Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, no rivalry, Friends to Lovers

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of love-a-nov (hollanov one-shots)

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-17 Words: 9,299 Chapters: 1/1

and i still wish for you (at eleven eleven)

Summary

“This is… something more than just a hook-up, right? It's not just me?” He chances a glance at Ilya who is watching him impassively.

“Is special,” Ilya agrees, his voice so quiet that Shane almost doesn’t understand. “Is to me. Different. Better. I think," Ilya says after more prompting, “we do this again. I think would be nice to be together.”

“Yeah.” Shane can't help but smile at the idea. Except― “But not public? Just―Until we figure out this whole professional hockey player thing, maybe?”

“Okay," Ilya agrees easily. "Secret." He presses a short kiss to Shane’s lips. “For now.”

“For now,” Shane echoes. 

Or: What if Shane and Ilya had been a little less paranoid and a little more open during that first hookup? What would their relationship have looked like then?

Notes

The timeline here will be a little sped up to fit with how I wanted to portray their relationship and this divergence, but don’t worry: We’ll still hit all the major points. Just don’t expect them to occur in the same years as they do in canon.

In December of 2008, Shane meets a boy behind an arena in Regina, and doesn’t think it’ll lead to anything more than that.

He doesn’t know why it feels right when their paths cross after that, but it does and he decides not to question it too much. There are very few people who understand the path Shane Hollander is on, and Ilya Rozanov is one of them. They don’t talk often, but they’re in each other’s orbits at any event that matters. At some point, it becomes more common to see their names together in the few headlines that mention them, and Shane doesn’t think that’s such a bad thing. Again, Ilya Rozanov is one of the few people who understands where they’re both headed. Shane won’t look a gift horse in the mouth until two years later.

In a Los Angeles hotel after the Major League Hockey’s draft conference, he meets that same boy in a new, good way. It gets even better the following summer when they shoot a commercial together, and immediately, Shane knows the path he’s on is actually quite different than the one he always thought he was.

It’s after―when they’re both collapsed on the bed, sticky with sweat but having caught their breaths―that Shane realizes this is actually a big thing. It isn’t how all the other boys talk about hook-ups being. It isn’t quick and short, and good but not life-altering. Rather, it shakes his world a bit too far to the left for Shane to think he can ever go back to before.

“What do you think about?” Ilya’s accent is thick, heavy. Shane likes hearing it so close.

Shane considers lying but he’s never been good at it. Besides, this feels important; as if whatever his answer is will change their relationship, no matter the form it takes.

“It’s not just me, right?” Shane asks quietly. “This is… different. Not just a normal hook-up. There’s something more.” He chances a glance at Ilya who is watching him impassively. Suddenly, he realizes that it’s entirely possible it is just him. “I mean―Just―We’re both, you know, gonna be famous and that obviously makes it different. It isn’t just different ‘cause it’s special or anything. It could be! But, like, it doesn’t have to be―”

“Shane.” Ilya shuts him up with that. It’s the first time he’s called Shane anything other than Hollander, not that they talk all that often. “Is special,” Ilya says, his voice so quiet that Shane almost doesn’t understand. “Is to me. Different. Better.”

Shane blinks once. Twice.

“For you?” Ilya prompts after a too-long moment.

“Yeah.” Shane nods so fast his neck hurts a little. “Yeah, special.”

He doesn’t do hook-ups. He doesn’t know if this is different or better, but he knows that something inside of him has been fundamentally rewritten by Ilya. He’s glad that Ilya seems to feel the “something special” too. It would be equal parts embarrassing and devastating, Shane thinks, if Ilya didn’t.

“So, um.” Shane tries not to fidget or pick at his nails. “Where do we go from here? If―” he adds hastily, “―you want to go anywhere, that is. We don’t have to. It can just be a one-time thing.”

“No,” Ilya says with a shake of his head. “Not one-time thing. I do not want to go anywhere, though. Just stay here.”

“Ah,” Shane corrects himself, “no, like, what do we do? ‘Where do we go’ is just―It’s a different way of saying ‘what are we’ or ‘what do you want us to be’. Things like that.”

Ilya nods carefully, thinking. Shane sees it on his face.

“We do this again,” Ilya says. Shane is instantly on board. “I think would be nice to be together.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. He smiles. “I think so too.”

He hasn’t dated much before, but the idea of dating Ilya―being with him in whatever form they end up in―is appealing. More appealing than the thought of dating any of the girls in his class. Or picking up a woman from the bar the two times he went out with his team in Canada. 

“But,” Shane says hesitantly, “not public? Just―Until we figure out this whole professional hockey player thing, maybe?”

“Okay.”

Ilya agrees easily but Shane isn’t surprised. If anyone is going to understand why Shane wants to keep a relationship on the down-low―especially one where he’s dating another man―it is, once again, Ilya Rozanov. 

“Secret,” Ilya agrees, pressing a short kiss to Shane’s lips, “for now.”

“For now,” Shane echoes. 

He leaves with his number in Ilya’s phone and a smile on his face. As far as a first start to professional hockey goes, it feels like a good one.

---

Ilya meets a boy in the cold winter of 2008 and from there, he doesn’t fight what feels like fate. He knows professional hockey is not accepting of diversity, of anything less than the traditional man―Hell, he’s from Russia. He knows the worst this sport can be. And yet―

And yet, when Shane Hollander asks him what they are after giving a blowjob for the first time, Ilya is helpless to do anything but ask to keep Shane for himself. He is selfish like that, but Shane is so giving. So he sleeps with Shane Hollander before their first official season and from there, he thinks whatever shit-storm will inevitably come is worth it.

He’s proven right again and again. Every text from Shane is a wonder and each game they play is electric. They’re both rookies, but they’re good. Better than some of the senior players on either of their teams. Ilya doesn’t let it get to his head, but he lets the press think it does. What he does not allow the press to do, however, is spin a rumor that he and Shane hate each other. He may not be good at English or media circuits, but he is good at being blunt.

