it was strangely arousing. So, a paper journal it was. Fine, Ilya's been patient this long, he can wait a few months in between updates, if it makes Hollander more comfortable. He knows he should be grateful Hollander has even agreed to share the memories with him, that he had even taken the leap to approach Ilya in the first place.

In reality, despite his concern about getting hacked, or whatever, Hollander does text him right away when he remembers something new. Ilya wakes up some mornings to a message from Hollander informing him of another unearthed memory. The first few times it happens, Ilya's stomach drops at the notification, afraid of what ugly parts of himself were revealed to Hollander overnight. Soon, though, it becomes clear that he and Hollander didn't engage in much conversation during their times together.

Apparently, they just fucked at every possible opportunity. Ilya isn't terribly surprised by the revelation, and he's silently grateful to his former selves for sticking to casual sex, both for the familiarity and safety of the territory, as well as for the deep repository of phone sex and masturbation fodder the memories provide. He doesn't comment on it to Hollander, who seems equally happy to ignore the parts of the conversation that aren't being said. Still, he knows what is written on the scrap of paper in his wallet, and he knows that sooner or later, Hollander will wake up and remember that Ilya is a bad person.

January 2012

"Hey," Hollander says as he answers the phone on the second ring. He'd sent Ilya another one of his early morning texts, and now, after a day of travel, he is blissfully alone in a hotel room in Pittsburgh, having sent Connors off to the bar with Marly and Hammersmith for a few hours.

"You do not sound angry, this is a good sign," says Ilya as he sinks onto his bed. He is joking, mostly, but every time Hollander remembers something new, an unpleasant twist of anxiety coils in his stomach. Every time, he wonders if Hollander has finally seen a glimpse of the real Ilya— the one who is too harsh, too distant, too unkind, too disappointing. The one who has never deserved Hollander's attention. But so far, nothing like that has surfaced.

"I mean, you were kind of an asshole in this one," Hollander says, but there's an easiness in his voice, a lightness that warms Ilya's chest. "But you made up for it."

"I am very good at apologies, I think I have probably had a lot of practice."

"That would explain it."

"So? What happened?"

"You got a hat trick."

"Of course I did. I didn't need you to tell me this, I will get probably one hundred hat tricks in my career, this is not news."

"And here's you being an asshole, right on cue," laughs Hollander, and fuck— he has a gorgeous laugh. It goes straight to Ilya's dick.

"Mm, so that's it? I get a hat trick and show everyone I am the best and sexiest hockey player alive? I like this kind of phone call, Hollander, we should do this every day."

"Shut up, there's more to the memory."

"Yes, yes. Let me guess, you were so turned on by my goals that you started crying and begging right there like you usually do when—"

"I'm hanging up."

"No! Come back, I'll be quiet," Ilya bursts out, laughing.

"I haven't even gotten to the good part, you're such an asshole," Hollander's voice is still light, but there's a faint huskiness to it now that Ilya has quickly learned to recognize, and he palms one hand over his half-hard cock.

"We were in Montreal," continues Hollander, no longer joking, "so you came back to my place after the game." Ilya hummed, but said nothing, encouraging Hollander to continue. "You kissed me against the wall right inside the door, and then you told me…"

Ilya bites back a groan of impatience. "Told you? What did I tell you, Hollander?"

"That you were going to make me come one time for every goal you scored that night."

Ilya let out a burst of laughter even as the rest of his blood rushed straight to his dick. "That is a terrible line, Hollander. Don't tell me that worked on you."

"I told you to fuck off," laughed Hollander in a breathy voice.

"And did I fuck off?"

"No, you dropped to your knees in my kitchen and got the first one."

"Fuck, of course I did."

The conversation continues, eventually devolving into moans and panting, and then the quiet of the aftermath as Ilya listens to Hollander's breathing gradually even out in time with his own. The after part of the phone call is always stilted, casual in a way that has begun to feel forced. He wonders, idly, whether it would be odd to continue talking.

"You play tomorrow, yes?" Ilya finds himself asking. After sex, hockey is the next safest topic of conversation. It's his best bet at keeping Hollander on the phone.

"Yeah, against Toronto. Home game." Hollander answers in the drowsy voice he always has after he comes.

"Hm. Look out for their rookies, Barrett and Kent."

"Why?"

"They have this problem, they open their mouth and shit falls out," says Ilya lazily. "Ignore it."

"I always do," murmurs Hollander, but there's a slight edge to his voice. Although Hollander has never said as much, Ilya knows he's no stranger to the language that gets thrown around when the refs are out of earshot.

"Anyway, if they want to say shit to me, they'll have to catch up to me first," continues Hollander, and Ilya smiles.

"Ah, but you skate so slowly. Last time I almost fell asleep waiting for you to catch up to me."

"You are so full of shit, Rozanov," laughs Hollander, genuinely this time. "We have All Stars in two weeks, we'll see who's the faster skater then."

"And when I win, what do I get?" Ilya asks.

"Winner gets to decide what we do after."

"Deal. You, on your back, center ice."

"Oh fuck you, Rozanov," Hollander lets out an exasperated burst of laughter. "That sounds so fucking uncomfortable."

"Okay, okay. I will lay down a blanket for you first. Wouldn't want you to get too cold."

"You're so thoughtful," Hollander says dryly, but Ilya can hear a smile in his voice. The conversation lulls for a minute, before Hollander speaks again. "Fuck, sorry, I need to get going. I'm supposed to meet my parents for dinner."

"Okay. Bye, Hollander."

"Bye, Rozanov."

October 2012

Jane: You're such an asshole.

good morning to you too

what did i do

Jane: I had another memory last night.

yes?

Jane: You fucking edged me for two entire periods of a hockey game.

🤣

hahahahahaha

this is the best morning

Jane: I hate you.

tell me everything

Jane: No. Fuck you.

you have to tell me

you can't just say that and leave

Jane: Oh, I can't?

Jane: You have a game tonight, right?

jane…

Jane: You want to hear the story? Score a fucking goal.

Jane: Then, MAYBE, I will tell you.

well well

this is a new side to you, jane

is very sexy

Jane: Fuck off. Go score a goal.

for you I will score two 😘

December 2013 - Montreal

"Rozanov?" Hollander murmurs, rousing Ilya from the comfortable half-sleep he'd been settling into.

"Hm?"

"I had another one, the other night." This gets Ilya's attention, and he props himself up on an elbow, frowning. These days it's unusual for Hollander to not tell him right away when he remembers something new. He studies Hollander's face, and his stomach drops. Hollander doesn't look upset, but he looks serious. He avoids Ilya's eyes; his mouth is a thin, grim line.

"Was it bad?" he asks, hating how small his voice sounds. Was I bad?

Hollander frowns as if he doesn't know how to answer. Slowly, he responds, "It wasn't a pleasant memory, but we weren't fighting, or anything. You didn't do anything wrong. But I think maybe I did. Not on purpose, I don't know—" he sits up as his words pick up speed, getting anxious.

"Hollander," says Ilya as he also sits up. He puts a calming hand on Hollander's shoulder, trying to steady himself as much as Hollander. "Is okay. Tell me."

Hollander squeezes his eyes shut and sighs heavily.

"It was in Sochi."

Ilya nods encouragingly.

"Okay. I know I said I wouldn't tell you about the outcome of specific games, and stuff, but… look, Ilya, the Olympics are going to suck for you. I'm really sorry."

The words hit Ilya with a dull thud. He only dimly registers that Hollander had called him by his first name, and vaguely wonders whether he'd ever heard that before.

"Ah."

"Um, there's more, too."

Ilya pulls back. "Maybe I don't need to hear this one," he says flatly. "Let it be a fun surprise for me."

"No, I mean, I think it's important," says Hollander, and Ilya hates, hates the apologetic tone in his words."

"Say it, then," he snaps. "I don't have all night, Hollander."

He knows he is being unfair. This is their agreement. Hollander is doing him a favor, telling him this. He clearly doesn't want to be having this conversation any more than Ilya does. He wouldn't be telling him if he didn't think it was important. He bites the inside of his cheek, silently chastising himself. He looks back at Hollander and opens his mouth again to apologize, but Hollander doesn't look angry or hurt by Ilya's rudeness.

"Maybe just don't watch any figure skating while you're there, okay?"

It's not what Ilya was expecting to hear; it takes him a minute to register what Hollander has said. Figure skating? "Okay?" It comes out sounding like a question.

"If you do, you'll run into me, and a couple other guys from the league." Hollander says this last part in a calmer voice, as if he's made it past the dangerous part. "That's all I needed to say."

Slowly, Ilya leans back into the soft mountain of pillows behind him. Hollander picks at a speck of lint on the sheets, still upright, not looking at him.

Ilya digests the information. He is leading team Russia— leading them right into a humiliating failure, apparently. Fuck. Fuck. Everyone is counting on him, the entire country, and he's going to— oh, fuck, his father is going to be so angry. He's going to be furious. Ilya wonders if he will yell and rage and throw things or whether he will get quiet, and terrifying. Ilya feels his chest tightening, his heart thudding against its cage, knowing it is on its way to the slaughterhouse. The tips of his fingers feel cold. There is a stinging in the back of his throat and suddenly Ilya knows he needs to escape, he needs to leave Hollander's bed right now, but his legs aren't working. That's okay, maybe. He's not really in his body anymore, anyway. It doesn't really belong to him right now.

"Ilya?" Oh. That's nice. He likes how that sounds. "Hey, Ilya, it's okay." There's a warm weight on top of him now, pushing him back down. There are hands— soft, strong, gentle hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. His head lifts, his eyes see Hollander looking down at him. He looks concerned.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. Somewhere in his head, he hears his father's voice, or maybe it's his own. Weak. Be a man. What, you're crying? Pathetic. You are an embarrassment to our family, to Russia.

The hands pull on his shoulders. They're strong. Ilya moves with them, lets himself be pulled forward, into Hollander's chest. Strong arms wrap around him.

"You don't need to apologize," says Hollander. "It's okay. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Ilya, because I wasn't supposed to talk to you, and then I did, and I think maybe I got us sent back because of it. And I'm sorry I had to tell you about it now, I didn't want to upset you, I just thought you'd rather know ahead of time."

Ilya's thoughts are all muddled; he doesn't understand what Hollander is saying. What he is apologizing for. It feels dimly wrong, but his head is fuzzy and he still can't quite feel his limbs, so he just nods. He lets himself be held for a few minutes, distantly aware that it's wrong. It's complicated, it's dangerous, it's impossible, but it's keeping the air in his lungs. It's pinning him here, in his body, in this bed, in this moment in time, so he lets it happen. He lets Shane— yes, Shane, he decides— stroke his hair, rub his back, kiss his head. He lets himself wrap tight arms around Shane and cling to him for just a little while longer. He listens to the slow thud of Shane's heartbeat and presses a long kiss into his abdomen.

"You called me Ilya," he murmurs eventually, and feels the muscles in Shane's back tense, as if he's about to climb off Ilya's lap. "I liked it," he says. "It sounds nice the way you say it."

Shane relaxes. "It sort of just slipped out. It's not weird?"

The absurdity of the question makes Ilya look up, craning his neck, and pull him down for a kiss. Shane. Shane. The kiss is perfect, soft, unhurried. It's full of all of the feelings he can't feel, the words he can't say, so he kisses him deeper. Shane sighs contentedly into his mouth, and Ilya wraps his arms around Shane's waist again to roll them both over so Shane is on his back under him. Ilya breaks the kiss and looks down at him with a grin.

"Hmm. Yes, we've lived this life together who knows how many times already, apparently we've fucked like rabbits in every single one, but you're right. Calling each other by our first names would make it weird."

Shane chuckles and looks up at him with a fondness that makes Ilya never want to leave this bed. Fuck the Olympics, maybe he'll stay here forever. He leans back down and presses a kiss to the side of Shane's neck. "Thank you, Shane," he murmurs.

Later, as he pulls his shirt on, he thinks he's found the courage to say what he should have said right away. "I think you were wrong before. We made it past Sochi, this last time. So I don't think you did anything wrong."

"It could have been an older loop." says Shane doubtfully. "There had to be at least one time we did talk and got sent back, otherwise you wouldn't have the rule."

"It doesn't make sense. You didn't come up to me in Sochi and say, 'Hello Rozanov, remember that time we fucked in my apartment' or something, right?"

"Obviously not."

"Okay?"

"I think I just said, like, 'hi, sorry about the loss' or something."

"You said other players were there?" Ilya asked, considering.

"Yeah, Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter."

Ilya made a face. "Hunter? You let Hunter talk to me after the worst hockey game of my life? Did you hate me in that loop?"

Shane lets out a rueful smile. "I'm really sorry, Ilya, they spotted you and made a beeline for you. There wasn't really anything I could do to stop it. I just tried to end it as quickly as possible."

"Fucking Scott Hunter," muses Ilya. "Thank you for the warning, Shane. I forgive you for not tackling him to the ground the last time."

He steps forward and kisses Shane. "My car is here."

"Good night, Ilya."

April 2014

Jane: Hey! 😊

oh wow

miss jane is using emojis

did you hit your head

did your phone get hacked

are you being held hostage

jane

respond

i am concerned

Jane: Oh my God, forget it.

i am calling police

911 help

most boring person alive is being kidnapped

Jane: You are such an asshole. I hate you.

oh thank god

and no you don't

Jane: I fucking do. You're the worst.

not what you said last week

remember?

when i had my tongue in your ass?

what was it you were saying about me?

Jane: Bye.

☹️

….

jane

janeeeeee

shane hollander

Jane: Delete that right now!

no

Jane: Lily.

ask nicely

Jane: Fucking asshole.

Jane: Please.

okay 😘

is deleted

Jane: Thank you.

why did you text?

Jane: Oh, right.

Jane: Not sure I feel like telling you, now.

Jane: 🙂

…

jane

Jane: I remembered something else.

tell me? please?

see how nice i am being now?

Jane: Nope.

pleaseeee

i will be so good

give you such good head next time i see you

make you come so hard you won't be able to move

Jane: I'm pretty sure you're going to do that anyway.

Jane: But really, I can't tell you. It's a surprise.

oh good

is my turn to hate you now

Jane: It's a good one, I promise!

do i get to fuck you on the hood of my maclaren

is that it

Jane: No.

Jane: I mean, that's not it.

Jane: But… you can, if you want to.

oh fuck

jane i am in public

you can't say things like that

Jane: It was your idea, asshole!

the things you do to me

you will kill me

Jane: 😘

2014 Stanley Cup Playoffs

The buzzer sounds, louder than he's ever heard it over the roar of the stadium that threatens to bring the roof down on all of them, and Ilya is suddenly being crushed from all sides by his teammates. He stares at the scoreboard. 3-1 Boston. He blinks; the numbers swim. They won. They won the cup. He won the cup.

A sob escapes his throat; he feels it more than hears it. Marly is shouting something at him, wrapping him in a bear hug. The stands are a roiling sea of black and gold. He sees his name, his number, on signs that are being waved like victory flags. They're cheering for him. He made his city proud, and they love him for it. Even if it's just for tonight, they love him.

He's shaking the commissioner's hand and he's lifting the cup and he's skating a victory lap and he's dedicating it to Mama. His team surrounds him again and he loves them so much, every single one of them. They all fought for this, they trusted him even after his disastrous performance in Sochi. They followed him here and he doesn't deserve it but fuck, it feels so fucking good. He lets himself sink into the goodness of it, just for tonight.

He thinks of Shane. He can't wait to call Shane. He does, as soon as he can, after what feels like hours of celebration, press, champagne in the locker room, partying with the team.

"Congratulations, Ilya! Holy shit, I'm so fucking happy for you," Shane says soon as he answers the call, sounding so sincere, and Ilya could drown in his voice in this moment. He's deliriously happy, he's not sure he's ever been this happy. He tries to say thank you, but all that comes out is another choked sob.

"I did it," he says, feeling like a child, and realizes he doesn't care. He doesn't care if Shane sees him like this, because somehow he knows Shane won't think he's weak, or small, or stupid.

"Yeah, you did, Ilya, you fucking did it," Shane says, "God, I'm so excited for you. I mean, I'm annoyed as hell, too, but you earned it. You played like a legend."

Ilya lets out a watery laugh. "I beat you," he manages, his voice steadier now. "Poor Shane. I know that must have been hard to watch."

"Asshole," says Shane. "And I already knew you were going to win. Remember that time I wouldn't tell you the memory I had?"

Of course he does. "You fucking knew this whole time?" he almost shouts into the phone in mock outrage. "You knew I would win since beginning of April, and you kept it a secret? You distract me with very hot car sex to keep me stupid and shut me up?"

"I didn't want to mess anything up!" protests Shane, laughing. "And I thought you should get to experience it, like, for real, you know?"

"Let me see your face right now." Ilya demands, sending through a Facetime request. A second later, Shane's face appears on his screen, and the pretend scowl Ilya had been wearing melts into a smile. Shane is in bed, looking sleepy and soft, and—

Fuck.

He's in love. That's it, that's what this is.

Oh, this is bad.

"Hey," says Shane, beaming at him, and Ilya decides he'll worry about it tomorrow.

June 2014, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

Ilya exits the stage and takes a steadying breath. His feet carry him to the bathroom he knows is just down a hallway and around a corner. He's not sure why he's going there. He should walk right past it, keep going until he finds his way back to his seat. But something makes him slow, push open the door as he reaches it. He crosses the threshold into the room.

It's just a bathroom. It's completely unremarkable.

Ilya tries to picture it. Where had he been standing, when he'd spat those words at Shane? Had they been close to each other? How long had the whole thing taken?

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and takes another breath. He needs to calm down. He tells himself he's just nervous, it's the jitters of being on the precipice of the first true step forward he's taken in five years.

The door swings open behind him, and Shane steps in, letting the door close softly behind him.

"Hey," he says softly. "You okay?"

Shane has never given any indication that he remembers their fight. Ilya is fairly sure, pretty sure that he would have said something. Even if he hadn't he's a terrible liar. Still, Ilya can't help the question as it forms on his lips.

"You remember this place?" he asks, looking at Shane in the reflection of the mirror, but not meeting his eyes. Shane glances around with a neutral expression.

"No, I don't," he says carefully. "Should I?"

If Ilya were a better man, a braver, stronger, more honest man, he would come clean here. He has only alluded to the confrontation that sent them back in vague terms, only telling Shane that they'd fought, and it had been Ilya's fault. Shane looks at him now with patient curiosity that Ilya doesn't deserve, and he knows he should be honest. He should pull the note out of his wallet and read it out loud, and watch for the moment that Shane decides to walk away.

But, Ilya is not a good man. He is a weak man, and Shane looks so beautiful tonight, and every fiber in his body is screaming at him to close the distance between them. So, he does. He steps forward and pulls Shane in for a kiss. It's not a long kiss— after all, anyone could technically walk in at any time— but it's tender in a way that feels dangerous, but also a bit like coming home.

"Come to my room after?" he murmurs into Shane's neck. "I want to celebrate with you tonight.

"You haven't won yet, officially," says Shane, and Ilya can feel the smile against his own cheek. "Don't you think it's a little early to be planning your after party?"

Ilya pulls back and looks at Shane, unable to keep the fondness out of his eyes. He hopes it looks close enough to lust that Shane won't notice. "I have been planning my after party all day, Hollander. Very detailed plans." He runs an arm down Shane's side, squeezing gently as he reaches his hip.

Shane sways forward as his eyes flutter shut, and then seems to remember where they are. He clears his throat and straightens, giving Ilya a small grin. "What's your room number?"

Ilya smiles a hungry, wolfish grin. "Penthouse."

Ilya's heart hammers in his chest as he watches Shane open himself up on the luxurious hotel bed in front of him. He thought he'd be teasing and pulling at the edge of Shane's boundaries, finding resistance and knowing to step back, but Shane had leaned in instead, matching Ilya with an enthusiasm he hadn't anticipated.

"Will you fuck me?" Shane panted, breathless. "Please?"

Ilya's brain shuts off. All that is left is desire, instinct, a sense of yes and mine and want and please. He stands and pulls off his shirt, unbuttons his pants. He knows his movements are too hurried, too desperate, but he can't find it within himself to care. He crawls onto the bed where Shane is reclined against a mountain of pillows, pressing their bodies together as he inhales Shane's scent from the crook of his neck. Shane's hands caress his head,his shoulders, and he trails a line of kisses down Shane's chest, letting his mouth fall open to wrap his lips around a dark, pert nipple. Shane gasps, and whines, bucking his hips up against Ilya's.

In the end, Ilya is destroyed, feeling as though he's been dashed against a rocky cliff over and over by the waves of passionate sex, totally broken and wrung out and fully at peace with it. Cause of death: Sex with Shane Hollander. He can live with it; there are far worse ways to go.

Shane lies next to him, their bodies touching, if not intertwined. Comfortable, not affectionate. Ilya reasons that this is acceptable, it is enough. Shane's eyes are closed, one hand is draped lazily across his chest, and his face is relaxed. His thoughts, if he's having any, are silent and peaceful.

Ilya loves him. Fuck, he loves him, and he's not allowed to. Shane certainly doesn't love him, and shouldn't. Ilya is being stupid, and reckless, and he is going to push too hard until Shane walks away and then what? He wonders what is worse: waking up and finding out he's 17 years old again, or finding out it's just another morning?

In a matter of days, he'll be headed back to Russia for the summer. The thought is like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head; painful, but necessary, yanking him back into reality. He needs to cool off. He got too comfortable with this thing with Hollander. Distance will be good for both of them; it will keep them safe.  

Summer 2014

Jane: I have a weird question.

oh?

Jane: Do you keep a journal, or anything?

no

why?

Jane: I had another memory last night and you had a journal.

Jane: We had hooked up, and it had been sitting on your bedside table, but we kind of knocked it onto the floor, by accident.

hahah

so?

Jane: Well, the front cover fell open.

Jane: And I saw it when I went to clean up after.

jane

this is a great story but

do you take constructive criticism

Jane: No. Shut up.

Jane: Well, there was a note taped to the inside front cover.

Jane: I obviously couldn't read it, it was in Russian

Jane: But it looked like a list of some kind, written on hotel stationery.

interesting

Jane: It looked a lot like the one you showed me back in Vegas.

yes, it probably was that

hmm

you say it was in a journal?

Jane: Yeah. In the memory I picked it up and gave it to you, and you got really weird about it.

Jane: At the time I just thought I'd accidentally invaded your privacy or whatever.

yes, that too

i didn't want strange canadian man reading my secrets

dear diary, made hollander cry twice today

once when i beat him 6-0

and then again when i gave him best blowjob of his life

Jane: God, fuck off.

