Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Accidental Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hockey Injuries, Hockey, Montreal Voyageurs (Game Changers), Fix-It, no beta we die like Shane Hollander in that one game against boston, Canon - Game Changers Series & Heated Rivalry (TV) Combination, mental health content warning, fluff as a treat, miscommunication like you've never seen before, Yearning, Pining, content warning: hockey, probably out of character OH WELL

Language:

English

Collections:

Relationship Reveal HR, My favs to reread someday, Subscriptions:Tracking, :)Absolute Best, the peanut butter to my jelly, hollanov faves, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*, Ink's Top Tier Fic List, greenlight, No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in, Finished golden ones, I need sunshine ☀️🏒 ~ Heated Rivalry (Game Changers) fics, HR, read_Hollanov_works, The Puck Crew 🏒🥪🐈‍⬛🏳️‍🌈 Mal's Favorite Heated Rivalry Fics, My Top Tier Hollanov Fics

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Completed: 2026-01-24 Words: 109,668 Chapters: 17/17

With or Without You

Summary

“Is it your wedding day?”
Shane sputters. “Sorry?”
“The tuxedo,” she points out. “You look like you just got married.”
“Oh,” Shane says dumbly, glancing down at his rumpled suit. “No,” he adds.
-
Or the one where that one night in Vegas gets a little out of hand for Ilya and Shane and a marriage by accident could turn into one of convenience. And maybe, something more.

Chapter 1: Your Photos Are In!

Chapter Notes

June 2011

It was becoming incredibly difficult to continue lying about how good it felt to have won Rookie of the Year after maybe the seventh congratulations from someone Shane didn’t know. The little glass trophy is being safely guarded by Shane’s mother who has a hand lazily placed over the base while she continues talking with the player who’d won this year’s star goaltending award. Shane’s dad is in the seat beside her, letting the two talk each other’s ears off with a pleasant little smile.

Shane approaches them, winding through the building crowd while he receives pats on the back and even more congratulations from various players, staff, and other guests he still doesn’t recognize. Shane takes it all in stride, though he lets his eyes flick around the room once before abruptly dropping them to the floor when he realizes he’s looking for someone in particular. Someone he hasn’t seen all night despite being up for the same award. 

“Shane, honey!” His mom greets him when he reaches their table. “We were just going to come find you to say we were heading out. It’s getting a bit late for us.”

Truth be told, Shane was starting to feel overwhelmed by the night too. It was already close to midnight at this point, but a single glance at the award guests showed that the night had no plans of ending anytime soon. Shane has the urge to tap out with them, call it a night, and fall asleep with his award on the hotel bedside table, but instead, he finds himself nodding along, silently unable to express what he really wants as the goaltender shakes his hand.

“Great season, man,” he says. “Was just telling your folks about how much I’m going to look forward to smoking Montreal again next year.”

A rumble of laughter spreads around him. Shane can offer nothing more than a small smile. He shrugs and counters, “I’m going to assume my mom told you that next year is actually our year. The team was looking good near the end of the season. I have high hopes.”

The other player smiles like he remembers that feeling of being young in your career and full of so many aspirations that couldn’t rush at you fast enough. Still, he shifts his expression into a serious nod before saying, “I’ll look forward to witnessing it. See you next season, Hollander.”

The words brush the edge of Shane’s memory momentarily. He tries to hold onto his smile as the goaltender pats his shoulder and wishes Shane’s parents goodnight. But his thoughts drift elsewhere, and he finds himself looking around again for a different player. 

“All right,” Shane’s dad groans. “I think we are officially calling it. Early flight tomorrow.” He waves a hand around as they gather their things. 

“Are you planning on sticking around?” His mom asks. 

“Um,” Shane’s words falter. That urge to go to bed pulls at him again, but the hesitation is used against him as his parents dismiss his indecisiveness as awkward admittance of their barely adult son wanting to spend time with his colleagues and their friends Shane has never met. 

“Go have fun, sweetie,” Yuna kisses his forehead with his father pulling him into a hug immediately after. 

“We’re so proud of you,” Shane hears as they pull away. He lets them take the award with them, knowing it’ll probably be safer in their hands than his. It’ll end up back in his possession eventually. Shane is still trying to figure out how to decorate his Montreal apartment he’s had for a year that continues to feel like a furniture show room half the time, but he’s on the road so often that he can’t bring himself to commit to actually decorating it. 