“Hollander is good friend,” he says. It’s a little cold, but he’s angry at the insinuation. The journalists can handle it. “We are friends.”

“Now that you’re drafted to rival teams,” another journalist presses, “do you expect that to change?”

“No.”

Ilya doesn’t let them question him about it again. Instead, he makes a point of showing just how stupid of a question it had been.

The first time he and Shane play as rivals, they’re spotted getting dinner beforehand. Afterward, they’re seen together at a bar with a very uncomfortable looking Hayden Pike and an extremely drunk trio of Ilya’s own teammates. Marlow, St. Vincent, and Carmichael insisted on joining; had wanted to meet “Montreal’s golden boy”, as they had put it. Ilya only agreed because Shane had texted, worried about how it would look if it was just the two of them, as Ilya was on his way out of the locker room. 

So he had met Shane and Pike at a shitty dive bar and got his teammates wasted enough that they wouldn’t notice if Ilya danced a little too close to Shane for casual. The photos were still clean―still safe, even for Shane’s slightly paranoid brain―and when they ended up online, Ilya smirked to himself.

The press never asked about their rivalry again.

The only problem is that they really didn’t see each other that often. They have their games against each other, but even those only occur four times each season, excluding any playoff games they might make it to. It isn’t enough. Not for Ilya. Not when―three weeks after his last hook-up with Shane―he tries to find something casual in a club and leaves disappointed. The boy was nice―had done a wonderful job with his tongue―but he isn’t Shane. 

Ilya only brings it up once they are back together. In Montreal for their second game against each other, Ilya sits across from Shane in a smoothie shop and tells him as much.

“But―” Shane frowns, “―I thought you liked hooking up with strangers.”

“I did,” Ilya says with a shrug. “But they are not you, so I am done with them. Is much better with you. Only you.”

Shane smiles, something soft that makes Ilya’s heart skip a beat unexpectedly, and while Shane tries to hide it, Ilya is glad he is unsuccessful.

“Yeah, well, I like it better with just you too.”

And so for the first time in Ilya’s life, he has an exclusive relationship with the one boy he can’t stop thinking about. He can’t find it in himself to think of any downsides. He doesn’t try too hard―Shane is much better than whatever fling Ilya may be missing out on. It’s a shame Svetlana ruins it for him the following summer. 

“I’m just surprised,” she says in Russian, “that the press hasn’t said anything about how you went from this playboy, hook-up culture to celibate.”

“I’m not celibate,” Ilya protests. He knows she knows this. He’s just spent the last thirty minutes in great detail talking about Jane Hollander with a look on his face that he knows has told Svetlana everything he can’t say out loud in Russia. 

“Well, I know that and you know that,” she agrees, “but they don’t. Have you at least come up with a plausible explanation for when someone asks you?”

“I don’t need a ‘plausible explanation’,” Ilya says with a huff. “They’ll never ask me.” 

They ask him the season he becomes captain. For the first time since his first season, Ilya stumbles over an answer as a dozen cameras and microphones are shoved in his face.

“No time for relationship,” he tells them shortly. The words taste bitter on his tongue. “Captains don’t date.”

Shane calls him that night.

“So,” he teases, “word on the street has it that captains don’t date. Should I be concerned?”

“No.” Ilya glares at his pasta on the stove. It isn’t cooking fast enough. “Telling ESPN I have boyfriend isn’t very secret of me, though.”

“No,” Shane agrees. On the other end of the line, he sighs. “I guess not.”

It feels heavy, somehow. Ilya doesn’t know how or why, but he has the distinct feeling that there’s more behind Shane’s words than he’s letting on. 

“Shane?” he prompts gently. “Are you upset I told them that?”

“No, I get it,” Shane says quickly. “It just―It kind of sucks, doesn’t it? That we can’t just be out?”

Ilya hums. It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation in the last four years. When they had been freshly drafted and figuring things out, waiting until they had “figured out the professional hockey thing” had seemed like an easy decision. Now, they’re both captain of their respective teams. The press loves them together almost more than it loves them individually. The MLH may not be the most accepting of groups, but Ilya doesn’t think coming out would be all that bad. The problem is Russia.

“I am sorry, lyubimii,” Ilya says quietly. Guilt churns in his chest. “I know you want to―we want to, but I can’t. Not when my father needs me.”

“I know,” Shane’s voice is just as gentle. “I know. I’m not upset at you, I promise. I just wish it was different.”

“Me too,” Ilya murmurs. And then again, in Russian,“Me too.” 

Shane shifts the conversation then and Ilya knows he’s trying to make it light, but the weight in Ilya’s chest is stuck there. It stays for days. He feels even worse about that.

It isn’t Shane’s fault that he feels this way or that their conversation triggered his bad days. Ilya would never, ever blame him. It is, however, endlessly frustrating that most times they talk about potentially coming out―someday, eventually―Ilya spends the next few days with a weight on his chest and lead in his limbs. It’s hard to get out of bed and the feeling stays for a week. It only changes when he boards a plane to Sochi, and it isn’t for the better.

His father is doing poorly. He’s the worst Ilya has seen in a while and from what Alexei tells him, this is his new normal. 

The Olympics are supposed to be fun. Instead, Ilya spends the time in a haze. Shane is so close―he’s right there―but Ilya doesn’t so much as talk to him. It’s too risky. Even if Svetlana were to accompany him, Ilya doesn’t trust himself to go out with Shane and his teammates. His family offers a slight distraction, but none of it is enough.

Jane: I know what you’ll say

Jane: But just in case: I’m still here. Even if you just want to sit in silence

The texts come after Russia loses to Latvia, and Ilya can’t bring himself to go home and face his father just yet. Shane is somewhere in the bleachers watching the figure skaters, and the closest Ilya can get to him is standing in the rafters. He wants nothing more than to take Shane up on his offer. He doesn’t.

“Would it really be that bad?” Svetlana asks him later that night. “You’re miserable here, Ilyusha. Why keep refusing your own happiness?”