Jane: But, you don't keep a journal?

no shane, i am not a 12 year old girl

maybe i hoped it would help me remember more

Jane: Seems like it worked really well. Haha.

well i dont need journal now

i have you

Jane: Oh, so I'm your personal memory storage?

yes exactly

like the cloud

i store my memories in shane hollander

Jane: Oh, my god. Delete that.

only if you promise to tell me all of them

no secrets

Jane: I already do that.

good

would be very greedy of you to keep them to yourself

May 2015

Congratulations, Jane!

Jane: Thank you! 😁

Jane: I still can't believe it.

i will never say this again

so enjoy it

you deserved it

best hockey player in the league

FOR TODAY ONLY

tomorrow it will be me again

Jane: Haha. You wish.

see you at awards?

Jane: Absolutely. I can't wait.

😘

December 2015

Ilya lounges in Shane's bed, idly thumbing through a notebook. It is filled with pages covered in Shane's messy handwriting, his log of recovered memories, faithfully written down as promised. Shane has gone to shower, and had tossed the notebook at Ilya on his way out of the room. It had become an unspoken part of their ritual; after sex, Ilya would peruse the pages that had been added since he'd last had the opportunity to read it.

He has to admit, Shane's dedication to the task of recording each memory was admirable. His notes are thorough, frequently including what seem as if they could be direct quotes plucked right out of the mouths of their former selves. Even the sex, which is described in almost painfully clinical language, is detailed enough to paint quite a few tantalizing pictures in Ilya's head. Not only that, but Shane has implemented some kind of color-coding annotation system, the intricacies of which Ilya hasn't even tried to figure out. Instead, he's reading an adorably matter-of-fact description of an apparently fantastic blowjob he had given Shane in the shower one night, and basking in the boost it was giving to his already healthy ego.

"What are you smiling at?" asks Shane as he returns from the bathroom, towel slung low over his hips, hair wet and untidy.

"Hollander, I think you may have a problem," he says, smirking as he waves the notebook at Shane.

"What's that?" asks Shane suspiciously.

"I think you are obsessed with my dick. And my mouth. All of me, really."

"Fuck off, I'm writing them down for you," grumbles Shane, scrunching his face up in annoyance as he settles himself back into bed. "I can remember them just fine on my own."

Ilya presses a cheeky kiss into Shane's shoulder. "Yes, you are very generous. Thank you for all the nice words about how good I am at sex, is a nice reminder."

Shane rolls his eyes and smiles reluctantly. "I'm just as good, you know."

"Oh, I know, Shane. I am naked in your bed right now."

Shane relaxes down further into the pillows and picks up the notebook from where Ilya had tossed it between them. He flips through the pages, frowning thoughtfully.

"I might need to rethink how I'm organizing all of this," he says thoughtfully. "I just write them down as I get them, but they're all random, not in any kind of order. I've been trying to figure out when different memories happened but it's tough."

"You think it matters?" asks Ilya, with genuine curiosity.

"It has to," says Shane with conviction. "If we can look at different versions of the same event, figure out the differences, maybe we'll find patterns. Things to avoid, things to work towards, you know?"

Ilya shrugs doubtfully. "But they are all memories, Shane. Those moments have all already passed."

"I know, but that doesn't mean they aren't useful. You study tape from old games to figure out how to play the next one, right?"

Ilya throws himself dramatically back into the pillows and rubs a hand over his face, because he knows there's no way he'll be able to hide the look of idiotic adoration that he's sure he must be wearing right now. "Only you would find a way to compare this to hockey, Hollander," he groans in exaggerated displeasure, and Hollander laughs and calls him an asshole as he hits him with one of his seven hundred decorative pillows.

Summer 2016 - Moscow

When Ilya was a child, Grigori Rozanov had been a mountain of a man. His physical stature alone wasn't particularly imposing; his height was only average and his once-muscular frame had been softened at the edges by middle age and a career built upon sitting at desks and drinking with politicians. The force of his character, however, was enough to cast a dark shadow over an entire household. Ilya had learned to decipher moods from the sounds of footsteps in the hallway, the length of time between the uncorking of a bottle and the heavy thud of it being set down again, the sharpness of the exhale before the words— or blows— that followed it.

That Grigori Rozanov is gone, thinks Ilya, as he looks up from his phone at the impossibly frail man standing in the doorway.

"Ilya?" the quavering voice of the man who was once Grigori Rozanov floats into the room, and Ilya stands quickly as his father shuffles forward.

"Good morning, father. Let me fix you something to eat." He crosses the room and helps his father settle into his favorite armchair. He pulls a nearby blanket over his lap; even in summer, Father often complains of cold. He has lost weight; his skin hangs off him, papery and pale.

"Would you like tea this morning, Father?" Father frowns at the blanket on his lap and tugs absentmindedly on a bit of fringe.

"Ilyushka, I need you to stop at the market after school today. We are out of bread, your mother forgot to get some yesterday. She never stops to think, always so forgetful."

"Yes, Father," Ilya says, ignoring the dark irony of the remark. He doesn't bother to point out that the cabinet is full of bread, he hasn't been in school for almost a decade, and his mother has been dead for even longer than that, but his father won't remember any of those facts in thirty seconds. He studies his father for a minute— then, satisfied that he is comfortably settled in his chair, makes his way into the kitchen to prepare the tea and gather Father's morning medicine.

He returns a few moments later. Father stares out of the window with a faraway expression on his face. He looks almost peaceful; it's not a look Ilya is well acquainted with. He gently sets down the tea on the side table, along with a glass of water and a fistful of pills.

"Father, I have your medicine," he murmurs, "And your tea."

Father slowly turns away from the window and looks up at Ilya with bleary eyes.

"Ilyushka, is that you? When did you get so tall?" his voice is almost childlike, stripped completely bare of the harsh undercurrent of contempt that had adorned it for all of Ilya's life. "You must be listening to your coaches, working hard to stay strong like this. How many points have you scored this season?"

"Ninety seven points, Father," Ilya murmurs.

"Ninety seven, my son! Very good work. See what you can do when you are disciplined, like I always tell you."

"Yes, Father," he says, and without knowing why, he continues, "Did you know I won the cup?"

"The cup? You did?" Father's voice is full of awe. "I wish I had seen that."

He would have hated it, Ilya knows. He would have watched the series only to poke holes in Ilya's play, point out every imperfection, and bemoan the fact that the standard of hockey played in the MLH is sloppy and inferior to what's played in the KHL. He would have been ashamed of Ilya for crying at the win, and angry at him for calling out to Mama. He would have told Ilya all of this, if he'd bothered to watch any of it. Ilya knows this, but the Grigori Rozanov who spent the last quarter of a century towering over him with an iron fist and disapproving sneer is gone. All that's left is an old, confused man.

"Ilya, when is your next game? I am in the mood to watch my son play hockey."

He has to turn to blink away the tears in his eyes. He pretends to busy himself with straightening a pile of papers on the table.

"It is the off-season, Papa," he says after he has composed himself. Father looks so disappointed, that against his better judgment, Ilya continues. "But, if you would like, I could put on one of my old games. I can show you on the computer, if you want."

Father's face lights up and he nods. Ilya pulls up highlight reels and scoring montages. His father watches, his eyes glassy, his body loose and content. Ilya reminds him to drink his tea before it gets cold. His father doesn't say much, and falls asleep after a while. Ilya lets the video end before setting the laptop down gently and padding off to the bathroom.

He barely manages to close the door before the tears come; huge, wracking sobs. He sinks to the floor and tries to get his breathing under control. He tries to stay silent, digging nails into the flesh of his biceps as he squeezes his arms around himself as tightly as he can. He presses his feet into the floor, his back into the walls, and lets the howling animal of his grief make a mess of his insides.

The man asleep in the armchair can't be his father. Because if he is, if he always had the capacity to be gentle, to be proud, that means that Ilya truly never deserved it. The only reason he's getting it now is because Father doesn't know any better. He's giving Ilya the love that he has never earned honestly, and Ilya, like a fool, snatched it up greedily.

When he returns to the sitting room, red-rimmed eyes, the laptop is playing the next video on the Youtube playlist. It's titled, "Top 10 Best Rivalry Moments: Hollander vs. Rozanov". Ilya watches it with the sound off, wishing more than anything that he could be in a certain apartment in Montreal right now.

Jane: I had another memory that I think you'll enjoy.

Jane: Can I call you?

not now

Jane: Oh, okay.

Jane: Is everything okay?

family shit

don't want to talk

Jane: I'm sorry.

Jane: Is there anything I can do?

i dont know

sorry

Jane: Ilya, you don't need to apologize.

i will text you tomorrow

need to sleep

Jane: Good night.

Jane: I'll be here if you want to talk tomorrow. About whatever.

❤️

❤️

November 2016

"You have been having more dreams? About me?"

"It's no big deal, Rozanov." Iya frowns; Shane rarely calls him Rozanov these days, unless he's trying to chirp him. Given the forced tone of his voice, Ilya knows that's not what's happening right now.

"You didn't tell me about them," he says. The unsaid part, that this was against the rules Shane himself had insisted on, loomed heavily in the silence before Shane responded.

"I wasn't keeping it from you, we've been on the road for ten days. It's hard enough getting away for a normal phone call, let alone this."

"So you weren't avoiding it for any other reason? Just couldn't find the time?"

"Other reason?" Shane sounds impatient, ready for this conversation to be over.

"Maybe I was a big asshole in these memories and now you are mad at me."

"You're always an asshole," Shane grumbles, and Ilya can hear the begrudging warmth through the phone. Something relaxes in his chest at the sound.

"Yes, it is an incurable condition, unfortunately. But blowjobs help to, ah, make it better for a little bit," he says, hoping to steer the conversation back to familiar territory.

"In that case, maybe you can give me as many as you want when I get to Boston on Wednesday."

Ilya laughed. "Yes, but we make a deal, okay? You tell me about these dreams?"

The phone is quiet for a beat too long.

"Yeah, of course," comes Shane's answer, sounding unnaturally casual. "Really, it's nothing, you know? Same as always, just a bunch of memories of us hooking up."

There's more he's leaving out. But Ilya knows he won't get anywhere tonight. Once he has Shane here in his home in a few days, pacified with a good fuck or two, he'll be able to pry some answers out of him. So, he settles for the easy answer.

"Mmm. I think you should tell me about them when you are in my bed. Tell me what I did then, we can recreate the memories, yes? Is not really fair for you to keep them all to yourself, you know."

A quiet laugh comes through the phone and Ilya tells himself he is satisfied. Two days, and Shane will be here, Ilya will be able to kiss and touch and fuck every ounce of anxiety out of him. When he doesn't have the right words, which is most of the time, at least he knows can rely on his body to soothe whatever is worrying Shane. Just a few more days, and everything will be okay.

Chapter End Notes

:) listen :) don't even worry about next chapter :) Ilya's so right :) everything is going to be so great for these guys :)

Thank you again so much for reading!! Drop a comment below to yell at me if you want <3

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

sorry this chapter took me a minute to write, I accidentally started and finished a whole other fic and writing these sad dumb idiots kept bumming me out. But it's here now! I hope you like/hate it as much as I dooooo!

November 2016, Boston

Ilya scrolls on his phone and tries not to look at the time. Shane's plan had landed about two hours ago, he'd gone to check in at the hotel, and had confirmed with a brief text that he'd be over soon. Ilya tries not to think about the way Shane had seemed kind of distant over the last week or so, the way he hadn't told Ilya about whatever new memories he'd gotten, or the estimated travel time of 36 minutes from Shane's hotel to Ilya's house, according to Google. Ilya tries not to do a lot of things, and ends up failing at all of them.

He throws his phone down on the sofa and walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet to confirm that it still contains all of the same food it did a few hours ago. He closes it again, wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling window that looks out onto an impressive stone patio that would be perfect for hosting summer parties, if he were ever fucking here in the summers. He thinks about fucking Shane against the window, how beautiful his skin would look, warm and golden in the sun. He thinks about leaving streaks of sweat and cum all over the glass.

The first time he'd invited Shane over to the house, he'd taken him on a tour, telling him that he had grand plans to fuck him in every single room. It was true, and he's close to fulfilling his promise, but he'd secretly planned the tour after learning about Shane's interest in real estate. He wanted to watch Shane's reaction to the house, to the different parts of it, to see what caught his attention. He wanted to see what parts of his home Shane liked best, for no particular reason at all. The fact that Shane's face lit up as he realized the tiles in the bathroom floor were heated and the lights in the shower were on a dimmer certainly wasn't the reason he'd promptly redone the guest bathroom, and added dimmers to every light in the house.

There's a knock at the door and Ilya forces himself to walk at a normal pace. He opens the door and can't help the hungry grin that spreads across his face as he takes in the sight of Shane. He notices the way Shane's eyes scan slowly down the length of his body, and before either of them can stop themselves, their mouths are on each other, hungry. Ilya pulls him further into the house, towards the bedroom. He wants Shane to be comfortable, wants to send him to that place where he's quiet and pliant and peaceful, where he resurfaces slowly as Ilya holds him and kisses him.

They lay in bed after, a hockey game playing softly on the TV. Shane's head rests in the crook of Ilya's arm; his fingers trace light circles on Shane's bicep. The hazy peace that always comes over him after sex hasn't lasted; Shane had come back to himself quicker than normal, and Ilya can feel a lingering tension in his muscles.

The tension has spread to the air around them, too. Ilya sighs. Whatever this is, there's no sense in dragging it out. "Are you okay?" he asks, shifting slightly to look at Shane.

"Sure, yeah I'm good," says Shane. His eyes are fixed on the TV.

Ilya sits all the way up at this, sighing. He removes his arm from around Shane and turns to face him more fully.

"Shane," he says seriously, looking intently at him. "What is it?"

Shane's jaw tenses as he shifts to sit up against the pillows. The movement puts distance between himself and Ilya; Ilya is unsure whether it was intentional or not, and tries not to assume the worst. When Shane still doesn't speak, Ilya offers a tentative starting point for the conversation.

"A few days ago you mentioned some new memories. Is that what this is about?"

Shane inhales slowly, and nods. "Yeah," he says grimly, looking anywhere but at Ilya.

Fuck. Ilya tries not to panic. With effort, he controls his breathing and when he speaks again, he does so quietly, evenly.

"Okay. Bad memories, I am guessing?"

Shane doesn't answer. His face has taken on a stricken look.

Ilya suddenly tastes bile at the back of his throat. What if it was worse than he thought? What if he'd done something truly unforgivable?

"Shane," he says, his voice faltering. "Please tell me. If— if I hurt you, or upset you—"

Shane stands abruptly. "I should go."

Ilya makes a noise of startled confusion. "What— go? No, Shane, we are talking—"

"Actually, I don't think there's anything to talk about." Shane is breathing too fast, he fumbles with the button on his pants. He hasn't looked at Ilya once since… a cold dread settles over Ilya. Had Shane looked at him at all since he arrived today? Had he even met Ilya's eyes when he'd opened the door? Ilya had been so distracted, so desperate to kiss him, he hadn't noticed.

"Shane," he says again, standing, hastily pulling on his discarded joggers. "Please, talk to me. Whatever happened, if I did something, I want to know. I want to fix it."

Shane lets out a small, harsh laugh. "Yeah, I bet you do." The words are cold; they make Ilya flinch.

He flounders. How had it gone so wrong? What the fuck had he done?

Shane, fully dressed walks towards the door.

"Hollander," it's a plea. Shane pauses, but doesn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just… I can't keep doing this."

Sveta: I just made a sale to someone with even worse taste than you. Take me out tonight to celebrate?

not tonight sveta

Sveta: What, you're too busy for me now?

Sveta: Let me guess: Jane is in town?

its over with jane

i fucked up

Sveta: What did you do, Ilyusha?

i don't know

Sveta: Don't bullshit me.

i'm not, i really don't know

i didn't mean to hurt him

but he is gone

he hates me

Sveta: Wait…

and he's probably right

i am not a good person

Sveta: Okay. I'm coming over.

i want to be alone

Sveta: That's why I'm coming over.

Sveta: Is there vodka in the house?

not anymore

Sveta: Probably for the best. Get yourself some water and food.

i am not hungry

Sveta: I didn't ask if you were hungry.

you are too good for me

don't waste your time

Sveta: Oh my God, shut up.

Sveta: Don't talk to me like I'm someone else.

Sveta: Now go drink some water. I'll be there in an hour with food.

Aided by the vodka he'd began drinking twenty minutes after Shane had left, he tells Sveta the truth— or, parts of it. Jane is another player. They'd been meeting up for years. He'd behaved poorly in the past, but he'd been trying to be better. He loves Jane. Jane does not love him back. Sveta cards gentle fingers through his hair as he mumbles the words, curled up next to her with his head in her lap. She listens without comment, only interrupting him to press a glass of water into his hand every few minutes. When he has said all he can say, she stands and directs him to bed. She must see something on his face as they approach his bedroom, and she is kind enough to steer him down the hall into one of the guest rooms instead.

In the morning, Ilya wakes to a mug of strong black coffee, three breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's, and a look on Sveta's face telling him that he would not be escaping the "hard truths" part of the conversation.

"So," she begins, as she sips her own coffee, "Let me see if I understand. You slept with another player, this 'Jane', years ago. You kept doing it even though you knew it could jeopardize both of your careers, even though you are a Russian citizen and your father is, well, your father."

Ilya glares halfheartedly at her but says nothing.

"And you let yourself develop feelings for him? Did you ever tell him this?"

"How could I?" protests Ilya. "It's like you said. It could never be anything real, for so many reasons. Even if he wanted it, which he obviously doesn't, we would never be able to have anything more than this."

"You decided this, then? On your own, without talking to him?" Sveta takes a bite of the omelette she made for herself.

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Should I have talked to him as he ran out of my house in a panic? He doesn't want me. He hates me, I think. And I don't know why."

Ilya makes it through the next two weeks through the power of his well-practiced ability to dissociate through the pain. His Airpods become a near-constant part of his daily armor, protecting him from being dragged into unwelcome conversations with his well-meaning but idiotic teammates. He plays music that he doesn't listen to, just noise to block out the world, and when the music runs out, he finds himself zoning out to the distant hum of his teammates' voices. He goes home at the end of the day and stares at the six cans of ginger ale that sit in judgment of him in the back of his fridge. So you bought him soda— big fucking deal. Is that supposed to make up for whatever you did?

Connors and Marlow are huddled over Connors' phone in the back of the Bears' gym, muttering excitedly about something. Marlow waves him over, shoves a phone in his face, and—

Oh.

And there's Shane, holding hands with one of the most beautiful women Ilya has ever seen, the two of them playfully waving to paparazzi as they leave a restaurant.

His teammates are chattering around him like idiots as he scrolls through the photos like a man possessed. She's got her arm draped around his shoulders. She's at his game, wearing his jersey, waving at his fans like she's one of them. She's blowing out the candles on a cake, and he's smiling at her the way he used to smile at Ilya, only at Ilya.

He almost whips the phone at the wall, remembers at the last minute that it isn't his, and he's in public, and he really, really can't freak out about this right now. He shoves the phone back into Marlow's hand and climbs onto a stationary bike. He finds himself pedaling hard, bumping up the resistance much higher than he really should for a light workout. He turns up his music and puts his head down, and pretends not to notice Connors' concerned look back at him as the rest of the team files back into the locker room.

December 2016 - Montreal

They play Montreal and it's an awful fucking game. He's a mess and his team knows it, but they aren't shit without him anyway, so fuck them. Marlow has been trying without success to get him to go out. Hammersmith keeps making not-so-subtle comments, insinuating that he's here for any teammate who wants to talk, like, about whatever. Ilya's half-tempted to take him up on it, to corner him on the team bus and really get into the messy, sordid details, just to make him regret not minding his own fucking business.

Connors is almost as bad as the rookies who practically flee in terror whenever Ilya enters a room. He says almost nothing, but Ilya can feel his eyes on him all day long. It's gotten bad enough that Ilya has taken refuge in the bathroom for the last half hour, glaring at himself in the mirror, wondering idly how badly he'd have to fuck up this timeline in order to wake up at seventeen again.

Because, that's the joke, isn't it?

He'd woken up the day after Shane left. He'd woken up, and it was still 2016, and Shane was still gone. Shane had left and this time, it hadn't broken the universe.

What kind of fucking sense did that make?

He was supposed to be with Shane— he'd been sent back so many times because he'd fucked things up with him. The universe had punished him every time he'd made a mistake, and now he didn't even know what he'd done, and his punishment was the worst one of all: he'd lost the chance to try again. Shane was gone, and it was as it should be. Ilya would wake up and live his life and go to sleep and so would Shane, hundreds or thousands of miles away, with a partner so much more deserving of him, and Ilya would be here. Maybe that was the whole point of it, actually— maybe his purpose in every lifetime up to and including this one was to prepare Shane Hollander for a life with someone he actually deserves. Ilya was just the example of what not to look for.

If he doesn't leave this bathroom now, he's not sure he ever will. He pushes away dark thoughts and turns abruptly, startling Connors.

"I need to get laid, let's go out."

Forty-five minutes later, Ilya stands at the bar of a Montreal club and watches as Rose Landry sways to the music, her arms wrapped around Shane's neck. He's swaying too, awkwardly, but his hands are on her waist, and he's smiling at her with that uncertain smile. The one that Ilya knows means he's uncomfortable, and he's looking for reassurance.

Shane— who, as far as Ilya is aware, has never willingly set foot in a nightclub, in this lifetime or any. But here he is, dancing with his movie star girlfriend, wearing the most boring fucking t-shirt Ilya has ever seen in his life.

The universe says this is correct. So Ilya needs to bite down, hard, and deal with it.

He turns back to the bar and gets a drink. He scans the crowd, makes eye contact with a cute girl with blonde hair and a tight dress. Okay, sure, whatever.

It's formulaic, almost, the way he approaches, the line he uses, the way she flirts back. The way he leads her onto the floor and falls into place, slotting their hips together, running his hands over her, cataloguing every reaction she has to his touch.

She's beautiful, and she's into him, and he should leave. His heart just isn't in it, it's somewhere twenty feet or so to the left, being trampled on by Rose Landry. He shifts, turning the girl around so he's pressed against her back. She arches into his touch. They turn—

Shane is staring at him, ten feet away, holding an empty glass, with an expression on his face that sends ice cold misery through Ilya's veins.

Ilya's body stills. There's no fight in him. He wants to run to Shane, fall on his knees, beg for forgiveness, beg for punishment, anything to end the cruel indifference of this reality.

His dancing partner turns around— she's speaking to him, confused. He murmurs an apology, tries to come up with some kind of excuse. She returns to her friends, and when he looks back up, Shane is gone.