Shane watches his parents leave and suddenly finds himself alone in a crowded room. He awkwardly grasps the stem of his mom’s wine glass before impulsively downing it. Shane decides then and there that he’ll stick around for another minute at most before slipping away and back to his hotel room. 

The reminder of a hotel room jogs something else in his head. Shane pulls out his phone, going immediately to his messages. 

His last message remains unanswered from four months prior.

Jane: Next time, I guess?

Shane sighs, pocketing his phone almost angrily. 

“Uh oh, figured you’d be happier after tonight’s results.”

Shane looks up to see Scott Hunter approaching him with a nervous smile like he’s unsure whether this was a good idea after he noticed Shane’s demeanor. “Mr. Hunter,” Shane says lamely, offering a hand. “Hi.”

To his credit, Scott manages to shift that smile into something more casual and gives Shane’s hand a firm shark. “Mr. Hunter,” he echoes with a chuckle at the formalities. “You age me, Hollander.”

“Sorry,” Shane adds, trying to sound genuine. Scott Hunter was really only a few years older than Shane, but his experience in the league shows every now and then. New York had a rough season, but Shane suspects Hunter still has the same drive as most of the rookies. Like Shane, they’d all be hunting for a chance at the cup once more. The pursuit was endless.

“Don’t be,” Scott reassures him. He leans against the table Shane was haunting. Shane feels himself relax slightly. Scott Hunter was known to be an upstanding guy. He’d heard nothing but good things about the rather private but generally nice captain. He wasn’t known to chirp at other players. His game was clean and efficient. Shane respects him. 

And even standing directly across from him now without the jerseys, without gear, Shane had to admit he was quite handsome. 

“As a congratulations,” Scott continues at Shane’s awkward silence, “how would you feel about gathering up the rest of the three rooks to come take shots with us old fucks.”

Shane smirks and says, “Not sure I’m allowed to drink here.”

“We’ll keep it under the table,” Scott assures. 

Shane thinks about the overly large hotel room bed waiting for him. Of the unread text and the annoyance starting to scratch under his skin. Shane shakes his head slightly. He wants to go to sleep. But he needs to get his mind off of that. 

“Sure,” Shane finds himself agreeing. It’s not like he could say no to Scott Hunter. It’s Scott Hunter. 

“Excellent,” Scott smiles. He waves over a few other players and keeps looking around as Shane leans further on the table between them. “Speaking of the rooks, where’s your boy Rozanov?”

Shane nearly falls over as he abruptly straightens. Very smooth, Shane. “My what?” he stutters.

Scott glances at him warily before immediately breaking into a shaky laugh. “No, I mean, not your boy. Sorry. It’s just you guys are always paired together. Hollander and Rozanov. Rozanov and Hollander. That sort of thing. Figured you would have run into him at least once tonight.”

“I actually haven’t seen him,” Shane interrupts Scott’s rambling. “We’re, um, not exactly friends or anything.”

Scott studies him for a second too long. Shane’s suit is starting to feel too tight. “No worries, man,” Scott says, breaking the awkward tension with a punctuated laugh. “I’m sure someone else grabbed him. That just means more for us.”
Even though the idea of someone else grabbing Rozanov makes Shane’s jaw twitch, he forces himself to relax and pretend he’s having fun. This only leads to him standing in a line with Scott Hunter and the ‘old fucks’ before they all simultaneously down a shot. The other players hoot and a few slap their hands on the table, asking for another round. The bartender doesn’t even question Shane’s age, switching his empty shot glass out for another without hesitation. The shot is already going to his head considering Shane doesn’t find himself drinking often if ever. But he gets caught up in the moment and perhaps the occasional glance Scott Hunter keeps shooting his way and takes another. And another.

Shane blinks hard and tries to clear his throat, only effectively coughing after the fourth. He receives a firm clap on the back alongside some more cheering, and Shane suddenly feels slightly unsteady on his feet. 

After barely managing to clear his throat, he blinks up hazily at Scott Hunter and jabs a thumb in the opposite direction. “I’m gonna go get some air. Thanks for the drinks though.”

Scott gives him that warm smile that makes Shane’s insides feel funny before he nods. “Sure thing rookie of the year. Congrats again!”

Shane smiles sheepishly and manages to slip away as another round of drinks are ordered. The air conditioning that greets him the moment he escapes the stuffy room feels like heaven. Shane tilts his head up, sleepily closing his eyes and breathing a little easier as he wanders down a sparsely occupied hallway. He continues down the hallway, loosening his bowtie along the way. 