“You don’t get it,” Ilya says. In a room next door, his father is talking with his old buddies. Ilya hopes he isn’t making a fool of himself with his slipping mind. Knows better than to bet on it. “I can’t leave. Russia is home. I have to have a home. I can’t just―People can’t just not have a home.”

“Maybe it’s time you make a new home,” Svetlana says carefully. He glares at her. “I’m serious. Think about it at least, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

He doesn’t. He leaves Shane on read, ignores Svetlana’s gentle and careful coaxing, and lets his father hit him every time he tries. Ilya could move. He could dodge. He never does. His father’s fist doesn’t hurt at much as it used to―Grigori is weak with age and Ilya has been playing professional hockey for too many years now―but his heart hurts enough to make up for the lack of physical pain. The night it gets the worst, Shane texts him again in spite of Ilya’s silence.

Jane: I’m sorry it has to be like this

Jane: I love you

Ilya cries himself to sleep that night and thinks maybe―just maybe―he’ll think about what Svetlana said.

---

Shane knows something is wrong after the Olympics, but there’s never a good time to bring it up. His mom says something about Ilya playing his next game with an injury―“His ribs,” she says―and Shane spends the entire night trying to remember when Ilya got a rib injury at Sochi.

(He didn’t. Shane knows he didn’t. He also knows that Ilya spent the time at his father’s house and not texting Shane despite the fact that Shane knows how that must have been.)

Shane resigns himself to having forgotten about an injury in Sochi. The alternative is something he doesn’t want to think about.

So he doesn’t. He plays against Boston a month later and it isn’t the first time he’s seen Ilya in person since the Olympics, but it is the first time seeing him on the ice since then. He doesn’t seem hurt anymore; he’s just as vicious with his skating and boarding as always, and when he pins Shane against the boards halfway through, it’s reassuring.

“I take it your ribs are okay then,” Shane mutters as Ilya skates away. His only answer is a smirk.

Later that night, Shane checks for himself. The last time they’d been together, there had been a fading, but still purple bruise on Ilya’s chest. It had been fist sized. Shane had wanted to cry. This time when he watches Ilya take off his shirt, the skin is smooth and pale. No longer hurt.

They’re interrupted by Ilya’s phone. It rings loud and shrill, and the look that crosses Ilya’s face makes Shane frown. He knows who’s calling; it’s the same person every time Ilya is willing to answer in the middle of their nights together. Still, Ilya looks conflicted as he picks it up.

“Go,” Shane says. He nudges Ilya gently. 

Shane sees it on Ilya’s face that he doesn’t want to, but he does. He always does. It’s been years since Shane has been upset by it. Now, he knows to just wait. Ilya will come back in a few minutes―likely with pent up energy that he’ll want to get out―and Shane will be here, waiting.

To Shane’s surprise, Ilya doesn’t take the call out of the room. Instead, he answers right beside Shane.

“What?” Ilya demands. Shane’s Russian isn’t great, but it’s good enough to understand the short, harsh word that Ilya bites out at Alexei.

Shane doesn’t intend to listen. His Russian isn’t usually good enough for eavesdropping, but he has picked up enough from Ilya to understand small things. He’s also started learning the language in his free time. It’s validating to hear Ilya speak it and know that Shane can understand what’s being said. 

“What?” The second time Ilya says it, he sounds breathless, surprised. “No, he―What?” 

Alexei’s voice is too garbled to understand from this far away, but Ilya’s isn’t.

“I―Okay, I’ll be there. I’ll―Give me two days,” Ilya says, and Shane frowns. His next words are too rushed, too harsh and complicated, for Shane to understand, but he recognizes the frustration in Ilya’s tone. When he hangs up a minute later, he’s breathing too heavily.

“Ilya?” Shane prompts when he doesn’t move.

“My father is dead,” Ilya says in stilted words. He doesn’t turn to face Shane. “He is dead.”

Shane is off the bed in an instant. He wraps his arms around Ilya from behind, but Ilya turns to bury his face in Shane’s neck as soon as his fingers touch Ilya’s back. Shane adjusts quickly and holds Ilya as he trembles.

“I have to go back for…”

“The funeral?” Shane offers. Ilya nods.

“Da,” he says a single word in Russian―pokhorony―and then repeats in English, “Funeral.”

Shane doesn’t ask him to repeat the word. He’ll look it up later. 

“In two days?” Shane asks. Ilya nods again. 

He’ll miss Boston’s next game, but Shane doesn’t need to tell him that. What good will it do anyway? Ilya’s father is dead and he’s flying home again to bury him. Regardless of the way Shane feels about Ilya’s father, he knows this will be hard for Ilya.

It doesn’t feel good to be right about it, either. Ilya comes back after a week in Russia, but between the Voyageurs’ and the Bears’ game schedule, there isn’t a time for Shane to see him until their game against each other in April. They’ve texted and called plenty in the meantime, but it’s hard to resist the impulse to pull Ilya into the tightest hug Shane can manage. It’s a personal hell to have to stand on one end of the arena and know that Ilya is right there but Shane can’t hug him.

“Hey.” Shane skates up to the line during warm-ups to get Ilya’s attention. The refs don’t so much as blink in their direction, too used to the two of them chatting on the line to be worried. “Rozanov.”

Ilya is in front of him in a breath, conversation with Marlow abandoned.

“Shane.” Ilya grins. “I missed you, lyubimii.” 

“I missed you too,” Shane says. They both know this. They’ve both been saying it for days on end via text or phone. “Come here.”

It’s a bit bold to thunk their heads together in the way Shane does, but he’s pretty sure they can get away with it. They’re friends. The entire world knows that much. As their first game together since Ilya’s dad died, it can’t be too unexpected for Shane to offer some form of comfort.

“Shane,” Ilya breaths.

“I love you,” Shane whispers. He pats the back of Ilya’s helmet and forces himself to pull away. It can’t be more than a brief, friendly consolation. If Shane lingers any longer, he’ll do something stupid like hug Ilya on center ice. 