Ilya returns to his hotel room. He considers crying, considers jerking off. Considers breaking a window to see if 5 stories is high enough. Wonders whether that would get him sent back to adolescence, or just end his misery for good. He's pretty sure he's not quite ready to find out.

In the end, he pulls out his phone, and sends a few texts. Then, he lays facedown on his bed and drifts. The sky begins to turn gray, and sleep finally takes him.

Shane

November 2016, Boston

Shane stares through his own reflection in the mirror of the hotel bathroom. If there are answers for any of this, he certainly isn't finding them in the taught shoulders and tense jaw staring back at him. He looks down at the sink, lets his eyes fall closed, and inhales a slow, deep breath.

A week. It has been seven straight days of utter confusion. Every night he is transported to another timeline and shown another version of himself and Ilya. Every morning he wakes up, tries to make sense of what he has remembered, tries to slot it into the increasingly confounding picture he's trying to create of Ilya, and tries, unsuccessfully, to tuck it away into a mental shoebox for later examination. At the same time, he trains, he travels, he tries to win hockey games. He completes his press duties with practiced finesse, and he survives the social intricacies of the locker room primarily by not speaking unless spoken to. On the surface, the last week hasn't been any different from the several hundred or so that came before it.

The memories, though.

These ones haven't let themselves be compartmentalized so easily. They rise to the surface, demanding attention that Shane can't risk giving them.

On Monday, he'd woken up with the memory of an All-Stars weekend, sometime before dawn, half-asleep in Ilya's arms. He'd remembered lips murmuring soft Russian against his neck, the voice rough from sleep but achingly tender. The strong arms hugging him close against Ilya's body, his own limbs surrendering easily into the embrace.

On Tuesday, he'd been on a rooftop he knows well by now, and Ilya had been a blank wall. He'd barely acknowledged Shane as he smoked, snuffed out his cigarette and left with barely a 'Goodbye,' leaving Shane feeling smaller and more stupid than he's ever felt.

On Wednesday Ilya hadn't been there at all. Shane had been at Hayden's house, playing with the twins; they'd been building a castle with colorful wooden blocks and Ruby had been insisting that it have two swimming pools— one for each princess, of course. In his memory, he'd glanced at his phone to see no notifications, and had felt a sting of loneliness and disappointment. He'd looked up to see Hayden watching him intently, and he'd scrambled for an excuse he knew was a lie.

On Thursday, the memory had come online all of a sudden; Ilya had been on top of him, inside of him, moving hard and fast. He'd known immediately he was about to come, and— fuck, he'd spilled all over himself. He'd felt Ilya's hand working him through it, groaning, hips stuttering as his own orgasm hit. Ilya had collapsed on top of him, pressing kisses into his neck, wrapping one hand protectively under Shane's shoulders, the other coming up to card fingers softly through his sweat-dampened hair. He'd murmured something, but the memory had gone soft and hazy; Shane had drifted, knowing that as long as Ilya was holding him down, he wouldn't float away. Sometime later, Ilya had risen, returned after a moment to pull Shane to standing, and led him into the shower, where he'd run gentle hands and a washcloth over Shane, keeping him close as they stood together in the hot spray of water.

On Friday, Shane had taken a rare dose of Nyquil— to fight off a cold, or so he'd told himself, and if it happened to drag him deep enough that the memories couldn't reach him? Well, it would just be for one night. He slept, and woke up with nothing but a void and a lingering, uncomfortable brain fog that persisted throughout most of the day.

On Saturday, he'd been lying in his own bed, feeling the temperature of the room drop about twenty-five degrees as Ilya rose, dressed, and left with barely a backwards glance, the afterglow of their sex curdling as he'd wondered what he'd said that was so wrong.

And Sunday. On Sunday, he'd stood in a bathroom while Ilya glared at him with a fury that was physically painful. It had felt like the most profound rejection, the deepest humiliation; it had made him want to shrink deep inside himself and never resurface. Now I have to give you attention whenever you want? Come running like a dog?

I don't owe you any of this shit. We aren't anything, Hollander.

You are no one to me.

Shane had woken with wet streaks on his face, and perhaps that was the most humiliating part of the entire thing. Ilya Rozanov could be cruel to him across lifetimes, and he'd feel the sting of those words acutely no matter how far removed he was. The power this man held over him, the way Shane had yielded by inches, or maybe by miles— it didn't matter, really, because at the end of the day he'd relented so many times that he'd left himself totally at Ilya's mercy.

Ilya, who held him like he was something precious. Ilya, who told him he was nothing. Ilya, who chirped him in post-game interviews as foreplay, Ilya who went months without acknowledging his existence. None of it made sense. The memories bounced off one another, sent Shane reeling like a pinball, unsure of where he stood with Ilya, unsure what to believe, and utterly confused about what he himself even thought about any of it.

Ilya had sensed that something was off. He'd called Shane, and even through his typical sarcastic banter, Shane could hear the concern in his voice. He'd lied, hoped it had been convincing, tried to tell Ilya and himself that it would all be better once they were together. He just had to get out of his own head for a bit.

Now, though, Shane glares at his own reflection as he tries to complete his breathing exercises. He feels himself being pulled in two; he wants to stop thinking and let Ilya take him apart the way he always does, the way he always feels safe and at peace, but the thought simultaneously sends a spike of panic through him. Because the Ilya who kisses him and holds him and murmurs Russian into his ear is the same Ilya who has told him, on more than one occasion, that he doesn't give a fuck about Shane.

He needs to go talk to Ilya. Confront him, maybe. Maybe there's some kind of explanation. Maybe Shane had done something really shitty to him right before the bathroom memory, and that's what Ilya was reacting to. Maybe it had been the mention of Ilya's brother— he's inferred that family is a difficult subject for Ilya, and his brother had been such an asshole in that one memory from Sochi. Still, it hurts. If Ilya could have said those words to him in that lifetime, if Shane had really meant so little to him, what would stop him from repeating the same thing in this life?

Shane knocks on the large, dark wooden door to Ilya's house. He's been here before; Ilya had bought it a few years ago, and Ilya had just about made good on his promise to fuck Shane in every single room. Shane idly wonders whether Ilya is including the utility closet in the basement in his count.

The door swings open and Shane's heart flips; Ilya stands in front of him, shirtless, in a pair of black joggers, his hair pushed back off his face in the way that makes him look like he's about to devour Shane whole. He steps back to let Shane in, grinning as his eyes scan over Shane's body.

"Hey," says Shane, before Ilya closes the door and crowds him into the wall. He kisses Shane deeply, and Shane opens his mouth, already so fucking hungry for him, and whines into Ilya's mouth.

They need to talk, he knows this. But all the blood in his body has rushed to his dick, and he's starting to forget how to form coherent thoughts, so for now, at least, the conversation is abandoned.

Ilya breaks the kiss and pulls back with a fond smile. "Hey," he says, laughing, and grabs for Shane's hand. "Upstairs?" Shane nods and lets himself be pulled along to Ilya's bedroom.

Now I have to give you attention whenever you want? Come running like a dog?

Shane lays with his head in the crook of Ilya's neck and the words resurface mockingly.

Who's the dog now, Hollander?

"Are you okay?" You are no one to me. Shane blinks.

"Sure, yeah I'm good," he hears himself lie. He sits up, needing to put a few inches of space between himself and Rozanov. Ilya. The stranger in bed with him. The man he doesn't know at all, or maybe has finally begun to know. He's speaking to Shane again, now. Shane tries to grab onto the word as they float past him; catches something about the memories.

"Yeah," he manages. The memories. That's what he's supposed to talk to Ilya about. He'll open his mouth and tell Ilya how little he cares about Shane. He'll tell him about the rooftop, about the bedroom. He'll tell him about days spent waiting for a text that never came, and he'll tell him what Ilya said to him in that bathroom.

"Shane," he hears Ilya say with a shakiness that is unfamiliar, "Please tell me. If— if I hurt you, or upset you—"

You are no one to me. We are not anything, Hollander. I don't owe you any of this shit.

Shane stands abruptly. "I should go."

Ilya protests; Shane doesn't bother expending the effort to listen to his words. His heart is hammering in his chest; his breathing is too fast and if he doesn't get out of here right now, he might actually pass out in Rozanov's bedroom.

I don't owe you any of this shit. Fine. Two can play that game. He doesn't owe Rozanov anything, either.

He's not an idiot. He's seen how this story has ended, over and over and over again. It ends when Ilya says it ends, when he's decided he doesn't need Shane anymore. Over and over again he'd told Shane how much he didn't care about him, and still Shane had come running every time he'd called, obedient dog that he was. He couldn't even lay the blame fully at Ilya's feet; if nothing else, at least he'd been honest in his brutality.

"Please, talk to me. Whatever happened, if I did something, I want to know. I want to fix it." Rozanov sounds scared, small. He can't help the harsh bark of laughter, can't help but feel a flash of satisfaction at how it makes Rozanov visibly recoil.

"Yeah, I bet you do," he snaps. Of course he wants to fix it. He seems to think he needs Shane to keep moving forward. He wants to keep him in the wings, never quite satisfied, always eager to come back for more. If he keeps stringing Shane along, he'll be able to have him whenever he feels like it, and ignore him when he doesn't, and the years will continue to move in the correct direction.

That can't be it. Shane may be many things, but he's not a prop in someone else's life. He doesn't exist to keep Ilya Rozanov anchored in the correct timeline, not like this.

"Hollander," it almost sounds like a confession. Shane squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just… I can't keep doing this."

Shane answers JJ the second time he calls. He knows from past experience that if he tries to ignore him, he'll wake up with a phone full of missed calls and increasingly illegible texts.

"Hollander! Get your ass down to the Mile End!"

He does, because what the fuck else is he going to do?

He'd walked out of Ilya's house and life had continued, so he'd made the right choice. Still, he needed a distraction, badly, because he'd looked at his text thread with Lily probably fifteen times today, and he's not sure how many more times he can = open it before he gave in to sending a message. Hi. I'm sorry. I miss you. I'm scared. Please take me back. Please don't hurt me. Please promise me you won't leave me. I don't know what I want. I know I want you. I don't know fucking anything but when you touch me I feel right in a way I almost never do.

The bar is loud and it smells like sweat and alcohol and everyone is boring, but then Rose Landry offers him a fry and it's suddenly not quite so terrible. Rose is funny, and smart, and interesting— and she knows hockey. She tears apart Toronto's defense between bites of french fries, and Shane can't help but feel a small knot of tension release in the base of his spine.

He tells her he recently got out of a long term… something. It was complicated, it was long distance, he's getting over it. She looks at him for a beat too long, with a look that feels too perceptive, and gives him a hug. She tells him that they should be friends, and he feels the knot release a bit further. He doesn't want to think too hard about what that means.

Ilya is at the club. He's dancing with some girl. He's here and Shane sees him and he sees Shane. He sees Shane watching him while he dances with that girl like it's nothing and like she means nothing and like Shane means nothing and it's so hot and loud and he's sweaty again even though he just showered, like, an hour earlier. His shirt clings to the small of his back and condensation from someone's drink brushes cold and clammy against his arm as they push past him towards the dance floor and someone is wearing too much cologne near him and he needs water because he he fucking hates the way the beer is coating the back of his throat making him feel thirstier than he'd been before he started drinking it and—

"Shane, are you okay?" Rose, calling him, from a distance. He blinks. At some point his feet moved him to the narrow hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

"Shane," Rose is closer now. He forces his body to cooperate, one piece at a time.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm not feeling great— I think maybe I'm going to go home." The words roll clumsily off his thick tongue.

"I'll come," says Rose. "Let's get our coats."

She steers him out of the club and into a car and into the elevator of his building and his own front door before something connects in his synapses and a ragged breath forces itself from out between his lips.

"I think I fucked up, Rose."

She leads him into the living room by the hand, and presses his shoulders firmly down. He obeys the wordless order and sinks miserably down onto his sofa.

"Water first, then let's talk, okay?" She waits for a nod of confirmation before leaving him. He hears her moving around the kitchen, opening cabinets in search of glasses.

She returns a few minutes later with two glasses of ice water and a plate of apple slices. She sets them down on the coffee table and curls up on the sofa, not touching Shane, but facing him. Close enough to lean in for a hug, he thinks distantly.

"Okay," she says, and it's not a question. "Time to tell me what's going on with you."

Shane looks down at the spot of the floor between his feet. His fingers find their way to an apple slice and he brings it to his lips, appreciating the cool snap of the fruit between his teeth and the tart juice spreading across his tongue. He chews slowly, trying to organize his thoughts.

"I told you I broke up with someone recently," he starts. Rose nods. "I saw my… ex, or whatever, tonight. At the club."

Rose winces sympathetically. "Ooh, ouch. Yeah, that sucks, babe."

"I don't really go out to clubs," Shane says. "It's not my scene, but I thought maybe it would be good for me to get out of my shell, or something. Try something new. But of course…" he trails off.

"I just need to move on," he tries again. "I was right to break things off, because— well, I just know I was, but it doesn't feel right at all, it fucking sucks, and I don't know what to do about it."

Rose takes a sip of water, then sighs. She rolls her shoulders back, and tentatively reaches a hand out, resting it on top of Shane's, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"Babe, can I be really honest with you for a minute?" she asks, looking at Shane intently. He nods. He doesn't care if it hurts, it just needs to not be a fucking puzzle for him to figure out, not tonight.

"Okay. I'm going to say some things and you can tell me if I'm totally off base. Either way, I want you to know I love you so much, I feel like I've known you for years, and I hope you know I'm only saying this stuff because I care about you.

Shane's stomach drops in dread.

"So, first of all, I just have to ask. Is there any chance at all that your ex is maybe… not a woman?"

Fuck. Shane feels his vision start to swim and he knows he needs to deny, deflect, but he's so tired and words keep dancing just out of his grasp. He thinks he nods, maybe.

"Hey, it's okay, Shane, thank you for telling me," Rose's hand squeezes his again, and it's nice. Grounding. He focuses on it as he feels a bit of wetness on his cheeks.

"Does anyone know?"

"Just him," Shane hears himself say, "And you now, too, I guess."

"That must be hard," says Rose softly. "You haven't been able to talk about this with anyone?"

Shane shakes his head, shocked at how much lighter he feels already, how the uncomfortable revelation of his innermost secret has somehow helped him release a breath he didn't know he was holding. "No, no one ever knew. We weren't really together— it was complicated, I don't know. He's not out either. And like I said, it was long distance, so we didn't really see each other in person that often."

"Seems like it was still kind of intense," says Rose.

"Yeah," agrees Shane. "It was, uh… intense is one way to describe it."

Rose frowns suddenly, as if something has just occurred to her. "Shane," she begins, her voice carrying a new note of concern. "Okay, again— maybe I'm way off base and I hope I am, but I need to ask. Was it… was everything okay? He was… good to you? I mean, he never hurt you, or anything, right?"

Shane inhaled sharply. "Oh! Oh, no, Rose, it wasn't like that— shit. No, he never… no," he stammers, his mind reeling as horribly conflicting memories, from this life and previous, flash across his consciousness. He inhales again, slowly this time. "He never put his hands on me in a way I didn't want him to. Never made me feel, like, unsafe or anything. He was good to me that way. I just meant… I think he meant more to me than I meant to him. He would say nice things one day, and then the next day he'd be, like, mean and distant."

He's not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but Rose gives him a strange look, as if she's not convinced by what he's said.

"Really, Rose, I promise, he didn't hurt me."

"No, no, it's not that, I believe you," she said, waving a hand. "I just don't buy the other part, that he didn't care about you."

Shane scoffs. "He pretty much told me that word for word."

"And you believe him?" Rose quirks an eyebrow at Shane.

"I mean, I don't know," he says, confused.

"How did it end?"

Shane sighs, and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "We were at his place. We— we hooked up, and he could tell I was feeling off, and… I don't know. I just left. I got dressed and walked out."

Rose raises her eyebrows at that. "Wait— wait. So… he wanted to talk about it, and you left?"

"I was confused," protests Shane. "Like I said, there had been all these mixed signals the whole time we'd been doing this, like he'd be great one time and then the next time it was like I barely mattered to him."

"And he acted like that recently? Like he didn't care about you?" Rose leans forward with a pointed expression.

Shane faltered. He's not explaining this properly, not that it's even possible to explain this to anyone. "Not… recently, no. I guess I was just remembering some bad times we'd had before."

Rose chews on her lip and looks at Shane with an expression that makes him want to crawl under the fucking table just to escape it. "Look," she says finally, in a matter-of-fact voice. "As a rule, I don't believe in taking back shitty exes. You deserve someone who is kind to you, who doesn't play mind games, who is emotionally available and who isn't allergic to communication."

"I wasn't planning on taking him back, not that he'd even want me at this point."

"I wasn't finished," says Rose bluntly. "All of that said, I'm not sure I've ever met a man who hasn't struggled with being open and vulnerable at least a little. Especially with other men. Especially when we're talking about professional athletes, where the secret actual competition is who can perform toxic masculinity the best, and even admitting you have feelings is announcing yourself as some kind of freak."

Shane looks at her in surprise. "I mean… that's kind of harsh, but I guess I do have some things to work on," he says carefully.

Rose shoots him a withering look. "Just you? Okay." She reaches for her water and takes a long sip, never breaking eye contact with Shane. She swallows, sets her glass down. "And your man? Or, ex-man? His time in locker rooms didn't do him any favors either, I'm guessing."

Shane feels his jaw drop and he scrambles to think if he'd said anything that would have given it away. "Who said anything—"

"Oh, about the Boston Bears players I noticed you staring at about 10 minutes before I found you hiding by the bathrooms?" asks Rose, feigning an over-the-top expression of innocence.

For the second time tonight, Shane really thinks he might be dying. It's bad enough for Rose to figure out about him, but she's discreet, he trusts her, somehow. She cares about him, he thinks, but she doesn't know Ilya. She doesn't know how good he is—

— he doesn't love you, you fucking idiot. Why the hell is he protecting Ilya? Fuck, not Ilya, Rozanov, who looked at Shane tonight like he was nothing, because he is nothing to Rozanov, because Shane left and everything kept moving forward so that means he was right, even if tonight Rozanov did look at him for a beat too long, a fraction too intense, it didn't mean anything real—

"Shane," Rose says insistently, her voice pulling him back into the present moment for what feels like the fifth or sixth time tonight. "It's really, really okay."

"It's not," he hears himself mumble in a thin voice.

"Listen…" she begins. "You don't have to worry. Your secret is safe with me, forever, okay? Both of your secrets."

Shane stares dully at the floor.

"You deserve to be happy, Shane," she says softly, and he feels her wrap a warm arm around his shoulders now, pulling him in for a comforting hug. It's nice. "And maybe it won't be with him, and that's okay! But," she squeezes him gently, "I think you're being kind of dumb about this entire situation."

Shane sags into her hug.

"Shane, hun, you don't have to answer, but maybe you should ask yourself if you ran away because you realized how much you like him. Maybe you ran away because you're afraid of your feelings and you don't know what to do about them?"

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I have a lot of gay friends. I'm actually kind of responsible for, like, 4 different gay awakenings. You think this is the first time I've had to yell at a guy because men are terrible and stupid at feelings?"

Shane lets out a watery, fragile laugh at that. "Yeah, okay. Fair enough." He tilts his head to rest on top of Rose's and wraps an arm around her shoulder to hug her back.

"So, what the fuck do I do now?" he murmurs.

"Babe, that is so not my responsibility to figure out," she says, pulling back with a smile. "But if it were me, I might sleep on it, and then in the morning, if I felt up to it, maybe I'd text him."

Shane considers this, and nods. "Yeah. Okay. Maybe I will."

Ilya

sveta

Sveta: ? Are you okay?

yes

sorry

i have a question

Sveta: Ilyusha, I will kill you

Sveta: It is almost 2:00 in the morning

i'm sorry

Sveta: what is it?

fuck. this isn't how I should do this.

Sveta: oh my god. Ilya. What.

Sveta: Answer your phone

i need to move on

forward

No more Jane

soon nothing left for me in russia

Sveta: ??? Are you in trouble?

no

fuck

i want to do the right thing

stop looking back

at russia

at jane

at life i can't have

is not for me i should not want it

so i will not want it anymore

Sveta: Go to bed, Ilyusha.

will you marry me

Sveta: Do not do this, Ilya. You are drunk.

i love you so much sveta

i am terrible, i know

but i will be good to you i promise

i will take care of you

you can do whatever you want

be with whoever you want if you do not want to be with me that way

i love you and i will always support you

Sveta: Ilyusha. My love.

Sveta: Call me in the morning.

you are saying no

Sveta: I am saying you need to get some sleep.

Sveta: You know I love you more than anyone.

Sveta: But you are drunk and heartbroken.

Sveta: Call me in the morning, please?

Sveta: We will talk about all of this.

i love you

Sveta: I know, Ilyusha. I love you too.

Sveta: It will be okay.

ok

i am sorry

Sveta: It's okay. Are you in your hotel room?

yes

going to bed

Sveta: Call me tomorrow. I love you.

Chapter End Notes

And the MVP goes to our favorites, Rose and Sveta, for being the only two actual adults in this entire universe! Love them so much.

Thank y'all so so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments, I appreciate you all enormously! <3 <3

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Shane hears someone moving around in his kitchen, he thinks. He's pretty sure he can smell— bacon? That can't be right. He hasn't bought bacon in months, probably not since the summer, he doesn't eat it during the season. 

He forces his eyes open and sits up. Oh, right. Rose is here. Shit.

Shane grinds the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, sending stars scattering across the back of his eyelids. Fuck, right. He told Rose all kinds of things last night. And now she was punishing him for his transparency with bacon, coffee, and an off-key rendition of some pop song Shane kind of recognizes. 

This is exactly why he's fine not having friends. 

Okay, well. She isn't going to go away on her own, and he'd rather not wait for her to barge in here while he's stripped down to his underwear. Shane grabs a pair of sweats and a t-shirt where he'd left them, neatly folded, the previous evening. He tugs them on, gives his appearance a cursory reflection in the mirror near his doorway, and, satisfied, descends the stairs. 

Rose, as predicted, stands at the stove, poking at something in a pan, singing along to the music playing out of a Bluetooth speaker Shane normally reserves for providing weather updates and daily schedule notifications. She turns as she hears him reach the bottom of the stairs, and smiles broadly at him. 

"Good morning, handsome! I made breakfast!" 

"Oh, I was thinking I'd just grab a quick protein shake before my run—" 

"Shane Hollander." Rose faces him squarely, hands on her hips, looking at him with an expression that leaves no room for argument. "You are going to sit your ass down at the table, you are going to eat the delicious food I made for you, and you are going to tell me what you're going to do about Ilya Rozanov." 