His skin feels sweaty as he rubs a hand down his face when he finally locates the elevators. The hotel he’s staying at is across the street but Shane had heard rumors of this building having one of the best rooftop views of the city. This was his first time actually exploring other parts of Las Vegas outside of playing here. He figures he should at least try and step out of his comfort zone one last night with the alcohol loosening his wariness that normally inhibits him from being impulsive. 

As he waits for the elevator to arrive, Shane paces a bit and pulls out his phone again. 

It unlocks and is still open to his messages. Shane frowns at the text again and admonishes himself for getting upset in the first place. 

Willing thoughts of Rozanov out of his mind, Shane slips into the elevator and pushes the button for the top floor. He leans back against the wall, eyes closed and head pressed into the cool steel as his mind swims with the elevator shooting up, up, up. The elevator stops with a sharp ding sooner than Shane thought it would, and he cracks his eyes open only to find the doors were just opening for another floor. A group of definitely drunk girls shuffle in, carrying their giggles and hushed conversation with them. 

Shane presses further into the back of the elevator, giving them an awkward smile when he makes eye contact with one of them. “Oh my god,” she gasps. Shane braces for her to say something about him being a somewhat famous hockey player. He won’t say no to a selfie but he still feels out of sorts from the night. But then the girl leans closer and says, “Is it your wedding day?”

Shane sputters. “Sorry?”

“The tuxedo,” she points out. “You look like you just got married.”

“Oh,” Shane says dumbly, glancing down at his rumpled suit. “No,” he adds.

One of the other girls clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Stop bothering him Stacy. He’s not even wearing a ring,” she chastises but this only causes the other girls to dissolve into more drunken giggles. 

“Are you going to the bar on the roof then?” The first girl asks. 

Shane realizes she’s stepped rather close now. His back is still pressed to the back of the elevator and that means he can’t sink further away. “There’s a bar on the roof?” He repeats, sounding terribly shy in his own ears. 

The girl smiles wide at him. “You’re cute. Do you know that?”

“Of course he does,” a different girl snaps, but then she puts her stare onto Shane and tilts her head almost consideringly. Her eyes rake from his head to his toes and back again before she suddenly says, “You should come to the bar with us.”

Shane glances at the ticking floor numbers. How fucking long was this elevator ride?

“I can’t,” he manages to stammer out. “Sorry.”

One of the girls pouts just before the elevator finally dings. “Well, if you change your mind, come find us,” she says with a wink before the lot of them are slinking out of the elevator, leaving Shane a little breathless. 

He swallows hard and slowly steps out before the doors can close again. The air isn’t as cool out here with the mid-summer heat of Vegas pushing against the brush of air conditioning Shane starts to miss. Still, he continues forward, moving away from the chatter of the rooftop bar that did happen to exist. There’s a balcony that Shane decides he’ll take a glance at and then at last, call it a night. He rounds a corner, eyes lifting expectantly until he feels his breath catch. 

The skyline lights up against the blackened night, wiping out the stars overhead. But Shane can’t really focus on the view as the city glitters below and silhouetted against it is Rozanov. 

Shane pauses briefly, eyes outlining the sharp lines of Rozanov’s shoulders and the wisps of his carefully styled hair. He leans heavily on the balcony’s railing and blows out a long trail of smoke, body almost slumping forward with the motion. 

Not exactly realizing when he had started walking forward again, Shane finds himself getting closer with Rozanov never turning back to look at him until Shane says, “I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over.”

Rozanov doesn’t flinch, just stills in a way that feels tense until he slowly lowers the cigarette from his mouth. He angles his head toward Shane who goes to stand beside him, taking his eyes away from the other player after acknowledging him to look out over the city. The view is rather beautiful. There’s a sort of magical quality about it with the lights, the glamor, and the trails of people as small as ants teetering through the streets below. 

“Party done already?” Rozanov asks lowly. 

Shane smirks at the night sky. “No,” he murmurs. “I just needed some air.” He gestures to the open skyline before them, leaning even further on the railing. His eyes glance down once before immediately shooting back up. They were really high up. 

In his periphery, Shane can tell Rozanov is still looking at him. “You are drunk,” he says as if it were a fact. 

Shane’s face wrinkles. “I’m not,” he huffs out. 