Ilya blinks at him and his eyes look just a little shinier than usual.

“Asshole,” Ilya huffs. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Gotta win somehow.”

The teasing works and Ilya pushes away from him with a huffed laugh. He’s grinning as he turns away and Shane counts it as a win. When he returns to his team, no one seems to have noticed Shane’s disappearance. Or if they had, it was too normal for them to question. Not for the first time, Shane is glad he and Ilya have a public friendship. He thinks he might have exploded if he hadn’t been able to touch Ilya in some way before the game.

Ilya plays as if the same thought is on his mind. He boards Shane every chance he gets. Whenever they’re on the ice together, Ilya is right there at his side. It feels nicer than usual. Shane loves it just as much.

He’s in the middle of relishing the feeling as Ilya rockets away―the puck thief that he is―when his train of thought is abruptly stopped by a wall of muscle. He’s slammed into the boards and hears something crunch worryingly. The next thing he knows, he’s lying on the ice and Ilya is hovering over him with a panic-stricken face. 

“Shane, thank god,” he says, voice cracking. His hands are hovering above Shane, not touching, and his helmet is gone. “Say something, lyubimii.”

“Ilya?” Shane’s throat feels dry and cottony when he tries to speak. “What happened?”

“You were hit,” Ilya says. He wipes furiously at his face but before Shane can ask him why, Ilya disappears.

Medics take Ilya’s spot and Shane turns, reaching out to find where Ilya went. Sharp, shooting pain races through his body at the movement and Shane knows he screams. It’s blinding, choking, and he immediately knows that something is very, very wrong.

The medics work faster. They say something Shane doesn’t understand. He’s in too much pain and he wants Ilya, goddammit, but he can only see the medics.

“Ilya,” he gasps. “Ilya. I want Ilya.”

The medics ignore him. They shift him and he knows they’re just doing their job, but it hurts. He tries to bite down on his second scream―he knows Ilya is somewhere close enough to hear and doesn’t want to worry him. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“Please,” he begs the medics. The pain is enough that his vision starts to blur and he knows what comes next. “Please, I want Ilya.”

“Mr. Hollander―”

“Ilya,” Shane cries, interrupting the medic. Above him, the ceiling is changing. They’re moving him―probably headed to a hospital―but Shane doesn’t want to leave this building without Ilya by his side. “Please.”

The medic at his head purses her lips and then disappears. She’s immediately replaced by Ilya. His eyes are red and worried, but he’s there. With Shane.

“I’m gonna be okay,” Shane slurs. “I’m okay.”

There’s a sharp jolt as the medics transition from the ice to solid ground and the pain is finally too much. Shane’s vision blurs and then goes dark. The last thing he sees are Ilya’s eyes going wide with panic.

---

Ilya does not leave the hospital until Shane is discharged. He ignores his phone and the stream of texts from his coach and teammates. He ignores the news headlines on the TV and the ones that notify him personally. He ignores everything except Shane. Nothing else matters. Not even sleep.

He can’t so much as blink without seeing Shane on that ice. Unmoving. Bleeding. It had been a broken nose that caused the blood, but knowing that hadn’t made a difference. All Ilya had seen was Shane’s lifeless, crumpled body on the ice under Marlow and blood. Shane’s pained scream still echoes in Ilya’s ears days later when he’s released. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it.

He knows people come to visit. Nurses. Doctors. No one else is allowed without Ilya’s consent and while he’s sure someone has asked a nurse to ask him if they can visit too, Ilya doesn’t speak. 

Eventually, Shane’s parents will come. Ilya doesn’t know what he’ll do then. The only reason he’s been allowed to stay is because Shane had demanded he come with and the paramedics had told hospital staff Ilya was the emergency contact. He knows he isn’t. He can’t be. The truth won’t come out until the Hollanders arrive with it, though, so Ilya takes what he can while he has it.

Shane doesn’t wake up all night. He’s out of surgery―broken collar bone, broken nose, concussion―but he hasn’t woken up from it. The nurses tell him that’s normal. He was given a sedative to sleep it off. Ilya can’t take his eyes off the heart monitor or move his hand from Shane’s sternum where it rises and falls with each of Shane’s breaths. In the morning is when something finally changes.

There’s a noise in the hall as the Hollanders arrive. Ilya focuses very hard on not turning to face them.

“Oh, my baby.” Yuna is on the other side of Shane’s bed before the door closes behind her. “How has he been? Is he alright?”

Ilya nods. Shrugs.

“He is alive,” he manages.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yuna pause. She’s still fussing over Shane, but there’s an eye on Ilya now too and he doesn’t know if he likes it. 

“Have you been here all night?” Yuna asks. Ilya doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t really need him to. Not when he’s still in the workout clothes he’d worn to the rink last night and smells of sweat. “Ilya, you didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes,” Ilya says shortly, “I did.”

He chances a glance up at her, worried she’s going to kick him out, but her eyes are soft. Knowing. Ilya feels guilt churn in his gut as he realizes this is how she’s finding out about him and Shane. She may know they’re friends, but even Ilya knows how this looks. A friend does not stay overnight, hunched over in an uncomfortable hospital chair with one hand clutching desperately at Shane’s and the other monitoring his breathing. 

“Please don’t make me go,” Ilya whispers. He holds tighter to Shane’s hand. “I can’t―Don’t make me go.”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” Yuna says soothingly. Her hand covers Ilya’s on Shane’s chest and squeezes gently. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Ilya tries to thank her but there’s a lump in his throat that doesn’t let him. His eyes return to Shane and when he blinks away new tears, he swears he sees Shane’s eyelids flutter.

His breath catches in his throat and he waits. Sure enough, Shane’s eyes open and he grimaces at the light. His hand squeezes Ilya’s reflexively and it’s too much. Ilya can’t hold back the tears.

“Ilya.” Shane grins, wide and loopy, up at Ilya. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, lyubimii. Would not be anywhere else.”