In this moment, Shane knows what it feels like to be a balloon, blown full of air, but released before anyone has been able to tie it off. He feels his body move to the table, while his brain zooms haphazardly around the room, bouncing off whatever surface it collides with until it lays in an impotent heap somewhere on the floor to be discarded later. As he thinks this, Rose sets down a plate in front of him, practically overflowing with eggs, bacon, and waffles. 

Rose sits down with her own plate, and takes an enthusiastic bite, letting out a contented groan at the taste of the food. She chews and swallows while Shane reluctantly pokes at a bit of egg.

"So?" says Rose, not wasting time. "What's the plan?"

"Who says there's a plan?" asks Shane.

"Oh, so you didn't lie awake for at least an hour trying to think of what to say when you call him later today?" 

Fuck. It was unfair how easily she could read him— they'd known each other barely a month, and she could already see through his tells, could probably hear the horrible noises his thoughts made as they ground against each other in his head. 

He takes a larger bite of egg, even though Rose has just slightly overcooked them, leaving them rubbery and unpleasant. He chews, slowly. Rose, he's sure, can see right through this distraction as well, based on the skeptical look she gives him. 

The egg has completely lost its structural integrity, and sits on his tongue in a thick, unpleasant paste. Shane swallows. 

"I… fuck, Rose, no. I don't know." All that time, and that was the best he could do. "I don't even know if he'll take my call." 

"You don't think he's just as hung up on you as you are on him?"

"I fucked up bad, Rose," Shane says, the words falling from his mouth before he can care enough to shut it. "I panicked and ran away, without even telling him why. Why the hell would he give me a chance to explain myself now?" 

"There's only one way to find out," sings Rose in an annoying voice. "Or, I guess you could keep playing really terrible hockey against each other until one or both of you retire." 

"It wasn't that bad," protests Shane weakly, knowing how untrue that is. 

"Shane? No offense, but that was hands-down the worst game I've seen in a few seasons, at least. Honestly— if you keep this up, you might manage to destroy the team rivalry altogether, because the secondhand embarrassment for the fans would be that bad!" 

Shane fails to come up with a retort to that. It had been a truly awful game. His shoulders slump in defeat. 

"Fine. I'll text him after breakfast." 

Ilya needs to stop waking up feeling like his brain has been scraped off the floor of a nightclub and deposited unceremoniously back into his skull. 

Fuck. Last night must have been a bad one.

The memories slowly flicker to life as Ilya blinks blearily at a snoring figure huddled in the other bed in the room. Connors must have gotten in at some point after Ilya had fallen asleep, and as Ilya reluctantly pushes himself up to sitting, he observes the trail of shoes and outerwear marking a vague path from the door to their room directly to Connors' bed. A single shoe rests on its side next to the nightstand; Ilya notes that Connors' jeans are discarded near the bathroom and finds that he's feeling alert enough to be curious about the logistics involved to make such a thing possible. Perhaps he'll have to take Connors out again and feed him tequila shots until he can repeat the scene for scientific purposes. 

Ilya's bladder sends a warning to his brain, and he stands, only slightly woozy. He makes his way to the bathroom. pisses, and brushes his teeth before returning to his bed, feeling wrong.

Memories of last night are blurry, smeared across the canvas of his mind. Distorted, but generally legible. 

The club. Shane. Rose. Drinks. Sveta— oh. Oh, fuck. 

Ilya's hand shoots out to grab his phone, almost knocking it onto the floor in his haste. He fumbles with it, cursing himself when he sees he's at 11% battery, having apparently forgotten to charge it. He unlocks the phone and taps on his text conversation with Sveta, rereading the messages with a sinking feeling in his gut. 

Fuck. Okay. Well, there would be no coming back from this— Sveta will insist on a conversation when he returns to Boston and she won't be shy about raking him over the coals until she's satisfied with the answers. 

Maybe that was okay, Ilya finds himself thinking, with a sudden air of defiance. Maybe he doesn't need to walk it back. He rereads his own messages again— everything he said last night is still true today. Shane does not want him, it is over. It is time to move on. Sveta is his best friend, they would be good to each other. It would help him get citizenship. 

She will ask if he's talked to Shane. He didn't need to. He saw Shane with Rose, and that was more clarifying than any conversation they could have. It's not like they were good with their words, anyway. 

He's about to set his phone down when a notification pops up on his screen, nearly sending his heart through the wall of his chest. 

Jane: Hey. Can we talk?

Jane: I've been feeling really shitty about how things went the last time we were together. 

Jane: I feel like I owe you an explanation. And an apology. 

Ilya's mind reels as he reads the messages once, twice, three times. His bruised ego flares with the spiteful impulse to delete the messages, block the number. Reply with something like "Who is this?" or a laughing emoji.

sure

Shane's response comes less than a minute after he sends it. 

Jane: What time do you fly out? Can you come over? 

Jane: Not for sex. I would just rather do this in person. 

Do what? Ilya's organs continue their relentless acrobatics routine as he tries to interpret the unspoken meaning behind Shane's texts. He doesn't want sex, he wants to do this in person. He wants to explain, apologize. 

What he has not said, Ilya notices, is that he wants to return to how things were. 

He steels himself. So, this will be that kind of conversation. Shane will make the "break-up" official. Because he is just too damn polite, he can't leave things messy. He will tidy up the loose ends and tell Ilya they can still be friends, and he'll probably even think he means it. He's not the type of man to leave a dying animal to suffer— he would, with all the compassion in the world, whisper a few comforting words, before putting a bullet in its head. 

Well, good for Shane, but Ilya isn't going to just hand him the gun. 

we leave for the airport soon. can't come over.

Jane: Can I at least call you, then? 

Jane: Please?

Fuck. Even now, even after everything, some small part of him melts when Shane asks him for something. He groans, and the noise causes Connors to stir. He sits up, looking disheveled and confused. 

i'll call you in five minutes

Ilya slides the phone back into his pocket and stands from his bed. He takes a shirt out of his luggage and pulls it over his head. To Connors, he says, "We leave for the airport in half an hour. I'll go get us coffee." 

Five minutes later, Ilya skulks near a back entrance to the hotel with a cigarette between his lips and his phone in his hand. His thumb hovers over the call button. 

Fuck. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to hear the polite, apologetic, tone in Hollander's voice. He doesn't want to hear that it's really over. 

Come on, Ilya. No sense in dragging it out. At least now when Sveta asks you if you talked to him, it won't be a lie. 

He takes another drag on his cigarette, taking small comfort in the fact that Shane would be pissed if he knew Ilya was smoking. He pushes the call button.

Shane answers on the second ring, sounding almost relieved, like he didn't think Ilya would actually call. 

"Hey, Ilya," he says, and the sound of his name on Shane's lips is painful. 

"Hi," he says, trying hard not to be an asshole, not fully trusting himself to be able to achieve that. "I don't have much time. What did you want to say?" 

It's not exactly a warm opener, but it could have been so much worse. 

"Yeah. Fuck, sorry, this is kind of hard," Ilya can hear distress in Shane's voice, and feels a flare of anger. 

"Fucking say what you want to say, Hollander. I leave for the airport in twenty minutes." 

"Right— fuck. Ilya, I'm sorry. I know I freaked out, I didn't follow our agreement, I didn't tell you about the memories, I'm sorry. I never should have left like that, it was shitty of me." 

Ilya lets the words hang in the air while he decides how he feels about them. After a minute, he realizes Hollander is waiting for a response. 

"Yes," he says slowly, choosing his words carefully. "It was shitty." 

"I know," Hollander seems encouraged that Ilya hasn't hung up the phone. "Look— I won't lie, I got some shitty memories in the days leading up to our meeting, and I kind of spiraled." 

Ilya's heart sinks, but he knew this was coming. "Bad memories," he sighs, "Okay." 

"Yeah. And then when we didn't get sent back after I left, I thought—"

"Yes, I know, Hollander. I thought, too," says Ilya. "So… why did you want to talk, then? If this is…correct?" 

He hears a heavy sigh come over the phone. "I mean, because last night fucking sucked. And— I don't know, maybe I'm screwing everything up here, but I just feel like there's no way we're not meant to, like, be in each other's lives, you know? It doesn't make sense." 

Ilya nods, even though Hollander can't see him. He doesn't trust his voice. 

"You need to tell me," he says, after a beat. "The memories." 

Shane is silent for a moment. "I know." 

Ilya braces for impact. "Okay. So?" 

"No, Ilya— I'll tell you, I promise, but not like this."

"This is what you said last time, then you ran away." 

"I know, I know, Ilya, I'm sorry. It won't happen again." 

Ilya lets out an exasperated sigh. He considers lighting a second cigarette, his first one long-finished by this point. 

"They weren't all bad, you know," Shane says, a new softness in his voice. "Just… confusing, I guess, as a whole. Mixed messages." 

Ilya's not sure what to do with that— since he can't possibly allow himself to hope, he deflects. 

"So, we will talk. When?" 

"All Stars is probably our next chance," says Shane, and Ilya curses mentally. "That is over a month away, Hollander." 

"I know. It sucks." 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. "Fine. Okay. All Stars, then." He turns back towards the hotel. The wind is cutting through his jacket; his fingers are almost numb. "I need to go now."

"Can I text you, later?"

Ilya grimaces with the effort of not dissolving into a pathetic puddle of goo on the pavement. "Sure. Bye, Hollander." 

"Bye Ilya." 

Ilya hangs up the phone and chews his lip. 

It wasn't a break-up. Not yet, anyway. 

Shane had said nothing at all about Rose. His girlfriend, Rose. Don't be delusional, Ilya. He wants to be friends maybe, or something approaching it. He wants to work together. He wants to move forward just like you do, that's all. Don't be an idiot.

i am sorry about last night

i am an idiot

Sveta: Good Morning. Yes, you are. Luckily for you, I already knew this about you. 

i will be home on thursday if you want to come over and yell at me

Sveta: Oh, I will be coming over, Ilyusha. 

Sveta: You will buy me whatever I want for dinner and we will have a little chat. 

ok

i don't deserve you 

Sveta: Hm. See you Thursday.

♥️

Sveta's car is already parked in his driveway as he pulls up the driveway, and from the lights drifting out across the yard, Ilya assumes she has made herself at home. Probably eating whatever scant snacks were in his kitchen and drinking the last of his vodka. At least he'd had the forethought to stop at the store on the way home to get more; he's not sure he'll make it through the evening without it.

He pulls open the door and is assaulted by upbeat American music being played over his sound system. 

"Sveta?" He calls, and she appears from around the corner, scowling at him with a generous glass of wine in her hand. 

"Ah, look. My fiance is home," she says dryly. Despite the less than warm welcome, the familiarity of the Russian language felt like a hug. He could set his English down on a table by the door and leave it there for the night. He hasn't realized how heavy it had become over recent weeks. 

"You have accepted, then? I don't recall you giving me an answer," he responds with a tentative grin.

"Of course I haven't. Come here. Put your shit down, get a drink, and let's talk." She turns back into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "I ordered Mexican for dinner, on your card. Got your usual." 

"See what a good pair we make?" He calls after her. She's annoyed, but she's not truly angry, he's pretty sure, and he thinks a little self-deprecation will help to soothe her irritation. 

He stands across the kitchen island from where she is perched on a barstool, tapping her manicured nails against the marble. She takes a sip of her wine, swallows, and fixes him with a pointed look. 

"So? How was Montreal?" 

"Not great, obviously," Ilya says. "Shitty game, got drunk and stupid and sad." 

"You get drunk and stupid and sad at least once a month, Ilyusha. This is different."

He shrugs. "It's just Jane. It'll pass." 

"Have you talked to him?" Sveta asks. 

"Yes, actually," Ilya begins, unsure how much he wants to share. "He texted, me the morning after the game." 

Sveta's eyebrows raise slightly, enough to prompt him to continue. 

"We talked, not for long. He— he apologized for running out. He wants to talk the next time we are in the same city." 

"Hmm," muses Sveta. 

"It doesn't matter," says Ilya. "He's just trying to be a nice guy. It's over, he just needs to do this for whatever reason." 

"He said that? Or are you reading minds again?" 

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Enough. He's with someone else now, Sveta." 

Sveta scoffs, thoroughly annoyed now. "Fine. If you won't talk about Jane, we can talk about your marriage proposal." 

Ilya presses his lips together as Sveta continues. 

"Now I know how little you must think of me, Ilyusha, if you think that's the sort of proposal I deserve. Drunk texts from an idiot in love with someone else. Telling me how much you love my citizenship, how generous you are, that you don't care if I sleep with other people? This is the husband I deserve, you think?" 

A wave of shame washes over him and he feels his cheeks burn. She's right, obviously, but hearing it laid out like that makes him feel like a real piece of shit. 

"You would rather ask me to sacrifice my own chance at love than have an honest conversation with yours? And did you even buy me a ring?" 

Each word is lethal. He deserves this. Actually, it's more than he deserves, it's the draining of an infected abscess; painful but with the intention of saving him from his own stubborn cowardice. 

"I would have bought you any ring you wanted," he murmurs, hating how small his voice sounds, his eyes cast downward. "A different one for every day of the week. I'm sorry, Sveta. You deserve better, of course you do." 

A small hand reaches across the island. 

"Ilyusha. You know I love you. I will always love you. If you needed the citizenship, if it was an emergency, darling of course I would I'm a heartbeat. But this," she gestures broadly, "this is you carving your own heart out because you think the knife hurts less if you're the one holding it."

Ilya nods, not trusting his own voice. 

"Have a real conversation with him, Ilyusha. When you see him at All Stars." 

Ilya looks up sharply. "Who says he's going to All Stars?" He asks carefully.

Sveta smiles. "I just assumed you wouldn't fall for any old mediocre player. Only the best of the best for you, hm?" 

He shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise, and he's saved by the sound of the doorbell, signaling the arrival of their dinner. Sveta finishes her wine, winks, and hops off the barstool to answer the door. Ilya is left feeling a strange, sad sort of gratitude. He doesn't deserve her. She loves him anyway. 

Shane's eyes lock onto Ilya as soon as he sets foot in the bar. He's drinking a beer, looking unfairly handsome. He doesn't notice Shane at first, and Shane is grateful for the additional moment to steel his nerves as he approaches the counter. 

He slides onto the stool next to Ilya, who glances at him, then away in a way anyone would read as casual disinterest. 

"Hey," Shane says, after ordering a beer. Just one, he thinks— enough to take off the edges a bit, but not enough that he stops thinking clearly. If this goes badly, he can always order a second one. 

"So," says Ilya, still not really looking at him. "Should be good game. Will be fun to play on the same team, for once."

"Yeah," Shane nods. Fuck, he hates small talk, even with Ilya. Especially with Ilya, it feels like even more of a waste of time when he thinks of all the other things they could be doing. The things they probably shouldn't be doing, but that he really wants to be doing. He's getting distracted, shit.

"You bring anyone with you?" Ilya asks. 

"No, I didn't really want to bring my parents," says Shane, a faint grin on his lips. "You know they can be kind of… overbearing. It'd be hard to get time away from them, you know?" 

Ilya hums. "I thought maybe you would bring a certain movie star."

Shane stills and frowns. "Oh— uh, no, Rose didn't come with me. She's filming right now." 

Ilya sniffs and takes a sip of his beer. "Sure, filming. Must keep her busy." 

"I guess, yeah," says Shane, "She definitely would have come, though. She's a huge hockey fan, she keeps joking about having me set her up with Cliff Marlow, if you can believe it." 

Ilya's brow furrows like he's not sure he understands what Shane had said. "And what do you say back to that?" he asks with a frown. 

Shane chuckles. "I tell her I'd rather die than set her up with a Boston player. She's got thirty-one other teams she can choose from." 

Ilya meets his eyes as he takes another sip. Shane copies the motion, hoping he managed to thread the needle and communicate in that weird, roundabout way other people always seem to use. 

Because, of course, he couldn't have just sat down and said "Rose is just a friend. She's just a friend because I'm definitely gay, and she's just a friend because I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you, and I'm absolutely terrified, and Rose is a friend because she knows all of this and she's keeping our secret and because she forced me to pick up the phone and talk to you." 

Ilya has finished his beer. Shane takes a moment to glance around the room; players are gathered in small groups, drifting between the bar and the patio and the pool beyond that. No one is paying much attention to Shane and Ilya— maybe, finally, after all these years, the novelty of them and their rivalry has started to wear thin. Maybe in this life the rivalry was never quite as intense as it has been before, maybe he and Ilya had gotten tired of playing into it after all this time. 

"I think I will take a walk," says Ilya, pulling out his phone. "Excuse me, Hollander." He hasn't even left the bar when Shane's phone buzzes. 

Lily: 1217. 10 minutes.

See you soon.

Shane finishes his drink, and manages to leave the bar a short while later after only being cornered once by an enthusiastic and half-drunk Carter Vaughn. He wraps his arm around Shane's shoulder as he talks animatedly about the skills competition. Shane's half of the conversation consists mostly of smiles and polite nods, and thankfully, Scott Hunter notices and swoops in to retrieve his teammate. 

When Shane arrives at Ilya's room, he can tell the mood has shifted, intensified. Ilya lets him in but keeps a physical distance between them. He has an unfamiliar look on his face— he's nervous, Shane realizes with a start. It's not a look he recalls seeing before. 

Shane steps further into the room and then looks back at Ilya, who gestures forward towards the bed. "Do you want to sit?" he asks. 

Shane nods, and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. Ilya leans against the edge of the desk on the opposite wall and waits. 

There's no delaying this any further. Shane inhales, and despite having spent the last month trying to figure out what to say, finds himself struggling. 

The easy part first, then. 

"I'm sorry about November," he says, forcing himself to keep looking in Ilya's direction, if not quite meeting his eyes. "I never should have run out like that. It was really shitty. Especially after sex, with no explanation or anything."

Ilya says nothing, just continues to regard Shane with a pensive expression. Apparently, he's not planning on making this any easier for Shane. 

"So, I'm sorry, and I want to explain, I guess," he continues, feeling embarrassed. "I had some memories— a lot, actually, more than normal. Like, it was over a week straight, every night I was getting them." 

"Bad memories," says Ilya in a small, flat voice, sounding like he had on the phone the last time they spoke. He's looking at the floor in a way that makes Shane's guts twist with guilt.

"Well, some, yeah," Shane confesses, because he didn't come all this fucking way to take the easy way out. "But not all. Some were nice— like… really nice, actually. And it was confusing, you know? Mixed messages, different loops, all out of order, it fucked with my head." 

Ilya nods once, still staring at the floor. Shane wants to stand up, cross the room, lift his face with gentle hands, or let him bury it in Shane's shoulder. But, again— no easy outs for him. He's going to do this from start to finish, the right way. 

"So, which memories do you want first? The good ones or the bad ones?" He holds up the journal he'd been clutching in his hand. I have them all written here, if you'd rather just read them, too " 

Ilya shrugs. "Bad first." 

Okay. "One time was in Vegas, 2011. We were on the roof and you were just… I don't know. Distant, not interested. I wanted to hook up again, and you turned me down." 

"I was unkind to you? Mean?" 

"No," clarifies Shane. "You weren't having a good night, obviously, and— honestly, I wasn't either. I was drunk, you were going home in a few days it was just a bad night." He watches Ilya for a reaction, and doesn't get one. 

"Then… okay, well, you weren't really in this one," he says. "I was at Hayden's house. And I kept checking my phone, checking our messages. I had texted you, a few times, different dates, and you never responded."

"You know when it was?" asks Ilya, surprising Shane with the interruption. 

"Oh— well, the twins were there, and they were like, probably 3 or 4, old enough to talk," he says, hesitating, "so like, probably 2013 or 14." 

Ilya sniffs and rolls his shoulders back. "What else?" 

Shane sighs. "I'm pretty sure you know the next one. Or, well, you have it written down on that little scrap of paper." 

He sees Ilya crumple, almost. Hears him say something Shane does not understand but recognizes is a curse. "Yes," he says after a moment, "I think I know this one. Tell me anyway." 

Shane hesitates. "Why?"

"Because if you had to hear it, so should I. I should know what I said to you. So I can apologize properly." 

"We were in that bathroom. The one backstage at the Vegas awards. You'd ghosted me sometime around Sochi, I guess. I asked for answers and you told me—" he falters— "you said we were nothing, I was no one to you, you didn't owe me anything." 

Ilya's eyes slide shut, and he nods silently. Shane see a muscle in his jaw twitch, sees his knuckles turn white as he's grips the edge of the desk as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. 

"There's more, Ilya," Shane says, anxious now to get everything out in the open. "Like I said— they weren't all bad. I also remember waking up in your arms, I remember you taking care of me after sex when I was kind of, like, floaty, you know? I remember…" 

I remember you loving me.

"I remember you being kind, and funny, and gentle, and how much I liked it," he finishes, hearing his voice soften at the end. He looks at his hands, clasped tightly between his knees, because he's not sure he can bring himself to face Ilya right now. 

"And… I got confused. Okay? I got scared. Because I didn't know how you could act that way, and then tell me I didn't matter. I thought maybe I was falling for it all over again, but it would be even worse this time." 

For a moment, the room is silent. Then, Shane hears movement as Ilya pushes off the desk and slowly crosses the room. He sits, gently, next to Shane, not touching, but close. 

"Why did you come back, then?" Ilya asks. 

Because I didn't know how not to.

"Rose talked some sense into me," he admits. He feels Ilya tense slightly beside him. "She's just a friend, Ilya. She's only ever been a friend. And I was a mess after that night at the club. She told me some things I needed to hear, I guess." 

Ilya shifts, and Shane angles his body towards him, the distance between them becoming unbearable. 

"I really like you, Ilya, I care about you, and I'm pretty sure you care about me, too. I think before, in those other lives, maybe we were telling ourselves we were only together because we needed to be, but I don't want that anymore. I mean— I want to be with you because I want to be with you, not because I think I'm supposed to be." He looks up, and almost gasps at the way Ilya is looking at him, like he's the most precious treasure Ilya has ever seen. 

Fuck it. Shane moves forward, one hand reaching to the back of Ilya's neck, but a gentle hand on his chest stops him. 

"Shane, may I speak now?" murmurs Ilya. "Please?" 

Shane exhales, and nods, trying to be patient. 

"I have made many mistakes, I think. I'm… not good. I'm lazy, I am not brave—" 

Shane begins to protest this but Ilya shakes his head. "You said I could talk, Shane." 

Shane forces down the rest of his words and presses his lips together. 

"Those words I said in that bathroom, they were all lies. You have to know they were lies back then, and they are even more lies now. You— Shane, you have never been no one to me, not in any life. I was… scared, maybe? And I am so sorry." 