He finally looks back at Rozanov to find the other man biting back a smile. “Good for you. Big night, so I suppose you deserve it,” Rozanov mutters before taking another drag of his cigarette. Shane didn’t understand how he could smoke and still be one of the fastest skaters the league had. Part of that infuriated him in a way; Rozanov’s nonchalance that somehow kept him at an elite level. 

“You could have also won,” Shane grumbles. 

Rozanov blows smoke out slowly. “But I didn’t.”

He flexes his jaw and turns back to the skyline and Shane feels his irritation flare. The unanswered text sits heavily in his pocket. “So what?” He snaps. “You lose one award and you’re now going to sulk for the rest of the night because you couldn’t do another victory lap around me?”

Rozanov glances once at Shane and starts shaking his head, muttering something under his breath Shane couldn’t understand. It might have been in Russian. 

“What was that?” Shane seethes, stepping closer. 

Rozanov wheels on him. “Not everything is about you!” He shouts. Shane immediately takes that step back. 

The warm air of the night suddenly feels cooler and Shane bites down hard on the inside of his cheek before quietly asking, “What is it about then?”

Rozanov scoffs loudly and rubs at the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I am not drunk enough to deal with you right now Hollander. What do you want?”

“I came up here to get some air,” Shane repeats just as quietly. 

Rozanov’s cheeks hollow as he sucks hard on his cigarette again almost angrily. “Here you have it,” he huffs, gesturing out to the skyline. “There is even a good bar back there that you should take advantage of if it will get you to leave me alone.”

Shane’s brain is having a hard time catching up at the moment as he continues to carefully watch Rozanov angrily smoke and grumble beside him. His whole body is tense and he keeps flexing his free hand and relaxing it like he’s trying to swallow up the remainder of his anger before lashing out against Shane again. He blames the distraction of his quiet observations on why he pathetically mentions, “We can’t drink here.”

Rozanov cuts him a glare. “You certainly have not been following that rule,” he points out. 

“A couple of the vets offered,” Shane explains, his throat feeling dry.

Rozanov hums. “And you have cut yourself off now. Why? Scared you will continue to relax for once in your life and realize you might enjoy it?”

Shane doesn’t know when he came to understand their easy shifts in conversation. This feels more like them. The banter has left the pent up anxiety of less charted territory and returned to their familiar arguing. Shane feels himself relaxing slightly, almost waiting for Rozanov to call him boring. “No,” he says flatly. “It’s illegal for anyone under the age of twenty-one to drink in the states you moron. I had a few with the vets, but I can’t get publicly wasted.”

Rozanov chuckles. “They did not tell me this when I managed to get several drinks before coming up here to what did you call it? Sulk?”

“I think the open bar is for all of the players,” Shane huffs. His head still feels a bit light like he’s swimming, making his thoughts muddled when he needs them to be far sharper whenever he’s interacting with Rozanov. “I don’t think they’re checking IDs.”

“Loophole,” Rozanov assesses. 

“Something like that, yeah,” Shane agrees. He turns back toward the city and sighs. The brief fight in him has suddenly dissipated. The railing digs harder into his forearms, the chilled metal cutting through his suit. 

Silence permeates the air for what feels like forever until Rozanov says, “You need another drink, Hollander.”

Shane blinks and turns to him. “No,” he argues. “I should get back to my hotel room.”

Rozanov dangles his cigarette from his mouth and looks at Shane carefully. “Want a guest?”

He asks it so casually, but Shane swears he can feel his heart still in his chest. “Jesus Christ,” he snaps. “Keep your fucking voice down.”

He looks around the open balcony as if expecting the entirety of the league to be watching this, ready to point and laugh. Rozanov merely smirks. 

“Or what?” He drawls. 

Shane’s eyes snap back to him. “Rozanov,” he warns as the other man takes a languid step toward him. “Knock it off.”

Rozanov tilts his head slightly like he’s enjoying making Shane uncomfortable. Like it’s his favorite thing in the world. “Make me,” he says. 

Shane reaches out and stops him with a hand on his chest. He’s breathing heavily despite not having done anything, but Rozanov glancing down to his hand and drawing his eyes back up makes his lungs feel desperate for oxygen. “Not here,” Shane says weakly. “There are…”

He swallows hard. “Anyone can see us,” he finally manages.

Rozanov still has a lopsided smirk. “You think too much about yourself,” he says, leaning the upper half of his body closer to Shane who keeps his hand pressed against Rozanov’s abdomen. “You win one award and it has immediately gone to your head.”

Shane frowns. “You’re just jealous.”