The nurses come in to check on Shane and Ilya stays through it all. The Hollanders stay a step back but Ilya doesn’t move. The nurses don’t try to make him.

Shane stays in the hospital another night before they let him go. When they do, the Hollanders drive Ilya to the airport and pretend not to watch as they say goodbye. Ilya doesn’t know what Shane will want to tell his parents―it’s clear they know―and Ilya half expects an angry text once Shane is off the painkillers that make him happy and loopy. 

It never comes.

Instead, Shane talks about how Yuna wants Ilya up for dinner next time he’s in Montreal or Ottawa for a game, and invites him to stay at the cottage that summer. With his injuries, Shane is out for the season and already there. With Ilya's own recurring nightmares, Ilya doesn’t hesitate to say yes. But first, they have to host the sportsmanship award for the MLH Awards. It brings Shane back into his arms for the first time since their game in April, and Ilya is perhaps a bit reckless about it.

He can’t stop touching Shane. His fingers flit across Shane’s back and over his shoulders as they present. They linger on Shane’s when he passes him a glass of water. They make a home on Shane’s thigh when they’re both sitting at the table. Every second that Ilya doesn’t spend touching Shane makes something panicked creep into his lungs, so he doesn’t stop touching. Shane doesn’t seem to mind.

Shane’s arm is still in a sling and makes for an easy excuse. Unfortunately, not everyone takes it at face value.

Dallas Kent says something about it halfway through the after party and Shane tenses, but doesn’t pull back.

“We are friends, Kent,” Ilya says drily. “Friends do friendly things. You would not know this, though.”

They leave Kent scowling after them. No one makes another comment about it for the rest of the evening. Or rather, if there are comments, they aren’t said to Ilya or Shane. Part of that may be because they slip away shortly after the interaction with Kent. No one notices.

In the morning, Ilya leaves his suite at the same time Kent steps out of the adjoining one. His scowl is quick to return in response to Ilya’s cheeky grin, but he keeps his mouth shut. Ilya takes the second elevator down just in case Kent doesn’t know how to be quiet longer than that.

And just like that, the season is over and Ilya is in Ottawa with Shane. They spend most days at the cottage, though Yuna and David are insistent on weekly dinners. The first one is awkward. Ilya doesn’t know what to expect; is worried about what they know or don’t know. It quickly becomes clear that he doesn’t need to be, and every dinner after that is easy.

It’s hard going back into the season. It always is when it means he and Shane will have less time together, but it’s especially hard after spending all summer together. Ilya thinks they handle it alright.

“Did you hear about Kent?” Shane asks one night. They have yet to migrate from nightly phone calls to their usual routine of every other day. It’s early November. Ilya refuses to be the one who suggests the return to normal.

“That he is rapist?” Ilya asks. Shane hums. “I heard rumors, yes. Why? What do you know?”

He doesn’t know how Shane does it, but he always has information before Ilya. Once, Shane had joked it was because people don’t notice him. I’m quiet and boring, remember? he had joked. Ilya hadn’t liked the slight hurt in Shane’s voice when he’d said it. They’d gotten distracted when Ilya took it upon himself to prove both of those things wrong.

“Well,” Shane says, “Troy Barrett transferred to Ottawa and we got drinks last night.” 

Ilya knows. He saw the photos on Instagram and in the media. He isn’t jealous.

“He says it was him who leaked it,” Shane says. “He got tired of Kent being an asshole and preying―uh, targeting―” Shane corrects when Ilya lets out a confused hum, “―women in bars. Wanted to make it stop.”

“So it is true?” 

There are a lot of rumors in the MLH and only half of them are ever true. He’s aware of one going around right now that Shane is gay. He doesn’t think Shane has heard it; is trying to keep it that way while also trying to shut it down.

“Yeah, I think so,” Shane breaths. “The commissioner is looking into it, I guess. Like, officially and everything. Barrett is helping some of the women come forward with information.”

“Good,” Ilya says firmly. “Kent is asshole. He deserves it.”

“Yeah, he does.”

The rumor continues to grow as the month passes. It doesn’t help when Crowell calls Shane for a meeting either. Ilya doesn’t know what Crowell could want and Shane doesn’t tell him anything afterward, but he knows there’s no way Shane is involved in whatever Kent is guilty of. It still doesn’t sit well with him. It is, unfortunately, not unwarranted.

At the end of the month, the headlines break with news about Dallas Kent’s numerous accusations of sexual assault. Five women have come forward. All of them pressing charges against Kent. The headlines run not just on the sports channels, but on mainstream news as well. 

Ilya isn’t surprised. The entire MLH has been hearing rumors about it for even longer. Now, though, it’s real. There are charges, accusations, and faces to the women Kent has assaulted. It’s all over the news alongside Dallas Kent’s official Guardians photo.

Ilya expects Toronto to pull Kent from their line once the accusations are made, but they don’t. Instead, they keep him front and center, and Ilya learns this for the first time when the Bears play the Guardians in the week following the headlines.

Boston is in Toronto for the night. It almost feels like they’re in Montreal with the way the fans jeer and the Guardians sneer at them. Some of the players are quiet, stick to themselves during warm-ups. Others―notably Kent―don’t.

Kent hovers at the line and Ilya feels his eyes on him. Twice, Kent chirps at him. Twice, Ilya doesn’t bother understanding his words.

It continues throughout the game, but never close enough that Ilya can make out Kent’s words. In the final half of the last third, that changes.

They’re tied, but not for lack of trying on either side. Both Boston and Toronto are playing a brutal game. Ilya’s ribs are going to hurt for days after this and he’s a little annoyed because it’s very likely to impact his weekend with Shane. 

Kent says something as they come to the center line and Ilya, distracted by Vicky behind him, hums questioningly.

“Oh, now you wanna listen?” Kent mutters.

“You keep talking,” Ilya says as they line up. “If you do not want people to hear, usually you do not talk.”

“And if you don’t want people to talk,” Kent hisses, “maybe tell your little bitch he should have kept his mouth shut.”