"I'm sorry too. Can we promise something?" Shane asks.

"Of course." 

"No more lies, okay? Can we be honest with each other?" 

Ilya nods solemnly. "No more lies." 

Shane feels as though a weight has been lifted off his chest, and he smiles. "Can I kiss you now? Please?" 

Ilya's hand finds his cheek as Shane pulls him close and their lips meet. It feels like the first breath of air after being trapped underwater for far too long. Shane half-stands and throws a leg over Ilya to straddle him and is rewarded with big, strong arms wrapping around his waist, hands pulling him close. His fingers tangle in Ilya's hair; Ilya's lips press a trail of kisses into his jawline, across the pulse point in his neck. Shane lets his own cheek nuzzle against Ilya's temple.

The events of the All Stars Weekend are forgotten, for now, at least. Hockey, the world, every word in every language has fled his mind, and as their bodies move against each other, as clothes are flung onto the floor, the late afternoon sun streams through a crack in the curtains and glints off Ilya's cross as it swings above him. 

The bed groans slightly with every thrust, matching the noises Shane is distantly aware are coming from somewhere inside himself. His head is empty, save for one word that repeats itself in rhythm with their movements.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Later, as the sun begins to sink towards the horizon, Ilya relaxes, half-dozing, happier and more at peace than he's maybe ever been. Shane's head rests on his chest, his fingers splay across Ilya's stomach. He has one leg thrown over Ilya's. He's still, quiet, not quite fully back from the blissful, distant place he sometimes goes to after sex. Ilya brushes light touches of his fingertips up and down the plane of his back and lets his mind drift as well. 

Shane. His Shane. He'd come back, he'd been brave, and honest, and he still wants Ilya, for some unexplainable reason. 

Shane stirs next to him, sighing dreamily as he presses a lazy kiss into Ilya's ribs. "Hey," he mumbles in a way that makes Ilya want to wrap his limbs around him and never, ever let go. 

"Hey," Ilya says instead, his voice low and raspy, and Shane shifts, rolling and propping himself up to kiss Ilya on the mouth. He pulls away after a moment and settles back on his side, creating just enough distance to be able to look at Ilya comfortably. Ilya rolls onto his side to face him. 

Shane studies him without speaking. Ilya grins. "You are thinking again, Hollander. It is so loud, it will keep the whole hotel awake." 

Shane grins and pushes Ilya's shoulder, but there's no weight behind the action. "I have important things to think about." 

"Lots of tape to review for meaningless exhibition game tomorrow? Whether or not the hotel can make terrible smoothies out of grass and protein powder?" 

"Oh my god, you are such an idiot," laughs Shane, before turning serious. "I'm thinking about this, about us, I guess. What happens now?" 

Ilya's stomach lurches. He'd known, abstractly, that a conversation like this was inevitable, but he'd hoped, stupidly, maybe, that they'd be able to push it off until they'd had time for things to settle into some kind of normalcy again. It had been such a heavy afternoon already, after all. But Shane plans; Ilya knows and loves this about him, so he can't be too annoyed. He swallows down trepidation and opens his mouth to speak. 

As if sensing Ilya's unease, Shane's eyebrows shoot up and he clarifies, "I mean— what if this gets us sent back? If we wake up tomorrow and we're teenagers again." 

The slightly tragic irony, that talking about nonconsensual travels through time and dimensions somehow feels safer and more realistic than discussing any kind of future, is not lost on Ilya, but he pushes the thought away. 

"You think we will go back? We have broken some rule of the universe?" 

Shane shrugs. "I mean, we didn't get sent back when we weren't talking.. what if we weren't supposed to get back together, or whatever?" 

Ilya sits up and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, okay, so what if we do go back? I remember today, write it down as good as I can, and wait for months or years for you to start to remember me?" He tries to keep his voice light, but based on the way Shane sits up slowly with a troubled look on his face, he doesn't think he's pulled it off. 

"No, fuck that," says Shane. "Sorry, but that's not acceptable. We've wasted way too much time already." 

Ilya feels a growing heat in his chest as he watches Shane's face take on the expression he normally sees from across a faceoff circle. Intensity, focus, stubbornness. Usually reserved for hockey, but tonight, It's all for him. Ilya's heart does that stupid thing again where it tries to climb out of his chest so it can nestle safely between Shane's lungs instead, just in case Shane's own heart ever needs backup. 

Ilya watches him. "What are you thinking, Shane?" 

"Maybe if we work together right from the start— you know, keeping a log of memories and stuff as I get them, we can start to figure out what the hell is causing all of this." 

"You say that like there is a logical explanation. I think the universe is just fucking with us." 

Shane shakes his head. "I don't think so. I mean, why the fuck would the universe, or God, or fate or whatever you want to call it give a shit about two hockey players, out of everyone in the world? This feels… I don't know. Smaller. Targeted." 

Ilya can't help the fond smirk that spreads across his face. "Ah, you think we have been cursed? There are witches out to get us?"  

Shane scoffs, and shrugs. "I don't know. I mean, would that really be any crazier than the rest of this?" 

Maybe he's right. "Okay, so I need to, what, convince you I'm not crazy Russian boy trying to get in your head before the game? That will not be easy."

Shane considers. "Maybe if you can prove it, that you're, you know, from the future sort of, and that you know me. If you tell me something you'd have no possible way of knowing? I might not be totally convinced right away, but once the memories start popping up I think I'll know you're telling the truth." 

It's a reasonable suggestion. "Okay, maybe I tell you, what, winner of the cup that year? Which teams draft us?" 

Shane shakes his head decisively. "No, that won't work. It needs to be something about me, specifically, something you would be able to guess. It needs to be something that seventeen year old Shane would know I wouldn't have told you if I didn't trust you." 

Ilya watches him as he thinks and tries very hard to keep his hands and mouth to himself— a monumental task, considering the way Shane's freckles have arranged themselves so beautifully across his thoughtful, frowning face. 

"Okay," Shane begins slowly, "I think I have it." His eyes drift over to the window, through which the setting sun could be seen. "For my seventh birthday, my parents rented out a rink near our house. We invited my whole class and my whole hockey team. It was like, probably thirty or forty kids who showed up.

"Later, I heard my parents talking after they thought I was asleep. My mom was crying because she was watching me the whole time, and all the kids were skating and playing with each other, and I was just kind of alone. Like, they all came to my party but it wouldn't have made a difference to any of them if I was there or not. And, uh, I hadn't even realized they were all ignoring me. I was just so happy to be on the ice. But I didn't like that she was upset. So, after that I always asked for tickets to Voyageurs games instead of parties." 

Ilya wonders how many of those horrible, stupid, ungrateful children delight in telling people that they once attended a birthday for The Shane Hollander now. He indulges in the fantasy of hunting each of them down for a chat about how to act when the best person alive invites you to their birthday party. But, Shane looks at him expectantly, and he files the idea away for later consideration. 

"Your last birthday party was when you were seven. Your guests ignored you, and it upset your Mama, so after that you went to Voyageurs games instead of having parties." 

Shane nods, satisfied. "Can you remember that?" 

Ilya shrugs. "I think, maybe yes? If we go back tomorrow, I should remember this conversation. If we don't go back, I will keep telling it to myself every day. Add it to my note, you know? And hopefully it will stick that way."

The room falls silent. The sun sinks below the horizon, and shadows gather in the corners of the room. They leave words behind them again and lose themselves in each other. They stay like that for a long time, determined to make the most of the night, in case this is their last one as these versions of themselves. 

Ilya pulls Shane close, wrapping him up in his arms. He can't say it out loud, so he thinks it as he kisses the top of Shane's head. I love you. I love you. I love you. Shane doesn't hear him, and he doesn't know Russian, but as his eyes slide closed and he smiles, Ilya thinks maybe he understands him, anyway. 

Chapter End Notes

All of my love to everyone reading along and leaving kudos and comments! Every single one means so much to me 🥰

I think we're getting close to The Point of this fic-- over the next few chapters, questions will start to be answered and things will either start falling into place, or go completely off the rails, or both! Who can say for sure? Certainly not me.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

I'm sorry this chapter took me so long to get out, life was crazy and this chapter was kind of a beast! I ended up cutting it about in half because it just kept getting away from me.

We have a (tentative?) final chapter count now! Yay!

Ilya wakes up with the urge to sneeze. Something tickles his nose, and he instinctively turns his head to rub his face into the pillow. His arms are occupied, he realizes as his brain comes online; one is stretched out, a heavy weight pinning it in place. The other is wrapped around something warm and solid, pressed into his chest. He opens his eyes to a soft, slightly disheveled mess of black hair. 

Shane. He stayed the night, and the sun is rising and he's still here— they both are. 

Ilya lets out a long, slow breath, careful not to wake Shane with the movement. He presses a kiss into the cowlick at the back of Shane's head before lifting his head just enough to glance at the clock on the nightstand on Shane's side of the bed. 

Shane's side of the bed. The idea makes him smile like an idiot. What a wonderful thought, Shane having a side of the bed, right next to Ilya. 

Shane stirs; hums contentedly. Ilya pulls Shane closer to him for just a moment, before carefully relaxing his arms again. The movement draws another sigh out from Shane, and he squirms this time, wriggling around onto his back to squint up at Ilya. 

"Morning," he mumbles in a voice that's croaky from sleep. 

"Good morning," Ilya answers, "I have terrible news. We are still in Tampa. Universe says you are stuck with me now." 

Shane's freckles dance across his cheeks as a smile spreads across his face. "Terrible news, yeah."

"Let's, ah, process our feelings by ordering breakfast and eating it naked in bed." 

"That's so gross," Shane protests, his nose crinkling adorably, "but it's your bed, I guess." 

"I will lick maple syrup off your abs," teases Ilya, running his fingers across Shane's abs and making him flinch away from the ticklish sensation. 

"The fuck you will," he bursts out, shoving Ilya away with a laugh. "I'm leaving right now!" 

Ilya lunges forward and wraps his fingers around Shane's wrist. "No, stay," he whines and pulls Shane back into him. Breakfast can wait. 

Boston @ New York, 7:00 PM

Jane: Good luck tonight. 

i don't need luck

i am playing against scott hunter more than halfway thru the season

he is a sad empty shell of a very old dinosaur

probably will break both hips on the ice tonight 

Jane: I don't know, he's been looking good lately.

Jane: You'd better watch out, Lily. He might embarrass you out there if you're not careful. 

wow

you call hunter hot to my face like this

you betray me an hour before the puck drops?

Jane: I didn't mean it like that! Just that he's been playing well.

is the same thing to you 🙄

hockey pervert

Jane: God, you're so jealous.

yes

shouldn't even be looking at hunter

you are mine

Jane: We'll see about that.

?

Jane: 🤷‍♂️ I don't fuck losers. So you'd better win tonight.

oh so you are a brat today

does not matter

i will have you begging for my dick before the night is over

Jane: Show me something worth begging for, then.

what would everyone say if they knew what you were like for me

Jane: Only you get to see me like this. 😘

like i said

mine

[1 hour 16 minutes later]

Jane: Shit, that looked rough. 

Jane: Is he okay?

[1 hour 39 minutes later]

i don't know

fuck

i didn't mean to hurt him

Jane: Hey, I know. It was a clean hit. Hockey is a rough game, these things happen.

i didn't think he'd actually go down like that

Jane: He just fell at a weird angle, that's not your fault. 

i guess

Jane: No one is reporting anything yet.

 Jane: I'm watching the replay again. It looks like it could be his collarbone, maybe his shoulder. I wonder if he's done for the season…

🤷🏼‍♂️

Jane: Are you okay?

sure

why wouldn't i be

won the game didn't i

Jane: Don't do that shit with me. 

Jane: It's okay if you're shaken up. 

fine

ok fine yes i feel not so good

kind of want to throw up

Jane: Do you want to talk? 

maybe when i get home

Jane: Okay. ❤️

♥️

[Call with Jane - 1 hour, 25 minutes, 41 seconds]

December, 2008 - Saskatchewan 

"Shane?" His mother's voice pulls him out of his head and he realizes he'd been frowning down at a puddle of maple syrup oozing lazily across his plate. He doesn't usually order pancakes. He never uses this much syrup.

"Sorry, mom, what was that?" He tears his eyes away from his plate and looks up at his mom, who is looking back at him with mild exasperation. 

"I was saying that you don't have to be at the rink until this afternoon. Did you still want to go watch Team Russia practice?" She consults something on her phone. "It looks like they have a morning skate today." 

Something in Shane's stomach flips, and he pushes it away with confusion. Of course, they'd talked about this last night. He has spent the last few months going down a rabbit hole that centered around the Russian team's star player, Ilya Rozanov, but Shane is anxious to see him for himself. 

"Yeah, that sounds great, Mom. Let's do it." He spears a bit of pancake with his fork and drags it through the syrup before bringing it to his mouth. 

Shane should be making his way to the locker room to join his team, but he finds himself drawn further down the hallway, past the junction where he should have turned right, towards a service exit that he didn't know was there. 

He steps through it before he has time to ask himself why, and is confronted with the answer almost immediately. 

The figure, hunched against the cold, is dressed in ordinary street clothes and turned away from him, but it's unmistakably Rozanov. Even mostly turned away, without his hockey gear, Shane knows it's him, somehow. 

He approaches, and hears himself call out, "Ilya Rozanov?" 

The man turns around, and yes, it's Rozanov. He wears a strange expression on his face, as if he's trying to conceal several different emotions and not entirely succeeding. 

Shane steps forward again and extends a hand. "I'm Shane—"

"Hollander, yes," says Rozanov, in thickly accented English as he takes Shane's hand and shakes it. "I know who you are." 

Shane feels the corner of his mouth lift. He wonders if Rozanov had spent weeks watching Shane's own game tape, whether all of his efforts have paid off and earned him an international reputation as a threat on the ice. 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, Rozanov speaks again. 

"You, ah, you know me, too?" he looks at Shane with a guarded expression. 

"Yeah, I mean, of course. You're an awesome player. I've heard a lot about you, you know?"

Rozanov nods almost imperceptibly. "But we have never talked before?" he gestures between them. 

"No," Shane frowns. "I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that," he adds with a chuckle. 

Rozanov does not share his amusement. Instead he sniffs and looks around. "Yes. Probably," he says flatly.

The mood is settling into something strange and unpleasant, like a note sliding out of tune, falling flat and dissonant, and Shane looks for an excuse to take his leave. He glances back over his shoulder towards the arena. "Well, I should probably get back—"

"Wait, Shane," says Rozanov, a note of urgency in his voice that stops Shane in his tracks. He looks at Rozanov, wary.

Rozanov takes a deep breath. "Okay. This… this will sound crazy, but just listen for one minute? Please?" 

Shane looks back over his shoulder again, and then nods. Some rational part of his brain is scolding him, warning him to retreat, but Rozanov's eyes are on him with a pull that is almost magnetic, and Shane realizes he doesn't really want to fight against it. Not until he hears what Rozanov has to say, anyway.

Encouraged, Rozanov continues. "We have done this before."

"Done… what, exactly?" 

Rozanov makes the same gesture as before, waving between them. "All of this. The games. The draft. The MLH. I know you and you know me. We did all of this already." 

Curiosity becomes genuine confusion, before mutating into a sick, familiar feeling of embarrassment, like maybe there's a joke here, and once again, he's the punchline. 

"Is okay, you don't remember yet but you will," continues Rozanov, in a tone that Shane thinks is meant to sound reassuring. 

"Is this a fucking joke?" Shane finds his voice. He hopes he sounds more annoyed than hurt. 

"No joke— here, I show you," Rozanov's face is earnest, soft in a way that suddenly strikes Shane as significant. He has the thought that Rozanov looks so much younger than normal— a thought that doesn't make any sense, because they are strangers. They've always been strangers, until today, and at seventeen years old, Rozanov is the oldest he's ever been. He's just getting confused, letting Rozanov fuck with his head. 

Rozanov continues, "Last time you told me a story. You told me about your seventh birthday party." 

Shane freezes. 

"You had big party at hockey rink. Lots of kids, you had fun. But later your mama was crying. The children came to your party but didn't play with you or talk to you. You were, ah, alone? You didn't have a party again after that." 

What the fuck. How the fuck could he know that?

"How— what—?" Shane manages to get out. "That's… no one knows about any of that, except for, like, my parents, I guess, but they would never—" 

"Shane," says Rozanov again, and his voice is gentle, but it's so out of place that it has almost the opposite of the intended effect. Shane steps backward, needing to put distance between himself and this guy. He needs to get away from whatever fucking mind games Rozanov is playing right now. He had stepped out of the rink and into a fever dream and maybe he can still escape if he just retreats to the safety of familiar things. 

"I need to get back, Rozanov. This… I don't know, man, this is fucking weird." 

"Okay, okay, yes is very strange," nods Rozanov, hands raised as if to show he's unarmed, that he means no harm. He glances down, and pulls a paper out of his pocket. Shane sees that most of it is covered in writing in an alphabet he can't read— Russian, he realizes quickly, feeling stupid. Ilya retrieves a pen from his pocket next, and prints something at the bottom of the paper, before carefully tearing it off and holding it out. Shane eyes it warily.

"Is my email," explains Rozanov. "Just take it. You will want to talk, I think, when you start to remember." 

Shane knows he should just turn around and walk away from this bullshit. Rozanov is trying to get in his head, or he's secretly being filmed or something. He should tell him to fuck all the way off.

He takes the strip off paper, glances at it, then back at Rozanov who is regarding him with a look that feels almost physically painful in its intensity. He clears his throat, gives Rozanov a final nod, and turns back to the arena.

"See you in final," he hears Rozanov call after him, and some small part of his memory lights up, as if he's heard those words before, in exactly that same melodic cadence. 

February 2009

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Rozanov,

Okay, fine. What the fuck is going on? 

-Shane Hollander

From: iroz81@mail.ru 

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com  

oh hello shane hollander

good that you sign email with your whole name. would have been big mystery who was writing to me. 

i was not expecting to hear from you so soon. you are very fast off the ice too))))

you ask a good question but it is a long and complicated answer. easy answer is what i told you at juniors. we have done all of this before. you remember some things now yes? 

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru 

Rozanov,

Maybe I'm remembering things. I don't know. This is so fucking weird. Do you remember things too? 

From: iroz81@mail.ru 

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com 

no is different for me. i only remember last day, then i wake up in canada at juniors and meet you. also I have rules to follow so i don't make mistakes. 

what do you remember? 

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com 

To: iroz81@mail.ru 

Rozanov,

You remember the last day? What does that mean? How long does this last? 

And what do you mean by rules?

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com  

depends i think on how long before we make mistake. not sure how far exactly. i think last time was long, like years and years maybe. you will be and to tell us that once you get more memories back. 

rules are from times i made mistakes and got sent back. i follow them and get to keep going forward. 

you don't answer my question two times now hollander. why not?

ilya 

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com 

To: iroz81@mail.ru 

Rozanov,

Years??? Wow, fuck. Okay.

And I wasn't avoiding it. I remember doing a photo shoot or something with you for CCM. We were supposed to be facing off and looking really intense but we couldn't stop laughing. 

What are your rules? What do you remember from last time? Do you know what the mistake was that got us sent back? 

From: iroz81@mail.ru 

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com 

yes years hollander. do you know it is very very annoying to be a rich and famous and sexy mlh player and then i wake up and i am seventeen again?

the ccm shoot))) that is one of my rules. i am supposed to make sure you are there. others are making sure i am in right place at the right time, don't talk to this person, get that person's phone number. the story about your birthday. 

last memory was strange. i was playing a game against new york. you know the player scott hunter? million year old dinosaur man? i checked him and he got hurt. i called you about it afterwards because i felt bad. 

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Rozanov,

Scott Hunter? What do you mean dinosaur? He's only been playing for like, 3 or 4 years. That's strange, though. Maybe he's not supposed to get hurt? Maybe he's important for some reason.

And maybe this is a stupid question, but why did you call me about it? Are we friends in the future, or whatever? 

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

you are the one with the memories, shane. you tell me if we are friends. 

Shane doesn't respond to his last email, and Ilya knows that's its own kind of answer to the question. An unsurprising, disappointing answer. 

After a week, he stops hoping for a response. It's not like he can do anything until the draft, anyway. It's not like he has control over any of this, he never has. 

Hollander is the one with the memories, for better or worse. He is learning who Ilya is, knowing him in a way Ilya can't control or protect against. He's vulnerable to Shane in a way that is agonizing, terrifying, and yet somehow, strangely exhilarating. This silence from Shane is interminable and all-consuming; Ilya exists in the eternal moments of being pushed out of an airplane, and discovering whether the thing strapped to his back is a parachute or a backpack. 

Day after day Ilya strips his gear off after practice, steps under a stream of hot water and mechanically goes through the steps of cleaning himself. The whole time, his mind is elsewhere, thinking of the scrap of paper he keeps folded inside his bedside table. Played a game against New York and hurt Scott Hunter by accident. I was upset. I called Shane afterwards and we talked for a long time. 

Who were they to each other, then, that Ilya could call Shane on the phone? That Ilya could confide in him, trusting that he would provide comfort rather than ridicule? That Shane would tell him private childhood memories? Ilya wonders this, and more, and with every passing day, he doubts more and more that he will ever get answers to his questions. 

April 2009

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Rozanov,

I've been remembering more things. Has anyone ever told you you're kind of an asshole? 

Anyway, I started writing things down. I don't know if it will be useful, but I thought that knowing what we've done in the past could help us avoid those mistakes you were talking about. And, maybe it can help us figure out how to move forward. I would rather not get into specifics here, but maybe we can find some time to speak privately at the draft, if you want.

I hope you're doing well. 

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

hi shane)

yes i hear this every day, you think you are the first person in the world to call me asshole? but i think maybe you are not so mad since you finally email me back))

you do not want to tell me memories over email? now i am curious. is it that we were bank robbers in past life?

is ok that you don't tell me now as long as we can talk at the draft. you tell me where to meet. 

i am fine. you are good too i hope?

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

I'm okay too. The season is keeping me pretty busy, we're about to head into playoffs. 

No, we weren't bank robbers, haha. I just think it will be easier to explain some things in person.

Are you nervous about the draft? 

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

shane

good luck with playoffs. I hope you have a team that can play defense this time) 

no, not nervous for the draft. i am best player i will be drafted first. then maybe you go second or tenth or something))

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Tenth?? Wow. You might be the best player in Russia, maybe, but don't get too comfortable. Maybe you'll make it in the top 50 in the league once you get here.