Ilya frowns. He’s heard a lot of chirps in his life―has done a lot of chirping himself―and yet, something about the way Kent speaks puts him on edge. A jolt of panic rushes through him which doesn’t make sense. Kent’s words don’t even make sense. Ilya doesn’t know who or what he’s talking about, but he knows that he doesn’t like where it’s going.

“Might be hard for you, though,” Kent adds, “seeing as you like it when Hollzy opens his fa―”

Ilya sees red. For the first time in his professional career, Ilya sees red and he swings without a single thought. The game hasn’t even started―it’s a clear foul―but that is the furthest thing from Ilya’s mind.

He drops his gloves as he swings and when his fist collides with Kent’s chin, it hurts. Ilya doesn’t stop. He wails on Kent long after whistles start blowing and hands start trying to pull him back. 

“Fuck you!” Ilya shouts in Russian. “Fuck you―What the fuck did you say about him? Keep his fucking name out of your mouth!” 

The whistles and shouts around him grow louder, but Ilya doesn’t stop. Someone finally gets a good grip on his shoulder pads and yanks. When Ilya swings next, he’s too far away and getting further. It allows Kent a long enough moment to pull off his helmet and look at him. His face is bloodied and bruised, but he looks victorious. He grins and it’s bloodstained.

“Get your affairs in order, Rozanov,” Kent calls as Ilya is pulled further away. “They’ll all know soon enough!”

Ilya is benched for the remainder of the game. Toronto beats them. Coach shouts at him long enough after the game that the arena is empty when he finally walks out. He doesn’t bother going to the hotel. Instead, he calls a cab and goes straight to the airport. On the drive, he pulls out his phone for the first time since before the game and is unsurprised to find several missed calls and texts from Shane, amongst others.

Shane answers his returning call on the first ring.

“Ilya, what the hell―”

“Is it okay,” Ilya interrupts hesitantly, “if I come to Montreal? Tonight?” 

It takes Shane a moment to reply and Ilya starts to rethink his impulsive plan. Shane must have heard something in Ilya’s voice―despite Ilya’s attempts to hide it―because he softens immediately from the confused, overwhelmed way he had answered the phone.

“I―Yeah, baby,” he says gently. “Of course. You’re always welcome here.”

“Okay.” Ilya nods to himself and tries not to sniffle. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Shane says. “Just―Let me know what time your flight will arrive. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

Ilya does exactly that. He books the last flight out of Toronto and has to rush through security to make it. He texts Shane once he’s settled in his seat and an hour and a half later, he sees Shane waiting for him outside the airport terminal.

“Hey, are you―”

Ilya tips forward into Shane, and Shane doesn’t hesitate to hug him as tightly as Ilya had hoped he would. He doesn’t care that they’re standing in front of the airport. It’s midnight and there’s hardly anyone around. Besides, Ilya doesn’t think it will matter soon. Kent’s threat has grown clearer the more that Ilya has thought about it.

“Kent knows,” Ilya whispers into the crook of Shane’s neck. “He―Fuck, Shane. I’m so sorry. He knows.”

“Hey no,” Shane shushes him gently. “It’s okay, Ilya. Come on.” He kisses Ilya’s temple as he pulls back. “Let’s go home and you can tell me about the game.”

Ilya doesn’t want to, but he does. They curl up on the couch with Ilya tucked under Shane’s arm, half slumped in his lap. His hand hurts even with the ice on it and the painkillers that Shane gave him without question.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shane asks quietly. His fingers comb through Ilya’s hair.

“No,” Ilya admits, “but I should.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No,” Ilya says again. “This I do.”

He really doesn’t want to, but when he’s tucked under Shane’s arm like this, he feels safe. Brave. So he tells Shane what happened. He tells him about Kent’s odd energy and chirps throughout the night, and then what Kent said at the end of it. He doesn’t have to tell Shane what happened after that. It’s more than obvious that Shane knows how Ilya reacted. He probably would have even if he hadn’t watched the game for himself. 

“He insulted you,” Ilya says, “and I saw red. I hit him. Very hard. Many times.”

“So I saw,” Shane teases. He kisses the top of Ilya’s head. “It’ll be okay. Whatever he knows or doesn’t know―”

“He knows, Shane,” Ilya says firmly. “I am sure.”

Even if Kent’s comments were just an attempt to unsettle or rile him up, Ilya’s reaction had more than confirmed whatever suspicions Kent had. Ilya feels terrible about it.

“Well,” Shane says, and it sounds a little shaky, “then we’ll handle that when it comes, okay? Right now, it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Ilya lets out a deep, long breath, and sinks deeper into Shane’s warmth. He chooses to believe Shane’s right, and hopes like never before that his own suspicions are wrong.

---

Shane spends the next month and a half with a pit in his gut. Ilya’s fight with Dallas Kent lingers in the back of his mind even as he tells himself nothing is wrong. Kent isn’t the type of person to sit on blackmail like that, so when the All Stars game comes and goes with no problem, Shane chooses to believe they’re safe. Kent’s scowl lingers on each of them all weekend long, but he doesn’t approach or say anything. All in all, it goes well.

And then, in February, it stops going well.

On a Thursday morning before Montreal is set to play Toronto, another hockey headline hits the mainstream news. This one names Shane and Ilya. With it, there’s a video.

It’s from last season’s awards banquet. The video is dark and hard to make out any image, but the audio is devastatingly damning. Clearly it’s been edited because Shane knows he and Ilya are never that loud. Their voices are unmistakable and their names moaned in a way that leads to one single conclusion: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are sleeping together.

Shane finds out from a text notification on his way out the door. He doesn’t get further than grabbing his keys and pressing play with shaky hands.

“No.”

Shane’s phone hits the floor and he follows soon after. The video plays on a loop―a relentless sound in the back of Shane’s panicked brain. His fingers are numb and tingly and his chest pinches with what he knows is a panic attack. None of his usual tricks help to stop it.