Shane

June 2009, Los Angeles - Draft Day

The door to the gym swings open and Ilya is confronted with an image that barely surprises him— Shane, standing next to a pair of exercise bikes, glaring at Ilya with his arms crossed and an expression that seems to oscillate between irritation and curiosity. 

Ilya lets the door close behind him and, after a cursory glance around the small space to ensure they are alone, shrugs and holds out his hands in a, 'well?' gesture. 

Shane's brow furrows as he regards Ilya, eyes scanning down his body as if he's personally insulted by Ilya's entire being. After a moment, his eyes return to meet Ilya's and he scoffs before turning away and running a hand through his hair. 

Ilya feels his eyebrows raise. "Ah… problem, Shane?" 

Shane shakes his head. Still facing away from Rozanov, he says, "Your fucking clothes." 

"What is wrong with my clothes?" asks Ilya, genuinely confused. He glances down, just to make sure he didn't accidentally put on his suit, or a clubbing outfit somehow, but no— he's wearing a black tank top and athletic shorts. Perfectly normal, predictable gym clothes. 

Shane turns back around, scowling. "I fucking knew that's what you'd be wearing." 

"Yes, this is a gym, Hollander, what the fuck else—" 

"No, I knew you'd be wearing exactly that. Black tank top, black shorts, white sneakers. You've got the water bottle, white with a black lid. This… this is exactly how I remember it happening, which means that…" he trails off, breathing hard as he searches for the right words. 

Understanding hits Ilya, and with it, an enormous wave of relief. Almost giddy, he asks, "Ah, so you believe me now?" 

Shane turns back and glares at him. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, his eyes falling away to the floor again. "I— it's not that I thought you were lying, before, I just… I don't know. I thought I was having a mental break, or something. Like my brain was making up all these stories about you, and I was some weird obsessed freak."

"Obsessed," Ilya rolls the word around in his mouth as he tries to remember the meaning. 

"Oh— it means, like, if you can't stop thinking about something. Like it's all you can focus on."

Ilya smirks. "Ah, so you are obsessed with me?"

"You're such an asshole," retorts Shane, the bite of his words completely undermined by the sparkle in his eyes. "Anyway, you're here even though I didn't tell you to come here, and you're dressed exactly how I knew you would be, and I don't see how that's possible unless it really was a memory." 

The weight of what Shane has just said settles over the gym. Ilya looks at him, at the way his muscles have relaxed over the past few minutes, losing their initial tension, and allows himself the briefest indulgence as his eyes trace the lines of Shane's muscles under the tight fabric of his shirt. 

Shane takes a step forward, and Ilya tears his eyes away from Shane's chest to meet his gaze. He looks at Ilya intently, and does not look away. 

"Do you remember back when we first started emailing, I asked you if we were friends?" Shane asks quietly, taking another step towards Ilya. 

Ilya is afraid to breathe. This is, he imagines, what it must be like to be approached by a rare, wild creature. Something beautiful and ethereal and deadly. He's not sure what would be worse: spooking Shane and losing him forever, or being eaten alive by him. So, in the absence of any actual ideas, he remains still and silent, only risking the slightest of nods. 

Shane steps forward again. They're close, now, much too close— if someone else entered the gym, there would be no explaining it.

"You told me to figure it out for myself, basically," Shane continues. His eyes drift away from Ilya's, down just a few inches. Ilya swallows. Shane's eyes, he notes, track the movement closely. 

"And?" he hears himself say, distantly. "Are we friends?"

Shane's eyes drift upwards, the brown of his irises nearly completely obscured by the dark of his pupils. He fixes Ilya with the full intensity of his gaze. "No."

He should leave. He should ask Shane for his room number. He should reach out and sink his fingers into Shane's hips. He should push Shane backwards until he hits the mirrored wall, press his full weight against him, and sink his teeth into the gorgeous, tender meat of Shane's trapezius muscle.

Shane's lips part. Ilya feels his do the same. His hand, without any input from his brain, drifts up from where it has been hanging uselessly at his side, fingertips just barely ghosting across Shane's arm. Shane tilts his head, leans in by the smallest of degrees—

A mental image of his father, lurking nearby, is enough to throw a metaphorical bucket of ice water over Ilya. He takes a step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He's breathing too fast. Shane looks at him with alarm.

"Not here, not safe," he manages. Shane's mouth twists into an unhappy frown, but he nods, looking defeated. 

"Yeah, I guess," he says, sounding frustrated. "I— I'd ask if you wanted to come to my room, but my parents are next door to me, so…" he trails off. 

Fuck, Ilya needs to escape. He needs to be in his own room so he can strip off all of these stupid fucking clothes, and maybe his own skin, while he's at it. Anything to get some relief from the heat sizzling through his veins. 

"I should go," he says, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. 

"I guess," says Shane with a note of reluctance. "Next time, then?"  

"Next time," Ilya agrees hoarsely, before turning and fleeing. 

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

shane, 

you forgot to tell me memories(. i will forgive you only if you promise to remember next time. i want allllll the details, yes? deal?

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Ilya, 

I guess I got a little distracted. It's just that there was this really hot guy that showed up. It made it kind of hard to focus. 

It's a deal. By the next time I see you I'll probably have even more to tell you. I think you'll forgive me once I tell you about them. 

Let's keep in touch, okay? 

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

ok <3 goodnight shane

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Goodnight, Ilya. :)

July-September 2009

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Hey Ilya,

I hope you're doing well and you had a safe trip back to Russia. I hope the jet lag wasn't too bad. I've only traveled to Europe once when I was a kid, so I don't really remember how bad it is.

I had a fun memory last night. We were at an All Stars Weekend. You broke the record for the Shot Accuracy competition! And then I went next and broke your record. :). There's more to it, but I'll tell you that part in person.

Hope to hear from you soon. 

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

shane! it is good to get message from you. yes i am home safe, it was very very long trip and my father is not good to travel with so i am glad that part is over. now just long boring summer in russia counting days until hockey starts again. 

oh oke, you break my record and then you email me to brag? i think that you are the real asshole mr perfect boring canadian shane hollander. enjoy it for now. you can have silly shot accuracy record, i have a gold medal and number one draft pick))) 

russia is not very fun. write back soon please?

<3 ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Hi Ilya,

I'm glad you made it home safe. I'm sorry your father isn't a good traveler. My dad has to take medicine that puts him to sleep pretty much any time he travels because he gets awful motion sickness otherwise. He won't even go out on the lake at our cottage because he gets seasick so easily. 

I'm sorry Russia is boring. What sort of things do you like to do to fill your time when you aren't playing hockey?

Enjoy that gold medal, because I'm winning this year! And I'm not boring just because I'm focused on hockey. 

I have a question. What does it mean when you add ")" to the end of your sentences? I haven't seen that before. 

Write back soon,

Shane 

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

hello shane and shane's father who get sick all the time on boats and planes

not much to do in russia. i have a friend, sveta, who visits in summer sometimes. she is wonderful and fun and we sneak into clubs and dance and get drunk. There's also sasha, who is here all the time and he is kind of a friend, but i don't really like him very much most of the time. and i train a lot. read, practice english. boring boring BORING. 

you are very boring not because of hockey but because i think you have 15 of the same exact shirt in your closet and they are all for working out and when a fun sexy russian boy asks you to email him, you tell him about your father throwing up in boats. 

is ok though. maybe i like it when you are a little bit boring. 

) is like a smile. i do this) to say i am smiling or saying a joke. ( is sad face. 

my turn for a question. why mr hollander do you always send messages like you are in a job interview? all Capital Letters and following all the writing rules. i am not your boss you can be regular person in our emails.

your fun sexy russian boy,

ilya

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Dear Not Fun, Not Sexy Russian Boy,

I don't think I write in a strange way, do I? I'm just using correct writing conventions. I guess maybe some people don't follow them as strictly in informal messages, but it's not like it's hard to just stick to the rules. And that way I can be sure my messages are as clear as possible. It's easy to misunderstand people over text like this. 

Thanks for teaching me about ) and (. I'll keep that in mind. 

I don't have 15 of the same shirt. I have a few different gym shirts that I like, and a few casual shirts that I like, and I keep 2-3 of each type so that I always have one ready to go even if I haven't done laundry in a few days. I bet you have a similar wardrobe even if you won't admit it. 

So, Sveta is your friend? You said she visits, where does she live? 

How can you say that you like that I'm boring, when you keep saying that the reason you don't like being in Russia is that it's boring there? 

Talk to you soon,

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

Dear Shane,

You have inspired me. I am practicing writing in correct English for this email, so that when I have one million followers on Twitter, they will be able to understand me. 

You are wrong. I have probably 15 or 17 different shirts for any occasion, and I pick the one I want based on my mood. This is because I am fun and cool and you are a Boring Canadian Boy like I already knew. 

Sveta lives in Boston most of the time, good for me, yes? I will get to see her all the time when I move there. Her father is Sergei Vetrov (Russian goaltender but you probably know that already Mr. Hockey) so she traveled between Russia and Boston all of her childhood. Her father and my father are friends, so Sveta and I have also been friends for many years. 

Yes, you are boring in a good way and Russia is boring in bad way. I don't know if I can explain in English but I will try. Being here at home is boring the way bag skates are boring. Like just something I have to keep doing until it is done. And maybe I am able to keep skating until coach says I can stop, or maybe I fall down and throw up all over myself, but it doesn't matter because it will always be bad until it is over. 

You are boring like an old sweatshirt that is worn and faded but is soft and comfortable. You are boring like a favorite meal that you have eaten one million times before. 

I remain, dearest Shane, yours faithfully,

Ilyusha 

(I asked the internet for fancy way to end email and it said to say that))))))))))) are you very impressed?)

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Ilya,

Okay, I get it, you don't need to make fun of me. I know I'm kind of strange sometimes, I just think it makes sense to follow the rules. You should type however you want. 

You're friends with Sergei Vetrov's daughter? That's pretty cool, actually. Does she like hockey at all? Maybe some day you could introduce us. If you wanted to, obviously, no pressure. 

I think I understand what you mean about how boring things can be good or bad. And, thanks, that kind of sounds like you're complimenting me, even if you're still calling me boring. 

Finally, no, I'm not impressed at all, because you literally said you looked it up from the internet. It's the least impressive part of your entire email. 

Is Ilya a nickname for Ilyusha, or something? I don't think I've ever seen anyone use that name for you before. 

Your unimpressed, boring friend,

Shane

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

Dear Grumpy Shane,

Ah, no, I am sorry, was not making fun of you. Okay maybe a little bit but in nice way. Good boring, remember? I made a joke but I do sometimes worry my English is not so good. So practice is good and this is more fun than annoying work from tutors. So I will keep practicing, but only when I am not too tired because English is a stupid language. 

Sveta is a hockey GENIUS she knows maybe even more than you. This is why I can never introduce you because you will both start being terrible boring hockey nerds and poor Ilya will have no one to talk to ever again. 

Ilyusha is a name for my friends and family to call me. People who don't know me call me Ilya, or if it is a formal conversation or I am in trouble again with my coach or teachers or father. You can call me Ilyusha if you want))

Some of these questions you ask me make me confused. We have gone through this life together already probably more than once, lasting years and years sometimes, and you don't even know simple things like who Sveta is. Did we not talk to each other at all every other time? 

Yours sincerely,

Ilyusha

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Dear Ilyusha,

I'm sure you did tell me about Sveta in the other times, and I just haven't gotten a memory of it yet. Although, if I'm being completely honest, I'm getting the sense that we weren't very good at talking to each other for a long time. 

I think I need to come up with a better system for tracking all of the memories. At first I was just writing them in a notebook, but because the memories are so random, it got kind of confusing really quickly.

Our season starts soon, finally. At least hockey makes the time go by faster. I can't wait for Juniors again. We're going to beat you this year, I just know it. And I guess it'll be nice to see you again, too. ). 

I hope you're doing well. Write back soon,

Shane

Shane frowns thoughtfully at the assortment of office supplies scattered across his desk. In front of him are several packs of index cards in an array of different colors, a set of highlighters, binder clips, rubber bands, a blue plastic index card storage box, and an 8-pack of his preferred brand of pen: quick drying gel ink, 0.7mm tip in blue ink. Retractable, not capped. And, of course, the spiral bound notebook that had, in a former life, served as the blank slate for Shane's unenthusiastic and overly sparse high school chemistry notes. He'd quickly repurposed it for a much more worthy cause; documenting the memories he received on a near-weekly basis from his former lives with Ilya. But, as he'd told Ilya, he needed to put together a new system, and quickly, or else he'd never be able to keep track of everything. 

So, he'll try the index cards. Shane sits at the desk and unwraps the first pack. Inside are one hundred index cards equally split into five colors: white, blue, green, yellow, and pink. He considers; perhaps he should color code the memories by type. Blue for hockey memories, yellow for conflicts, pink for— Shane flushes. He glances at the two other unopened packs of cards. If the memories keep up at their current rates, he'll run out of pink in a matter of months.

Moving on. Green for normal interactions— conversations, meals, hanging out. The only memories he's had so far that would fall into this category are the three different versions of meeting Ilya that he's gotten, and two versions of their meeting in the hotel gym after the draft. Surely he'll get more of these memories soon, though. There's no way they've spent years and years across multiple lives just alternating between fucking and yelling at each other, right? 

Shane sighs, and decides not to think about it too much. They're talking now, in this life, and that's the most important thing, probably. 

The white cards he pushes to the side for now, unsure of what to use them for. He'll figure it out later, if he remembers something that doesn't slot into one of the other groups. 

Shane opens the notebook to the first page of memories, and selects a green note card. This is an easy one, he'd gotten it a few days after returning home from Juniors. 

He writes the date of the memory at the top: December 27, 2008. Under that, he carefully copies down what he'd written in the notebook:

I approached Ilya outside of the rink before practice. He saw me first and recognized me. I introduced myself and shook his hand, and he asked me if I had a good night last night, or if I'd had a date the night before. I was confused and told him I'd been with my parents the night before, and he apologized and said he must have been confused. I told him I needed to get back, and told him good luck in the finals because he would need it. He smiled at that and told me to watch him in the finals and he'd teach me how to win a hockey game. 

Shane reads over the, and, satisfied, turns the card over. On this side, he writes, 

Notes: This is the only memory from this date that I've gotten so far where Ilya seems to think I might be aware of the time loop. He asked me about what I was doing the night before, which makes me think we were together the last night of the previous loop, and he knew or at least suspected I was getting memories of previous loops. He didn't tell me the birthday story, though, so we must not have come up with that plan yet.

Shane rereads the entire card one more time, both sides, before opening the plastic storage box and carefully sliding it inside. 

One down. Shane makes a neat check mark next to the first entry in the notebook, and flicks through the rest of the pages. Forty-one more memories to go. 

He sighs, rolls his shoulders back, cracks his knuckles, and selects a blue index card.  

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Hello!

This chapter is a bit of a shift from previous ones, in that I decided to torture Ilya with blowjobs instead of deep existential despair. If smut isn't your thing, it's just one scene that's easy to skip and you won't miss out on any plot points or anything.

December 2009, Ottawa

"Go fuck yourself," Ilya spits into the speaker of his phone before hanging up, abruptly cutting off the fuzzy, distorted sound of thumping bass and Alexei's obnoxious voice lazily asking for money in one breath and throwing slurs in the next. He tosses the phone onto the hotel bed and sinks down next to it, before standing up again almost immediately.

He feels unsettled, restless. He stalks over to the window and pulls the curtain back just far enough to peek out at the city lights that dot the unremarkable skyline. It's 8:45 PM on New Year's Eve, and here he is, alone in his room, alone in all of Canada, trying to hold this year's Team Russia together with both hands. It's proving to be a bigger challenge this year than last year, the team a messy collection of egos and sullen attitudes, each player unaccustomed to not being the center of attention. It feels juvenile in a way that has begun to haunt Ilya, bleeding into every interaction he's had over the last year.

Well, nearly every interaction.

He doesn't know what to make of Hollander. Shane. He's turned over every piece of information he has about him, and can't figure out how they fit together. He's friendly, then distant. Flirtatious, then vague. He emails frequently— emails full of complete sentences and mundane anecdotes that for some reason, Ilya finds himself rereading as he waits for the next one to arrive. He's getting memories, and cataloguing them as though they're members of a critically endangered species, but after nearly a full year, he has shared exactly two of them with Ilya, and on both occasions, had obviously been keeping things vague, leaving out details.

Ilya has his suspicions about why. Most likely it's because Hollander is a better person than him, and although Ilya has probably spent multiple lifetimes being a complete dick to him, he's smart enough to know they need to be able to work together. Probably, he knows if he told Ilya any actual details from their past interactions, it would send Ilya down some kind of vicious spiral of self loathing and get them sent right back to 2008.

Hollander is level-headed. He's strategic. He surely knows that the only way out of this is to tread carefully around the landmine of Ilya's shitty, fragile mental health.

But, says an annoying little voice in his head, that doesn't explain the gym. It doesn't explain the emails sent on nearly a weekly basis now— multiple paragraphs about his day, his games, asking questions about Ilya.

It doesn't explain why, according to the folded piece of paper in Ilya's wallet, there was a time when Ilya was upset and needed comfort, he turned to Shane and found it.

Ilya curses the scrap of paper and the stubborn, delusional voice that keeps insisting maybe, maybe, maybe.

In any case, here he is, spending New Year's Eve in Shane's hometown. His team will face Shane's team in the finals in two days, and then, win or lose, he'll be on a plane back to Russia.

The sound of distant, raucous cheering from out on the street pulls him out of his thoughts. He peers through the curtain; a group of guys— almost certainly other players— are rowdily spilling out of the hotel onto the sidewalk, already clearly drunk. None of them are from his team, from what he can tell, and if they are, who cares, anyway? It's not like the outcome of the tournament, whatever it may be, isn't already written in stone.

The party makes its way down the street, heading in the direction of a bar, presumably, laughter and chatter echoing through the night air until it fades, leaving Ilya alone, again.

He thinks of home, even if he doesn't want to be at home. Well, maybe that's not true. If he were home, he'd at least be able to slip out of the house to meet up with Sveta and Sasha. They would be able to find a club or a party, get drunk and high and horny, like they always do whenever they can. He would end the night in bed with one or maybe even both of them. That's what they do. It's what they've always done, their strange little trio. It's how they survive.

That is what they always do, right? Ilya frowns now, realizing with some surprise that it's been months since he's hands or mouth on either of them. He reaches, realizes with a strange uneasiness that the hundreds of memories he'd assumed he had seem to shimmer, fragment, and dissolve, like maybe they were just mirages all along.

Unsettled, his mind wanders further, back through older memories that are yellowed by age and improper storage, but real enough for him to feel their edges. Mama, beautiful and smiling and singing as she prepared dish after dish, scolding him and Alexei for chasing each other through the house instead of tidying up like they were supposed to. Laughing along together to favorite holiday movies— all of them, even Father, his cheeks pink and his eyes shiny. Eating so much his stomach threatened to burst, falling asleep with his head in Mama's lap, her fingers in his hair.

These memories are genuine, even if they aren't his, not really. They belong to another Ilya, one who wasn't smart enough, strong enough, brave enough, lucky enough to survive. He's not the original— he's a photocopy, born into existence twelve months ago. An imposter, slotted neatly into the life of a long-dead teenager. He has no right to these memories, but they are all that remain of Irina Rozanova, so he will carry them for as long as he can.

His phone buzzes. Ilya's eyes slide shut and he lets his forehead thud softly against the chilled glass pane of the window. He's been dodging phone calls from his father all day. His sleep schedule has become more and more erratic over the last six months; since his team arrived in Canada a week ago, his father has been calling at all hours of the day and night. No doubt he's calling now, furious about the team's lackluster performance in yesterdays game against Finland. Ilya wonders whether he even realizes what today's date is; probably not.

The phone buzzes again, a single buzz before going silent. A notification, then, rather than a call. Alexei, probably, annoyed at being hung up on. Ilya sighs heavily and turns back to the bed to pick up the phone and silence it. He freezes when he looks at the screen, the lonely chill that had settled in his bones a few hours ago suddenly beginning to thaw.

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

Dear Ilya,

I'm sure you're probably celebrating with your team tonight, but I was thinking about you and wanted to wish you a Happy New Year. It's so weird being in the same town as you and seeing you at the rink and stuff, but not being able to come up and talk to you. You're playing really well, probably good enough to take silver medal. :).

Let me know if you can get some time in the next few days when we could meet up, if you want.

Anyway, I just hope you're doing well.

Shane

__

The message makes Ilya's heart flip. As soon as he reaches the end, he hits the reply button and taps out a response:

From: iroz81@mail.ru

To: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

Shane!!!

Your email is such a good gift for Новый Год))) thank you! No I am not with my stupid team full of loud idiots, I did not want to start the new year with a terrible headache. Are you celebrating with your team?

Hmm, silver medal will not match my cross. Will have to be gold. And I would not want your medal from last year to feel lonely, will be better for it to have a twin))

Yes I want to see you. When do you have time?

Ilya

__

Shane must be staring at his email, refreshing every minute, because the response comes in barely a minute.

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

To: iroz81@mail.ru

I've got time now. My parents are at a party for at least a few more hours, so I'm at home by myself.

Come over?

__

Ilya almost leaves the room without shoes or an address, prepared to roam the streets of Ottawa, trusting in the strength of his own insatiable horniness to lead him to Shane's doorstep. He presses his forehead against the wall, types out a hasty acceptance to Shane's invitation, and counts to one hundred, trying to convince himself that Shane is only inviting him over for perfectly boring, non-sexy reasons. As he finishes, he sees Shane has sent one final email:

To: iroz81@mail.ru

From: hollanderhockey@yahoo.com

Looks like your hotel is only a 12 minute drive from my house. Leaving now.

<3 Shane

__

A heart. Shane sent a heart. From Shane, that might as well be a dick pic, or maybe a marriage proposal. Ilya scrambles; looks for his shoes frantically as if they weren't sitting right by the door where he'd left them a few hours earlier. He puts one shoe on, then panics— his hair is a mess, probably; he hadn't done anything with it after his shower earlier other than to roughly towel it halfway dry. He sprints across the room to the bathroom and hastily tries to make it lay flat where it's sticking up, wild and unruly. Progress is slow; in a groan of frustration, he leaves the bathroom and snatches his toque off the desk and pulls it down firmly over the traitorous curls.

He's still only wearing one shoe, fuck, and did he bother to bring any cologne with him? Of course not. He swipes deodorant under his arms again, brushes his teeth, gives his outfit a cursory look. Sweats and a t-shirt: it's not great, but at least it's clean, and anyway, it's not like Shane gives a shit about fashion, and maybe, just maybe, Shane will be less interested in his clothes than what's under them—

No, stop, fuck.