He doesn’t know how long he sits on the floor and sobs, but it’s too long. His back hurts from being hunched over and his butt is sore, but there’s a pounding at his apartment door that won’t let up. He also doesn’t know how long that’s been going on.

“Shane!” It’s Hayden. “Shane, buddy, open up.”

He can’t move. Hayden has a spare key. He’ll remember that eventually. In the meantime, Shane tries to breathe and only manages to panic more when he realizes that he doesn’t know how. It’s how Hayden finds him: Curled in on himself on the floor, trying to gasp for air unsuccessfully.

“Hey, man, hey.” Hayden crouches in front of him. “You gotta breathe, buddy. Come on. Follow me.”

Shane tries. He really does. It doesn’t work. He wishes Hayden were Ilya, that it was blond curls on top of the head in front of him and a Russian accent murmuring reassurances. 

“Come on, Shane, just breathe.”

Hayden shakes him and it’s jarring. Shane stares at him with wide eyes, gasping in surprise, and it resets his lungs. Hayden just stares at him, his own breathing long and drawn out, until Shane finally has his under control.

“Are you okay?” Hayden asks, tentative. “I mean, I know you’re probably not but just, like, are you… Fuck, I don’t know what to do here, buddy.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, voice scratchy with tears.

“Man, don’t apologize,” Hayden exclaims. “This isn’t your fault. And I’m supposed to be helping you, not accepting apologies for this shit-show.”

“Shit-show?”

Hayden grimaces.

“Yeah, sorry, buddy,” he says softly. “It’s… It’s a bit of a mess out there.”

Shane’s breath catches again and Hayden rushes to reassure him.

“But it’s alright! You’re okay!” he says. “Your mom is already talking to your agent about it and I’m pretty sure she’s gonna sue, like, every channel that showed the video. She’s already got some investigator guy looking into it too. Probably.”

“You talked to my mom?” Shane should do that. She would probably be really reassuring about all of this right now. Would tell him how to fix it. That everything would be alright.

“Yeah, man.” Hayden nods. “She’s on her way. Should be here―” He checks his watch, “―in, like, thirty minutes. Depends on when Rozanov’s flight gets in, though, since she was planning on picking him up from the airport on her way.”

“Ilya’s coming?”

“Yeah, he―Jesus, man, what have you been doing the last three hours?” Hayden asks. “Tell me you haven’t been like this that whole time.”

Shane doesn’t tell him that. Instead, he shifts focus.

“Why are you here?” he asks. “We have a game.”

“Yeah, fuck that, actually,” Hayden scoffs. “Totally not important right now.”

“It is―”

The door flies open with a bang and both Hayden and Shane turn to see who it is.

Ilya stands in the doorway only for as long as is absolutely necessary. He looks like a wreck. His curls are frizzy and knotted and his shirt is on inside out. He’s in front of Shane in a breath, pulling him into a hug that Shane will never refuse.

“I came as soon as I saw,” Ilya says. “Are you okay?”

“Wasn’t Yuna picking you up from the airport?” Hayden asks. Shane can’t see the face Ilya makes, but he knows it probably isn’t nice because Hayden quickly follows it up with, “Actually, how about I just call her? I’ll give you a minute.”

“Shane? Love? How are you?” Ilya asks in gentle Russian.

“It’s everywhere,” Shane whispers. He knows Ilya knows. “It’s―God, everyone is gonna know now.”

“I know.” Ilya cups the back of his head, holding him like something precious. “How much have you seen?”

“Just the breaking news,” Shane admits. “I was on my way to the game when I got the notification and―Fuck, the game.”

“Is not important,” Ilya says firmly. “Theriault benched you anyway. I saw on flight news.”

It isn’t surprising, but it does make Shane choke back a pained cry. He knows how that video looks. It isn’t good. And Theriault has never been Shane’s biggest fan no matter how hard he tries. Honestly, he’s surprised Theriault hasn’t called him about it. Perhaps he has. Shane hasn’t looked at his phone since seeing the video.

“God,” Shane groans. “I’m so sorry.”

“Is not your fault, Shane,” Ilya says. “Do not say sorry. Just―Breathe with me, lyubimii.”

His mom arrives minutes later. She’s as much of a storm as Ilya had been, but she’s been busier than he has. David follows her quietly and rests a hand on Shane’s shoulder before going into the kitchen. Yuna, it seems, already has a plan. She also knows who leaked the video. Shane isn’t sure if he’s surprised to hear it was Kent.

“I’m sorry.” Ilya bursts into apologies at the news which is not what Shane had expected.

“What? Ilya, no.” Shane brushes tears off Ilya’s cheeks. “This isn’t your fault.”

“He told me,” Ilya reminds Shane. “Told me to get affairs in order. I didn’t know―”

Shane and Ilya spend the rest of the evening curled up as one mass on the couch. In the kitchen, Yuna talks to Farah and David cooks them dinner, and Hayden loiters awkwardly between the two rooms. He doesn’t stay the night like Shane’s parents do, but he waits to be sure that Shane is in good hands before he leaves. He never tells Shane if he also gets benched for missing that night’s game.

Two days later, Dallas Kent is arrested in Toronto. Shane doesn’t care all that much.

Kent deserves it. Not because of what he did to Shane and Ilya, but because of what he did to those women. Shane is glad he’s facing consequences even if it isn’t the sports news making the biggest headlines. That honor remains with Shane and Ilya not just for a couple of days, but for weeks. Even after Ilya has to return to Boston, the headline doesn’t disappear. Shane isn’t allowed to do press after any games and the locker room isn’t silent, but he wishes it was. Only Hayden will even look at him, and sometimes Shane wishes he wouldn’t.

He doesn’t tell Ilya. Or rather, he doesn’t tell him the whole truth. He tells him that the locker room is tense and the guys aren’t accepting. Eventually, he talks things out with JJ so he has him back, and Ilya seems glad for that much. When the Voyageurs play the Bears for the first time since the news dropped, though, things only get worse.

It becomes clear early on that Ilya must have told his team something about how Montreal has been treating Shane. It becomes equally clear that the Bears haven’t taken the news the same way.

Shane has known that the Bears have embraced Ilya. They don’t all understand it and some of them are less than excited for their captain, but Ilya hasn’t had to fight through practices with slurs hurled at him or aggressive checking. Whatever he’s told his team about how Montreal took the news, it makes for a dirty game.

The Bears check the Voyageurs into the boards more frequently than usual and more aggressively than necessary. Ilya leads the charge. He slams into Shane’s teammates with no remorse, tripping them where refs can’t see and hurling insults that Shane can’t hear but knows his teammates do. The Voyageurs take a beating during the entire first period, but Shane walks off without a bruise. 

His teammates notice.

“The fuck kind of deal you make with him, huh?” Comeau slams Shane against the away-team lockers with a sneer. “Do you get off on him getting his fellow cocksuckers to beat all of us up?”

“Hey, hey.” JJ pulls Comeau off of Shane and steps between them before Shane can get a word in. “Maybe do not beat up our capitaine, yeah? We need him to keep the score up.”

“Like hell if we can trust him against them,” Comeau says. He spits at Shane’s feet. “We better not lose to them,” Comeau threatens in French, “or it’ll be the last thing you do, whore.”

“Okay!” JJ interrupts sharply and shoves Comeau back. “Shut up, Comeau. Leave the chirping to the Bears.” 

Not everyone on the team speaks French; not well enough to have understood Comeau’s fast and slurred insults. They can understand the tone, though, and the locker room stays silent until they return to the game. The second period doesn’t go better, and neither does the third. The Voyageurs squeak out a win but only by one point. It doesn’t matter that Shane was the only one who scored all night. His teammates don’t talk to him.

It turns into a thing. The team―aside from JJ and Hayden―only talk to him when absolutely necessary. The video is no longer in the headlines but Shane still isn’t allowed to do press. At this point, he’s almost grateful for it.

“There are rumors that Montreal wants to trade you at the end of the season,” his mom tells him the night before playoffs start.

He isn’t surprised. It hurts―God, it hurts so bad. He’s built this team into what it is today and the second he isn’t exactly what they want, they’re willing to drop him.

“Where to?” Shane forces himself to ask.

“Rumors about Ottawa. Buffalo.”

The worst teams. It feels intentional; pointed. If they send Shane to one of the worst teams in the league, maybe his career will be over. He isn’t a threat to them on a team that’s never so much as considered for the playoffs. 

He tells Ilya the night after the first playoff game. Montreal wins. It’s relatively easy considering it’s a playoff game, but Shane will take what he can get. If this is his last chance at the Cup, he wants to lead the charge there. 

“Fuck them,” Ilya says sharply. “You are best player in the league. If they trade you, they will only make an enemy out of a new team.”

Shane doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t say so. The last half of this season has been exhausting. For the first time in his life, Shane doesn’t know if it’s worth it to keep playing. The locker room is terrible, practices are a nightmare, and there’s a chance that Shane gets shipped off somewhere forgettable as a ‘thank you’ for all he’s done for this team.

Playoffs continue. The Voyageurs become a favorite to make the finals. And then it all goes to shit again.

Shane is so tired. He’s tired of his teammates’ never-ending doubt and passive aggressive comments; tired of not being protected during brutal games; tired of carrying the team on his back when they can’t even bother to greet him when he shows up. 

They’re in overtime against Boston. Shane is struggling to just keep going and not trip over his own skates. There are some close calls―some closer than others―but he overall manages to stay upright and keep the puck under control when it matters. And then―

He trips.

There are seconds left in the game and Ilya has the puck. Shane is on the way to steal it―or, at the very least, knock Ilya’s shot wide―when his skate catches. He trips over his own feet and just barely misses a collision with the goal post. Ilya scores―winning the game for Boston―but he doesn’t celebrate. Instead, he gives Shane a worried look.

The Voyageurs are furious. He senses it on the bench and during the handshake despite JJ and Hyaden acting as a buffer for him. When they’re all back in the locker room, the accusations start flying.

Shane ignores them. He tells himself he does, anyway. He hears it all. The conversations between teammates about him, but not directed to him. The comments they shoot right at him with no shame. Shane breathes through it, lets Hayden fight this battle for him, and leaves the locker room without a word. He doesn’t say a word to any of them for the remainder of the season.

They’re fighting for the Cup and he really should be talking with his team about plays and starting lines, but Theriault seems as happy to see him as Comeau and some of the others do, so he simply stops trying. It’s easier in some ways; harder in others. 

The day after he wins the Cup for the Voyageurs―scoring all but one of the team’s goals―Theriault and team management call him to tell him that he’s being traded. They don’t tell him where to, but Farah has the information in the time it takes Shane to drive to Boston. 

“Ottawa,” he says when Ilya opens his door. “They’re trading me to Ottawa.”

“Fuck them,” Ilya says hotly. He pulls Shane inside and kisses him soundly before repeating, “Fuck them. You will fuck them.”

“Not exactly my goal there,” Shane hums teasingly, “but I’ll consider it.”

They don’t leave Ilya’s house for the entire weekend and then, it’s only to drive up to the cottage for the summer.

“Ottawa will not be so bad,” Ilya says one evening. “Is nice here.”

“The team is terrible,” Shane reminds him. Ilya shrugs.

“Now, yes,” he says, “but you will change it. Will turn it into second best team in division. And when my contract is done, I will join and we will make it first best team.”

“Yeah?” Shane grins. “You’d leave Boston for me?”

“Of course.” Ilya looks entirely serious. “I would do anything for you.”

There is still one year on Ilya’s contract. One more season of playing against each other. Ottawa is further from Boston than Montreal, but not if they fly. It’s worth it, Shane thinks, even if it means one year of building up another team from the ground. It will always be worth it for the boy he met behind an arena in Regina; for the boy who changed his life.