Shane sent the email eight minutes ago. It'll probably take him ninety seconds to get from his room to the parking lot. He thinks he might die if he doesn't have a cigarette right fucking now, but that would piss Shane off— although, Ilya considers, Shane doesn't seem to mind when Ilya is an asshole on purpose—

Your fucking shoe, Ilya! He grabs the shoe and shoves his foot into it, roughly. One final glance in the mirror, and he's off, opening the door, striding down the hallway, opting for the stairwell at the end of the hallway rather than the bank of elevators, needing to move.

Ninety, or maybe sixty seconds later, he's slipping through the door leading to the side parking lot of the hotel. He scans the lot, checks his phone again, then looks back up. Nothing.

This was stupid. What was he thinking? Hollander isn't going to just drive up to the hotel where the Russian team is staying to pick up their captain. It would be apocalyptically reckless. Ilya should go back inside.

He turns and tries the door handle. It's locked.

A placard next to the door helpfully informs him that this door is exit only; guests must use the main lobby doors to get back inside.

He hadn't even brought his cigarettes. Idiot.

Ilya lets out an annoyed huff and turns to head towards the main entrance, when a beam of light sweeps across the building in front of him. He looks up; a completely unremarkable car— a small, silver SUV— has entered the parking lot and is driving towards him.

He looks back at the sidewalk and takes a few slow steps forward along the path, hedging. He can't see the driver; it's too dark and the headlights are too bright for him to see anything inside the car. It's just some other guest staying at the hotel.

"Hey," someone calls out, in a voice somehow so familiar it makes him want to cry, like an idiot. His head whips around, and there's Shane, grinning at him through the open window of the world's most boring car. "You can walk if you want to, but it's pretty cold out here and it'll probably take you, like an hour and a half."

Ilya doesn't try to hide the grin spreading across his face. "I am Russian. Your winters don't scare me."

"Suit yourself. I figured I'd ask, since I think we're going in the same direction," says Shane, and— oh, fuck, his smile is like melted butter, so warm and decadent and delicious, Ilya wants to drown in it. He steps forward, opens the car door, and climbs inside.

They make it through the front door of Shane's house, and Ilya will congratulate himself on this incredible display of willpower later. Shane closes and locks the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers; Ilya kicks off his own shoes without thinking. Then, hesitating— "Your parents, when will they be back?"

"Definitely not before midnight, probably closer to 1:00. We've got a few hours." Shane smiles, a bit of awkwardness creeping into his expression. He glances around and gestures. "I can give you a tour, if you want, or maybe you'd like something to drink? I'm not much of a cook but I think we probably have some pasta, or something, if you're hungry…" he trails off as he turns back to look at Ilya, a flush rising on his cheeks.

"Ah, thank you, Shane. You are a very good host," Ilya says, hoping to strike the perfect balance between teasing and fondness. "I would like a tour, but it only if it ends in the bedroom," he finishes with a smirk.

Shane rolls his eyes, but the joke seems to have put him at ease. His posture loosens, and he gestures further into the house. "Come on then."

The first thing Ilya sees as he steps into the family room are the photographs. They're everywhere— the walls, tables, the shelves next to the TV. A million moments, Shane's entire life documented with care, by someone who believes that it is worth preserving, worth celebrating.

Ilya finds himself drawn forwards into the room, to the far wall. In the center is a large photo of Shane, taken within the last year or two, Ilya estimates, and unlike many of the other photos in the room, there's no trace of hockey in this one. Shane is dressed in a soft-looking light blue v-neck t-shirt that almost matches the color of the sky in the background. He's looking at something off camera, a genuine smile lighting his face brilliantly. The spray of freckles across his cheeks is more pronounced than it is now, a million beautiful stars across Shane's perfect face.

Ilya should stop staring, probably. But the Shane in the photo just keeps smiling, smiling— not at Ilya, of course, but at something good, wonderful even, and he can't tear his eyes away. Even though, with each passing second, some strange kind of emotion, like an ache deep in his chest, keeps building.

"That's from this past summer," Shane says, and Ilya realizes he's drifted closer, standing close enough to touch. "My parents have a cottage a few hours from here, I think I mentioned it before."

Ilya nods, and finally turns away from the photo to look at the real Shane standing in front of him— the Shane from the gym all those months ago. Looking like he's trying to decide exactly how he wants to take Ilya apart. Fuck. This, at least, is familiar territory, safer grounds. Ilya knows how to be desired.

"House tours— they are like museum tours?" Ilya asks, adopting a serious tone.

"What do you mean?" asks Shane, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Like, art museum." When Shane still looks confused, he steps forward and continues, in a voice that is almost cartoonishly flirtatious, "I want to know, will I be asked to leave if I touch the artwork?" He reaches one hand out slowly towards Shane's waist.

Shane laughs, groaning at the terrible line. "You have the worst lines, I swear."

"Is a good thing I am so sexy then, yes?" Ilya grins. "And that I can do much more with my mouth than just talk."

Shane's eyes drift to Ilya's mouth as his own lips part just barely. He blinks, swallows. "Well… I would probably have to cancel the rest of the tour."

Ilya surges forward. Before his brain can catch up to the rest of him, his arms are around Shane's waist, pulling him in. His head tilts, his eyes slide shut, his lips find Shane's and he presses forward insistently, rewarded by a surprised noise from somewhere in Shane's throat. Ilya pulls back minutely, and Shane chases him, wrapping one hand around Ilya's back to bring their mouths together again.

Shane whines and pulls at Ilya's jacket, pulling, pleading, needing more. Ilya breaks the kiss and feels a surge of heat at the adorable look of irritation on Shane's face.

"Bedroom?" he asks, and Shane's expression clears. He grabs Ilya's hand and pulls him through the house, to a staircase. Ilya stops again, pulls Shane back to him and kisses him once more, before pulling away abruptly with a laugh, shoving Shane in the chest and scrambling up the stairs.

"Hey!" protests Shane, giving chase, slapping at Ilya as he tries to beat him to the top of the stairs.

Ilya reaches the landing first, but hesitates, unsure of which door is hiding Shane's bedroom behind it. The pause is enough for Shane to shove past him. He heads for the door at the end of the hall, and Ilya follows Shane through the doorway. Shane stops and turns back towards Ilya, triumphant and smug in the middle of his room, and Ilya can't have that, so he wraps Shane in a bear hug and tackles him onto the bed.

"Asshole!" Shane laughs, his voice muffled from where his face is buried in Ilya's chest.

"I think you like it," teases Ilya. Shane wriggles out from under Ilya, rolls them over so Ilya is on his back, with Shane straddling his hips, pinning Ilya's wrists to the mattress on either side of his head and— fuck, Ilya could lie here and look at the view for days.

Shane grins, and lowers himself to kiss Ilya again. He releases Ilya's wrists; Ilya feels the fingers of one hand pull at the hat he'd been wearing, tossing it off to the side before returning to tangle in the warm, slightly damp curls.

Freed, Ilya's hands move without input from his brain; one to the back of Shane's head, running through his hair. His other hand slides lower, across Shane's back, the small bumps of his spine, the waistband of his sweatpants, down to squeeze the firm, round muscle of his ass.

Shane deepens the kiss, opens his mouth and Ilya takes the invitation. His hand grasps the back of Shane's neck tighter as he kisses him hungrily, licking into Shane's mouth, sucking, biting at Shane's lips. It seems to spur Shane on; he moans into Ilya's mouth and angles his hips in search of friction. Ilya groans and grips both of Shane's hips, pulling him closer, directing the movement to grind his own hardening dick against Shane's.

Shane pants into Ilya's mouth, and Ilya laughs, breathless. Shane sits up and rips his shirt off before impatiently pulling Ilya halfway up and doing the same to him. With this task accomplished, he pushes Ilya down again and Ilya savors the sudden new sensation of Shane's skin against his own.

He's so solid, warm, alive. Ilya runs his hands along the long planes of his body, cataloguing every twitch, every shiver, every touch that makes Shane melt into him a little deeper. At the same time, Shane groans, rolls his hips again and again and again. Ilya is distantly aware of the cliff they're heading for at near-lethal speeds.

He rolls them both over so he is on top, in control. He needs to slow this down, because he needs to make sure this goes well. This needs to be perfect, because right now, the idea of Shane ever doing this with anyone else, of anyone else ever seeing Shane like this, makes Ilya want to douse himself in gasoline before lighting his next cigarette. So. Ilya will be perfect.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of Shane's neck, the starving animal inside him wanting to bite and suck and claim. Somehow he holds himself back. "What do you want?" he murmurs as Shane squirms under him.

"You," comes the slurred reply. "I want you, please?"

Ilya bites back a groan at the unhelpful answer. "Want me how, Shane?"

"Your mouth… your fingers, fuck. Want your fingers in me. Please?"

Ilya takes the direction like a dog with a bone; he moves down Shane's chest, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses as he goes. Shane giggles as Ilya's lips ghost over a sensitive spot on his ribs and Ilya's soul almost leaves his body. He's torn, wanting to luxuriate in the feel and scent and heat and gravity of Shane's body, while his baser instincts draw him lower still, knowing the clock is counting down the minutes they have left before they have to become strangers again.

Shane's skin is soft and warm. He kisses lower, lower, until he is nuzzling between Shane's legs. One hand reaches for the waistband of his pants, while the other reaches up to palm greedily over Shane's left pec, squeezing, massaging, running a calloused thumb over the pert brown nipple, drawing a shiver and gasp out of Shane that goes straight to Ilya's dick.

Ilya tugs at Shane's sweatpants and Shane lifts his hips. Ilya pulls them off in one fluid movement, folds them haphazardly before tossing them on the nearby desk without a second thought.

Shane lies spread out on the bed under him, and the sight is like a vision. Ilya's desire is overwhelming. He wants to be good. He wants to be greedy. He wants Shane, wants to make Shane feel good, wants to see Shane's pleasure and know he was the cause of it. He wants everything, he wants nothing but Shane, but Shane is everything— everything that matters, anyway— fuck, he needs to calm down. He needs to focus. He's done this enough times with Sasha that he shouldn't be losing his mind over the idea of giving a blowjob, for fucks sake.

He sinks, kisses Shane's thigh, feels a breathy laugh bubble up and out of his own mouth as Shane shivers at the contact. Ilya looks up, sees Shane looking back down at him, propped halfway up on elbows, a mixture of want and shyness and something that Ilya half believes could be fondness. One of Shane's hands finds his cheek and Ilya turns towards it with parted lips. The digit slips into his mouth and he sucks, swirls his tongue around it, as his eyes slide shut, a preview of what's to come, a promise.

"Fuck, Ilya, please—" Shane gasps, letting his hand fall away to Ilya's momentary regret. He looks back up at Shane and is pleased to see that he looks halfway wrecked already.

"My mouth and my fingers?" Ilya murmurs, nipping at the corner of Shane's hip. "Want me to open you up so nicely? Suck your pretty dick?"

"Fuck off, it's not pretty," Shane grits out.

"Oh, yes he is," croons Ilya. "So pretty I think I will die if I do not kiss him."

Whatever Shane had been about to say is cut off abruptly; his breath hitches as Ilya takes his cock in hand. "Now I show you how to do this."

The taste of musk and salt and Shane hits his tongue, and he savors it as he relaxes his jaw and begins to move. He hears a soft gasp, a whimper, and feels a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, moving to the nape of his neck, tugging at the sensitive hairs there. He groans, drools, begins to move faster. At the same time, Shane's hips roll forward, and Ilya hums, pleased. He settles into the familiar movement. This rhythm is familiar, safe, wonderful— even more now, that it's Shane. That it's real. He hollows his cheeks, sucking, swirling his tongue.

"Fuck— Ilya—" Ilya feels a small tube being pressed into his arm. He pulls off feverishly and grabs it, flips open the lid, clumsily squeezes it until he's managed to coat his fingers in lube.

Shane looks up at him with glassy eyes. Ilya lowers himself again, kisses Shane's abdomen, takes him back into his mouth as he nudges Shane's legs apart.

Ilya's fingers trail from the base of his cock downwards. He runs his other hand over Shane's hips reassuringly, up to his chest, giving him a gentle squeeze. I am here. I want this. I want you, he hopes he communicates.

He brushes one finger over Shane's rim, circling it slowly, and— there's a sharp tug at the back of his head, more urgent; Ilya chases what he came here for and the body underneath him tenses. A choked cry spills from Shane's lips, his fingers still tightly twisted in Ilya's hair as he cums.

Okay, so, maybe Ilya is out of practice. He gags, suppresses the reflex as much as he can. He thinks he manages to recover before Shane notices. He swallows quickly, wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, and crawls upward to kiss softly at Shane's neck again.

"Fuck, sorry, I—" Shane mumbles, half embarrassed, half too fucked-out still to care.

Ilya cant help himself. He raises himself enough to look Shane in the eye with a teasing grin. "No, no, is good. You finally have race you know you can win."

"Fuck you," Shane laughs, shoving halfheartedly at Ilya.

"Seriously! Shane Hollander, fastest to cum in all of hockey, ever."

"It wasn't that fast!" Shane protests.

"I touch your asshole for two seconds and you explode like volcano!"

"I hate you."

Ilya smirks. "Mm, no you don't."

"No," Shane admits, and then he's shoving at Ilya again— rude— and rolling them over.

"My turn."

"You want to apologize about teasing me for cumming too quickly, now?"

"Shut up. Gimme kiss."

Ilya thumbs through the small stack of colored cards with a strange mix of wonder and trepidation as he lounges back against Shane's headboard. To his left, Shane is explaining his system in detail that is as endearing as it is amusing.

"So, yeah— they're color coded based on type of memory, on the front I include the date if I know it, and then I write down what I remember in as much detail as I can. Sometimes I need to staple two cards together. Then on the other side, I write any thoughts I have about what I remember— like, if I can connect it to other memories, or something."

Ilya nods. "Lot of pink cards," he remarks, selecting one at random. Out of the corner of the eye, he sees a flush of pink spread across Shane's cheeks.

"Uh, yeah," he says awkwardly. "Those are—" but before he can continue, Ilya cuts him off.

"We were in a hotel room. I don't know where, but it was a regular room." Ilya pauses to glance over at Shane, whose face is bright red. "Wow, Hollander, this is some sexy stuff. If hockey does not work out for you, maybe you can write romance books, hm?"

"Shut up," mumbles Shane, grinning in spite of himself.

Ilya's eyes scan over the card, reading silently for a minute. Then, with a rush of pure delight, he recites, "'Ilya took off his clothes, sat on the bed, dropped a pillow on the floor between his feet and told me to get comfortable'— oh my god, Hollander!"

Shane smacks him in the side of the head with a pillow, laughing. "I'm going to stop writing those ones down if you're going to be like this!"

"No, no! I will be good, I promise," Ilya lies, laughing. He looks back at the stack of cards. "All these pink ones are sex, yes?"

Shane shrugs. "Yeah… I guess we hooked up, like, a lot."

It's an understatement— the stack is about two-thirds pink.

Ilya reads the rest of the card in silence, his glee from a moment ago settling into something warmer.

Even in his second language, he can tell that Shane is no poet. He recounts events in precise language, a series of events from beginning to end, devoid of outward sentiment or description.

But.

He'd written them down. All— Ilya shuffles through the deck again, counting silently— 48 of them. Documented them. Categorized them. Held them, because Ilya couldn't, so that Ilya could have them again, too.

It's not a home full of family photos, but it's proof that he exists. That he matters, to someone. To Shane.

He sets the cards gently on the bedside table. Shane is quiet next to him.

"Thank you, Shane."

Shane makes a murmur of acknowledgment, and Ilya moves closer to him. The last hour of the year melts away, then, without ceremony or parties or songs or traditions, and it's the closest thing to perfect Ilya can imagine.

Chapter End Notes

Yeah I don't really know what happened here either but I hope it was fun to read! New Years Eve was supposed to be ONE SCENE and then it just kept going for almost 5k words, so the chapter count has increased to account for that.

Back to our regularly scheduled angst next chapter 😁💚

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

oh hey guys

started writing this chapter

got distracted

wrote like 30k words of torturing Ilya in a different way

circled back to this

ANYWAYYYYY thanks for your patience I am sincerely hoping to focus my full fic attention on this until it's done, and will try for quicker updates for the last few chapters!

July 2010, Toronto - CCM Shoot

"Alright, guys, I think we're done here," calls the visibly exasperated director across the surface of the ice. "Thanks for all your work today." The gratitude, Ilya recognizes, falls somewhere a few steps short of genuine, but all things considered, he really can't blame the guy. From the moment he and Shane had seen each other this morning, they'd been giddy, like a couple of kids chasing each other around a school playground. He knows he should probably feel more guilty, but what the hell— he's probably done this same stupid commercial a hundred times before, and for all he knows, he'll do it a hundred more times in the future. Present? Past, now that it's technically over?? Whatever, it doesn't matter.

What does matter is Shane, his Shane, leaning against the boards engaged in serious-looking conversation with his mother. Ilya knows he should make his way down to the locker room, but that would mean skating into their space and risk overhearing their conversation. Worse, it would mean that in this life, Yuna Hollander's first memory of him would be when he's gross and sweaty, without the acceptable excuse of having won a hockey game first.

He wonders if he's met her before, properly. Probably not.

So, he skates idly in a circle, pretending to be examining something high up in the rafters. It's not until his third circle that he notices Shane waving him over with an eager expression. His mother, Ilya can't help but notice, doesn't look quite so enthusiastic. She stands, tense, with her lips pressed together in a thin smile.

"Ilya," Shane says, as he reaches them, "this is my mom, Yuna."

Ilya shrugs off his glove and holds out his hand for a handshake, faltering halfway. His hand is sweaty and disgusting— the glove is new— it's still gross— he aborts, turning the movement into an odd wave, silently begging the universe to let this moment pass unremarked upon. "Mrs. Hollander, is very nice to meet you."

The corners of her mouth turn up briefly, but she remains on alert, wary. "Ilya," she says, as though the name doesn't quite fit in her mouth, "Shane has told me a lot about you. It's nice to meet you, too."

Ilya isn't quite sure how to respond; he's unsure of what Shane could have possibly told her that wouldn't have been a complete lie or, maybe, a fragment from a past life, a former Ilya. A brief, terrifying image of their night together seven months earlier flashes across his mind.

Shane comes to his rescue. "Yeah, I told her how we exchanged emails at Juniors and how we've stayed in touch," he smiles encouragingly, "and how all of this was your idea."

"It was a smart move," says Yuna, her tone still clipped and firmly professional. "Good for both of your brands. And it doesn't hurt to play up the rivalry angle, either."

Shane frowns and looks like he's about to say something, before giving his head a minute shake and looking up at Ilya again. "Yeah, it was a great idea— anywyay, we were hoping you'd join us for dinner tonight."

"Oh?" This is a good thing, objectively—and also, he's never felt more like a prisoner being walked to his own execution. But Shane's looking at him with his stupid, perfect eyes, and— "Uh, yes, okay, I would like this. Thank you."

"Great!" says Yuna, a brightness to her voice that Ilya knows correlates directly to politeness rather than sincerity. "Well— I'll let you boys get changed, I have a few phone calls to make. I'll be out front when you're ready."

Ilya watches her retreat and glances over at Shane, who is badly trying to conceal an amused grin. Shane meets his eyes and jerks his head in the direction of the locker room. "Come on. Trust me, you don't want to keep her waiting."

They arrive at the locker room and begin to strip their gear. Shane looks so fucking at ease it's comical— Ilya feels a sudden burst of irritation.

"Why did you do that?" he demands.

"Do what?" Shane answers distractedly as he carefully sets his gear in a pile next to the bench.

"Invite me to dinner! Your mother— Shane, I think she may try to poison me. Stab me with steak knife, maybe. Maybe she will order one of those fancy cakes that they light on fire and throw it in my face!"

Shane lets out a burst of laughter. "Oh my god, Ilya, are you scared of my mom?"

"No!" Ilya protests, affronted. "I am not scared! I just assumed you would be."

"She's not going to flambe you, calm down." Shane shakes his head and peels off his shirt, which feels, frankly, like he's cheating in order to win the argument.

Shane is down to just his underwear, now. Ilya pointedly tries to find a part of Shane's body to look at that doesn't make his cock twitch unhelpfully. He temporarily settles on Shane's left ear, before imagining himself biting the lobe and feeling Shane writhe underneath him in response, then gives up entirely and focuses on removing the rest of his own gear.

"Ilya, look— about what my mom was saying before. As far as I can tell, every time we've done this we've always been sold as rivals— like sworn enemies, on and off the ice. But what if we decide not to go along with it this time? Like, we have an opportunity to tell a different story, right from the start."

Ilya rises, grabs his towel, and walks into the showers with Shane following closely behind. He considers Shane's words.

"Hmm… so, we are, what— friends, the whole time? Not a secret?"

"Exactly," says Shane, turning on the shower next to his. "We're honest— at least, half honest," he says as he lets the water soak his hair. "You know— we can let ourselves be seen together, grab a drink when we're in the same city, socialize at league events, you know. When it comes up in press, we say that we're competitive on the ice and friends off it, you know?"

Ilya closes his eyes, lets the water run over him. The warmth seeps into his muscles; they aren't exhausted like they would be after a game or even a hard practice, but the heat helps to soothe the nervous tension that has been steadily spreading through his body since he stepped off the ice.

"This is a good idea," he muses. "Maybe it helps us stay secret too, yes? No one thinks it is strange if they see us together, they don't imagine anything more going on than friends."

"Yeah, exactly," says Shane. "The story makes sense— we did a shoot together, realized we had a lot in common, or whatever, and now we're friends. No big deal."

Ilya opens his eyes and glances over at Shane. "No big deal," he repeats, meeting Shane's gaze, determined not to let his eyes wander.

It's Shane who breaks the eye contact, though, and Ilya can't help but smirk as he watches Shane's gaze trail down his body. He preens a bit, casually turning under the spray, showing off. He gets some soap from the dispenser and— okay, so maybe he's watched one or two locker room pornos in his life, maybe he's taking inspiration from them, or maybe he's just really focused on making sure he's clean before dinner.

Shane's eyes are transfixed as Ilya lathers himself up, feeling a little dirty, a little slutty, and loving every second of it. The sheer thrill of watching Shane teeter on the brink of losing control (in a semi-public locker room, no less, all from just watching him, and he hasn't even really gotten down to business yet) goes straight to his head (okay, heads, plural). Ilya doesn't need the ego boost, but he appreciates it nonetheless. He brings one hand down to stroke— no, clean himself, thoroughly, and watches with delight as Shane's Adam's apple bobs as he watches the movement.

Feeling drunk and reckless, Ilya takes half a step closer to Shane.

"Fuck, Ilya," mutters Shane, tearing his eyes away at last. "Not— not here, ok, but tonight? My room, 1410."

"You think you can wait that long?" Ilya teases, nodding at Shane's cock, flushed and heavy between his legs.

"Fuck off," Shane says, but his voice is breathy, containing no real venom.

They finish their showers and dress. The moment has passed and Ilya finds his nerves returning, faced with the terrifying prospect of being seen and judged by Yuna Hollander. Shane is merciless to his plight, even when faced with some of Ilya's best pouting faces. He dresses, quickly and almost cheerfully, and Ilya hurries himself along while not working very hard to conceal his lack of enthusiasm. He glances at his locker with a scowl and silently curses himself for not bringing nicer clothes. Admittedly, Shane is wearing a plain white t-shirt under an unzipped black hoodie and gray sweatpants, but still.

"Ready?" asks Shane. Ilya nods, and clears his throat. He takes a step towards the door, only for Shane to place a gentle hand on his cheek and pull him close, giving him a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. "She's not as scary as she seems, I promise," he murmurs as he pulls back with a smile. "She'll love you, once she knows we're friends."

Ilya smiles, not sure he believes Shane, but feeling soothed by the kiss anyway. "Okay, if you say so," he says. "Now, I am starving. Let's go get some food."

"So, Ilya, are you looking forward to playing for Boston?" asks Yuna, setting down her glass and looking across at Ilya. He nods, glancing at Shane before answering.

"Yes, very much,"

"Have you been to Boston before?"

"No, but I have a friend who lives there and she tells me about the city," Ilya does his best to speak clearly, to use the correct words in the correct order. Other than with Shane, he's barely had the opportunity to converse in English with anyone yet, so dinner with Yuna Hollander feels somewhat like a trial by fire.

"That's Svetlana, yeah?" asks Shane, trying to help the conversation along, Ilya guesses.

"Yes, Sveta," Ilya watches Yuna as he speaks, "She is also Russian— old friend, since we were children. Her father is a famous Russian goaltender. He played for Boston in the 90's, and then moved back to Russia when he retired."

At the mention of a former player, Yuna's eyes light up with curiosity. "A former player, really? A name I might recognize?"

"Sergei Vetrov."

"Oh!" Yuna seems impressed, and her guard seems to come down the smallest bit. "Yes, he was quite good. I remember not liking him very much."

"Ah, of course, Shane says you are a Montreal fan," Ilya says, "I mean, even before they drafted him."

"That's right," she nods. "Lifelong fan."

"You must be happy he will be playing there," Ilya ventures, glad to shift the focus of the conversation away from himself.

Yuna thaws further. "Yes, it's very exciting. And Montreal is only two hours from Ottawa— that's where we live, if Shane didn't mention it— so it's close enough for us to come to home games occasionally." The smile fades from her face as she finishes speaking, as if she just remembered how far Russia was from Boston. Ilya almost wants to reassure her, to tell her that having an entire ocean between him and his family is actually a huge selling point of playing in the MLH. That historically, his father's attendance at his games had never been anything but the first step of an elaborate ritual of criticism, humiliation, and punishment.

But that, of course, would not make for good dinner conversation with his secret-maybe-boyfriend's mother.

Your parents must be so proud," Yuna says awkwardly, "Although I'm sure it's hard for them, being so far away from you."

Ilya's nerves, which had only begun to release their hold on him, suddenly seize in a death grip. This is the worst possible direction for the conversation to take; he takes a sip of his drink hastily to buy himself time to think. Next to him, Shane stiffens too, which, in its own way, is reassuring. It's easier if he doesn't have to have this conversation with Shane, if Shane already knows.

"Mom, I was thinking about what you said earlier," says Shane, maybe a little louder and a little faster than someone would talk if they weren't obviously trying to change the subject, "about the whole rivalry thing."

Yuna blinks in surprise, and then frowns. "Oh? What about it?"

"It's just— this whole angle… I don't know. It feels like they want us to, like, hate each other's guts for real."

"Well, no, Shane," Yuna says, sounding mildly exasperated, "it's— it's just PR, of course—"

Shane gains momentum. "No. Look— sorry, but I don't want to have to pretend that we hate each other."

Ilya watches, still and silent at the meeting of two incredibly stubborn people.

"Shane, honey," Yuna sits forward and folds her hands on the table, her voice calm and even with some effort, "No one is saying you two can't be… friendly. But, sometimes it helps to play into a narrative. These PR people are professionals, they're paid to promote the teams and individual players in the most effective way."

"So, what, I don't get any say in it? In how they… promote my image, or whatever?" asks Shane, frustrated.

Yuna sighs. "Rocking the boat, being perceived as difficult—" her eyes flash in Ilya's direction with an emotion he can't quite parse— "it can have consequences. Especially for someone like you, you know this."

Shane's eyes bore a hole in the table in front of him. His shoulders are tense, halfway up to his ears. He exhales heavily through his nose.

"We're not looking to rock the boat, or whatever," he says. "I just don't want to lie and pretend like we aren't friends. We are friends. I mean, right now, he's basically my only friend. And he's the only person who even kind of gets what all of this is like."

Something in Yuna softens. She sighs, and reaches out to give Shane's hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'm still going to kick his ass every time we play Boston," says Shane, and Ilya should learn when to keep his fucking mouth shut, but the lesson hasn't stuck in the 19 years (give or take a few decades or centuries) he's lived so far, and it doesn't look like it's going to sink in tonight either.

"Oh, will you?" he says before he can stop himself.

Shane glances at him, a small smirk on his lips. "You know I will."

Encouraged, Ilya risks a chirp. "I'm not sure I will even know you're there, will be too busy scoring ten goals every game. You will watch me from the bench, though, yes?"

"No, I'll be the guy stealing the puck away from you. Hollander, 24. They put the names on the back of the jersey for a reason."

Ilya dimly remembers that Shane's mother is seated across the table from him, and barely manages to bite back half a dozen retorts about how good his name would look across Shane's back. Especially with Shane splayed out on a bed under him—

Nope. Not here. Later, definitely, but not now.

Across the table, Yuna's eyes move back and forth between the two of them, in an expression of thoughtful consideration that he knows he's seen on Shane's face. Somehow he knows she's running a hundred scenarios and equations somewhere under the placid surface. She seems to come to a conclusion, nods, and sets her palms flat on the table in front of her.

"Okay. So— we spin it. On-ice rivals, off-ice friends. This could work, especially if you two keep playing the way you played against each other at Juniors. And the banter back and forth— yeah, this could work, actually." Yuna pulls a small notebook and pen out of her purse, and begins to jot down a few notes.

Ilya feels some tension relax that he hadn't fully realized he'd been holding. He feels a tap on the side of his foot, then a steady pressure as Shane shifts his foot to press fully against his. Ilya takes a sip of his water, and pushes back.

November 2010, Boston

Jane: Are you ready for this?

ready for what

scoring hat trick against you?

of course

Jane: Fuck off.

Jane: I meant, are you still okay with our plan?

sure

we play game, boston wins 15-0, montreal cries in the locker room

then you and me go out with my team

no big deal

Jane: Right.

Jane: Sorry. I guess I'm just nervous.

it will be fine

part of our big not gay friendship plan yes?

Jane: Shut up.

we show everyone how we are just bros

they ask me "ilya what do you like about hollander he is so so boring"

i say

"definitely not the way he whimpers when he cums down my throat"

mission accomplished

Jane: I hate you so much.

Jane: I'm going to throw up.

shane

Jane: Fuck off.

hey it will be great ok

seriously

they are good guys

they will not even think twice about it

Jane: Fuck. Okay.

Jane: If you say so.

i do

keep breathing i will text you after

<3

Jane: <3

"Hey, Roz!" Marlow's voice is loud as it bounces off the walls of the bar, drowning out the chatter from the rest of the team and the thrumming undercurrent of upbeat music. Shane braces for impact at the sound, waiting for the realization that Ilya didn't arrive alone.

Marlow strides across the room, smiling broadly at Ilya, before his eyes drift over Ilya's shoulder and he sees Shane hovering two steps behind him. Marlow's face changes into a look of confusion, and Shane's gut twists uncomfortably as Marlow opens his mouth to speak again.

Before he can, Ilya beats him to it. "Marly! Meet Hollander, I convinced him to come out for a drink tonight." Ilya turns towards Shane with a beckoning gesture. Shane steps forward and Ilya claps a hand on his shoulder.

Marlow looks puzzled, but not hostile. He shrugs and holds out a hand with a grin. "Hollander! This is a surprise, I thought you guys were supposed to hate each other, or something?"

Ilya shakes his head vehemently. "Not true. The league likes to make up stories for their own entertainment. Hollander and I are more like, ah, friendly competitors. He is always trying to keep up with me on the ice, you know." Shane tries to make his face cooperate as he accepts Marlow's handshake. His hand is large, rough with callouses, and warm.

"If this is, like, a team thing—" Shane begins.

"Nah, it's all good, bro, if Rozy says you're cool that's good enough for me." He glances over his shoulder. "You boys should grab a drink and join us, we're watching Carmy embarrass himself at darts." As he finishes speaking, a group of Boston players near the back of the bar let out a raucous burst of chirps and laughter. "You any good at darts, Hollander?"

Shane grins in spite of himself as he watches Carmichael's next throw miss the dartboard entirely, bouncing pathetically off the scarred wall two inches to the left. "I mean, I'm better than he is."

Marlow snickers and Ilya's face breaks into a grin. "Come on then, let's get drinks and go see if Carmy is stupid enough to play for money."

The rest of the evening is strange. The knot of anxiety that had formed in the earlier hours of the evening had relaxed as, one by one, Shane met Ilya's teammates. He'd expected scrutiny, distrust, maybe even open hostility, but the introductions all turned out to be variations on the same theme. They all look to Ilya, see his easy, welcoming attitude, and accept it at face value.

(In the end, Ilya convinces Carmichael to play three rounds of darts against Shane. The fact that Carmy willingly plays through the third, after being absolutely decimated in the first two rounds, makes Shane wonder whether he has some kind of humiliation fetish, or maybe whether he fundamentally misunderstands how the scoring system works. Maybe he thinks it's like golf, like he's supposed to get the lowest number possible?)

He's buzzy as the evening ends; he's broken his normal rules and had two beers, but tomorrow is just a travel day so he supposes it doesn't really matter. Ilya's arm is slung around Shane's shoulder as he says goodbye to the few remaining teammates, and It's the type of casual intimacy that none of these guys would blink twice at— that's just normal bro shit. It kills Shane a little bit, at the same time it fills his chest with warmth.

"Hollander, you too— is time for your beauty sleep, yes?" Ilya turns to face him. "You play Buffalo next, yes? Will need all the rest you can get. Only team in the league with four fourth lines, after all." Ilya chirps, prompting laughs from the group. "You need me to get a car for you?"

"Fuck off, my hotel is two blocks away," Shane laughs. It's not a lie; his hotel is only two blocks away, not that he has any intention of going back there tonight. But the Bears don't need to know that, and they don't really seem to be listening all that closely anyway.

January, 2011

Jane: So, All Stars is next weekend.

yes

excited?

Yeah for sure. I can't wait.

you miss me

Jane: Fuck off.

Jane: Yeah. I do.

Jane: Asshole.

)))

you remember some things, yes?

Jane: Yeah, some stuff. :)

want to share with the class

Jane: What if I tell you and then it doesn't happen?

shane

i promise to you

they will have to break both of my legs and both of my arms to keep me from fucking you this weekend

and i don't really give a shit about anything else

i hope you would tell me if someone breaks both my arms and legs

would be a very mean secret to keep from me

Jane: Jesus, you are so dramatic.

Jane: No. Your arms and legs will be fine.

Jane: The only thing of yours that gets broken is your shot accuracy record.

oh my god you are so annoying

Jane: :)

Jane: How's your face this morning?

still sexy

[Image attached]

Jane: Fuck.

Jane: I hate how good you look even with a split lip.

come kiss it better

Jane: Next weekend.

Jane: Shit, I have to go. Our flight is boarding. Call later?

ok

kiss kiss

Jane: <3

June 2011, Las Vegas - MLH Awards

Ilya watches from the bar as Shane descends the stairs, parents trailing behind him, clutching his Rookie of the Year trophy with a wide smile on his face. Ilya's own lips begin to curl; he takes a sip of his drink to disguise it. He turns his attention back to where it had been a moment earlier, on the Detroit goalie who had been nominated for, but didn't win, the Vezina. He'd attempted to engage Ilya in a conversation of commiseration, possibly worried that Ilya would take the loss hard— at least, Ilya's pretty sure that's what he's saying. He speaks some strange dialect of English that makes it sound like the words are being bounced around his mouth like the marbles in a pinball machine, and Ilya gave up trying to understand what he's saying about four minutes ago. Anyway, the pep talk is unnecessary; Ilya's spirits are strangely light. Even with the dark cloud of a summer in Russia looming over him, his mood is almost cheerful. In a few hours, he will be naked in Shane's bed, with Shane panting underneath him, so who's the real winner after all?

A hand taps his shoulder and he turns; this time, he doesn't try to hide the smile as it spreads across his face.

"Hollander!" he says, "Congratulations!"

"What, no chirps for me tonight, Roz?" grins Shane. The nickname still feels odd coming from Shane's mouth, but it's what they'd settled on to use in public. It's what Ilya's teammates call him, after all.

"Me? Ah, no no, I am cleaning up my reputation."

"Really? Why?"

"Is revenge. I decided since you beat me for Rookie of the Year, I will steal your place in history as most sportsmanlike player in the league."

"Fuck you," Shane says, the delighted look on his face completely undermining his words.

"Yes, yes, you keep saying mean things to me like that, and I will be so good and nice and friendly that I will win Lady Byng every year. They will call me Saint Ilya."

Shane laughs, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. God, he's so fucking beautiful Ilya almost can't breathe.

"Ilya!" Another voice gets his attention and he tears his gaze away from Shane to see Yuna and Shane's father (David, right?) approaching. Ilya straightens his posture. No playing around now, he actually is on his best behavior.

Yuna smiles and pulls him in for a hug. "Congratulations on an incredible season, Ilya," she says warmly. "Honestly, both of you deserved to win. I don't know how they managed to come to a decision."

Ilya nods and smiles. "Thank you, Yuna— is okay, if I have to lose, I am glad to lose to Shane. At least I know he deserves the win, you know?"

Yuna smiles indulgently and nods. "Oh! This is my husband, David. David, sweetie, this is Ilya, of course."

Ilya holds out a hand. "Mr. Hollander, it is very good to meet you, sir."

David accepts the handshake warmly. "Ilya, the pleasure is all mine! I've been looking forward to meeting you ever since Shane told me you two were friendly." He leans in slightly, "I'm glad he told me, because the way you two play against each other, I think I would have assumed you two were sworn enemies. Honestly, I wasn't a hundred percent convinced until now." David chuckles and slaps a friendly hand against Ilya's shoulder.

"Oh, no, we could never be enemies. Montreal games are my favorite ones," says Ilya sincerely, feeling slightly off balance. "Shane is the most fun to play against. He reminds me that hockey is supposed to be a game."

Shane smiles at him, fondness bleeding through the expression, and Ilya knows he needs to steer them back to safer, less affectionate waters. "And anyway. Is fun to watch him get mad when I score against him."

Yuna purses her lips, presumably to stop herself from coming to Shane's defense. Shane rolls his eyes, but David, at least, laughs again. "Just as competitive as he is, I see!" He raises his flute of champagne. "Well, here's to many more years of friendship and competition for the both of you."

Ilya's eyes find Shane's, and he raises his glass with a smile.

It's later, around midnight when Ilya looks across the room to see his maybe-boyfriend being harassed by a man who probably learned to play hockey during the ice age that killed the dinosaurs. Scott Hunter is shaking Shane's hand in a way that feels overly enthusiastic. Ilya sighs, rolls his eyes, and wonders how long Shane will patiently endure the senile ramblings of the oldest man alive when Shane turns, scanning the room until he spots Ilya and waves him over with a grin.

It's a profound betrayal, but Ilya's in a good enough mood that he supposes he'd better go and rescue Shane anyway.

"Hey, Rozy," Ilya doesn't react, even though Shane has never called him Rozy before. It's fine, it's definitely not making him feel some strange and intense new flavor of cuteness aggression. "Uh, Hunter was just saying, he and a few other guys wanted to do some shots with the rookies. You in?"

Ilya smirks. Shane is already tipsy, and why shouldn't he be? He deserves it. Ilya will make sure he has water and food before bed. "You are asking me if I want to watch Canada's Sweetheart, Shane Hollander do shots?" he grins. "Ah, yes. Fuck yes."

Hunter laughs a little too loudly for a joke that doesn't concern him, and he nods towards the bar. "Alright, let's go."

One shot ends up being three, and as the boring, official part of the party winds down and other guys start making noise about moving elsewhere, to a club or casino or penthouse, Shane nudges Ilya's arm. "Wanna get some air?"

Ilya nods and follows him as he weaves through the dwindling partygoers, moving with purpose. He exits the banquet hall and strides down the hallway to an elevator, hitting the call button. Ilya looks around, feeling suddenly exposed. "Ah, Hollander, where are we going?"

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival. "To get some air," Shane repeats. "Come on, you'll see."

A few minutes later, Ilya stands at the railing of a deserted rooftop, feeling the strangest mix of feelings he can ever remember feeling. The rooftop feels haunted, almost, the air thick with ghosts of memories that float just out of reach. Shane stands to his left, taking in the view, close enough for Ilya to reach out and grab him, far enough away to not raise any questions, should someone intrude.

"We have been here before," says Ilya quietly, and even though it's not a question, Shane nods.

"We kind of can't stop ending up here. I figured… maybe it's stupid, I don't know. A lot of the memories from up here aren't great. A lot of fighting. I think it took us a few tries to get past tonight. But, also, at least one time this is where we started working together. It felt important to come here. I want us to have another good memory here."

Ilya is struck with a sudden, overwhelming sense of gratitude for this strange, serious, perfect man standing next to him. He holds Ilya's memories without complaint— carries the burden of all the past versions of Ilya who weren't good enough, who were too flawed. He knows Ilya better than anyone, and for some reason he's still here.

"A good memory… yes, Shane," he speaks softly. "I like this idea. Give me a good memory to carry with me to Moscow."

Shane looks out over the skyline; his face is soft in the glow from the street below them. "Do you want to know a secret?"

Ilya wants to know every secret Shane has. He wants to open his own chest to make a home for Shane, to wrap his arms around him and take him somewhere where no one can even look at him the wrong way. Fuck, maybe he's a little bit drunk, too. He's feeling way too sentimental right now, and Shane literally just said this is a night when things tend to go wrong for them.

He forces himself to resettle, to calm down. With a forced air of lightness, he quips, "Is it that you are a little bit drunk right now? Because, I'm sorry, Shane, but this is not a secret to me."

Shane laughs and ducks his head, his cheeks pink. "Shut up, no. I'm not even really drunk."

"Hmm, okay." Ilya says with a smirk.

Shane steps a bit closer and rests his hand on the railing. He lets it drift closer to Ilya's hand, he could reach out and take it just like that.

"No, yeah, the secret is…" says Shane, smiling softly down at the city below. He's so young, thinks Ilya. They both are. They're not. "I love you, Ilya. So much."

Ilya's heart flips, it's a complete shock, and at the same time, it's feels like the most natural thing in the world. "Shane—"

"I don't think I've ever said that before," continues Shane, "and I really wanted to. I think I definitely wanted to say it before, too, but maybe I was scared. Or I didn't think I was allowed to. But, yeah, I love you. I want you to know."

"I love you too Shane," says Ilya. It feels dangerous to say these words out loud, it feels like tempting fate in some horrible way, but then Shane smiles at him and it's like seeing the sun rise on the first day of summer. Suddenly he's very aware of a million things that could go wrong, all of the things he needs to protect Shane against.

For starters, this rooftop railing looks incredibly flimsy. Ilya decides that the best course of action is for both of them to step away from it, all the way back to the door, and down into his hotel room where there are safe things, like beds and walls and doors that lock.

Somehow, they manage to make it through the door before giving in to their instincts. It swings shut behind them and Shane is on him, the force of his affection knocking Ilya back against the wall. Shane kisses him, fervently at first, but melting, softening as Ilya's hands coax off his jacket, knead gently into his muscles, soothe him and hold him close. Part of him wants to lean into the animal instinct simmering inside of him, to pick Shane up, throw him onto the bed, rip his clothes off and spend the night fucking him as if their lives depended on it, but oddly, more than that, he finds he wants to take his time. He's not in a rush, he has all night with Shane, and he wants to focus, to commit every moment to the fleeting memory he could lose at any time.

Shane nuzzles into his neck, whines as Ilya's stiff shirt collar blocks his access. Ilya lets out a soft chuckle and gently nudges Shane to move back. He does so, pouting slightly, and Ilya takes the opportunity to remove his own jacket, then his bow tie, already undone and loose around his neck. He unbuttons the top three buttons of his own shirt before he can no longer stand not touching Shane, and he reaches back out for him. Ilya's fingers slip into the waistband of his pants, untucking Shane's shirt, running hands over the smooth, sensitive skin. Shane is so warm, so alive; he shudders at the touch and drops his forehead onto Ilya's shoulder.

Shane's hands are on Ilya's pants now, too, he sinks to his knees. Ilya is hit by a sudden, overwhelming wave of deja vu; how many times they must have done this, these secret hookups in hotel rooms, not even making it to the bed before Shane fell to his knees, determined to make the most of the every fleeting moment. It makes his heart ache horribly, all those nights before them, countless more still to come. It is so much more than he deserves and so much less than he needs. His hands slow in Shane's hair, caressing him gently. Fuck, he needs… he doesn't even know what he needs. He feels so wrecked already— it doesn't make sense, Shane doesn't make sense, not here, like this, giving himself to Ilya so eagerly—

Shane has noticed the change in his mood and looks up curiously, face shifting to concern as he sees whatever Ilya's face is doing. "Hey, Ilya? What's wrong?"

Ilya swallows and shakes his head. He caresses Shane's cheek, pulls him closer to kiss him again, slow.

"We take our time tonight, yes? Is not often we have a whole night. You will let me take care of you?"

Shane nods.

"I love you, Shane. Ya tebya lyublyu."

When Shane smiles, really smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkle and his eyes themselves could light up the entire room. It's how he looks now, soft and brilliant. Ilya kisses him, and kisses him again, and again, and again.

Chapter End Notes

(I know this might look like a super mean cliffhanger but I promise it's not)

Thanks for reading!!