Rozanov keeps leaning forward. Shane is practically fisting his dress shirt now. “I am a lot of things, but jealous? No,” Rozanov hums.

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane all but whispers. 

That smirk widens. “So I’ve heard. Why did you really come up here? Were you looking for me?”

Rozanov’s voice has dipped into a steady whisper so his words seem like they’re just for Shane. He feels entirely captured in the bubble they’ve created, unable to focus on anything else but the lack of distance between them right now. 

“No,” Shane breathes out. “I just wanted some air.”

“Of course,” Rozanov draws out. And then he dashes his cigarette aside and lifts his hand to press Shane back. And Shane, who is still holding onto the front of Rozanov’s suit, stumbles with him. “Couldn’t get enough could you?” Rozanov whispers into Shane’s ear. 

The breath tickles against his skin, and Shane practically feels his eyes roll back into his head. “Rozanov…” He starts, unable to finish a single coherent thought right now. 

Lips brush over the corner of his jaw, and Shane can tell Rozanov is smiling. “You know,” he continues to whisper while Shane’s breath gets thin. “I have been thinking about what I might have missed out on when that storm kept us from being in the same city.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. Boston was supposed to play in Montreal, and Shane’s nerves had been a wreck for all the wrong reasons. That night they were supposed to finally go all the way, but a stupid snowstorm had other plans. 

“You’ve been thinking about that?” Shane whispers like he can’t imagine Rozanov even giving him the time of day in his own head. 

“I am thinking about it now,” Rozanov mutters, pressing even closer to Shane and slotting a thigh between his willing legs. Shane doubles forward, leaning hard into Rozanov’s temple as he’s held steady. He swallows, finding his mouth incredibly dry. 

“I’m…” He takes a breath. “I was also thinking about it.”

Rozanov’s chuckle vibrates against Shane’s hand. “I know you so well,” he whispers. “Which is why we should get wasted tonight.”

Suddenly the warmth was gone, leaving Shane to nearly trip forward as Rozanov takes a step back, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. “What?” Shane gasps. 

Rozanov shrugs. “Not because I need to loosen you up for sex, Hollander. Do not look so scared. We can do that without alcohol just fine, but you look like you’re about a minute away from a crisis and I will take your word on jumping if you start to panic.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Shane snaps as he tries to adjust his suit, particularly his pants. “And I’m not drinking anymore tonight.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “You already broke American law once. What is once more for mr boring rule follower?”

“Hey,” Shane starts to seethe, “it could be serious if we were caught. Athletes fucking destroy their careers all the time with that shit.”

“I am not most athletes,” Rozanov says, entirely serious. “Neither are you.”

Shane stands across from him with his arms limp at his sides. His blood still feels like it’s boiling and now his suit definitely feels like it’s suffocating him. The gentle sway of the shots he’d consumed earlier was entirely gone now, leaving Shane to face Ilya Rozanov and try to make a decision as his head and his body fought on different sides. 

His mouth moves unwillingly. “This is a bad idea.”

Rozanov grins. “Ha, I have heard that before,” he says with a pointed finger at Shane. “I will leave with or without you, Hollander. Make a decision. Do you not want to go and celebrate that stupid award you won tonight?”

“I have been celebrating,” Shane says weakly.

“Clearly you did a shit job if you decided to end your night by yelling at me. Come on, I have an afternoon flight home tomorrow and need to be unconscious on it,” Rozanov urges.

But despite his claims of not needing Shane to accompany him, Rozanov’s feet remain planted. And though Shane wants to point this out, he instead focuses on the little bits of information Rozanov sometimes gives away. “One, flying hungover sounds fucking terrible. Two, are you headed back to Boston?”

Rozanov’s amusement fades suddenly. “No,” he says shortly. “Russia. It is long flight. Should be enough time to get over small hangover.”

Shane finally decides to call his bluff. “I don’t understand why you can’t just go make yourself sick alone. You don’t need me there.”

“True,” Rozanov says with a shrug. “But I think I would enjoy myself more trying to see how far I can push you tonight. It reminds me of our usual arrangements.”

“Like hell it does,” Shane scoffs, but he can feel heat crawling up his neck. Rozanov’s eyes are dark and haven’t left him, and Shane knows that if he pushes a little further, Rozanov will have Shane as pliable as he likes. Still, Shane’s not about to let him have it easy.

“We don’t even hang out publicly outside of games. Getting drinks together isn’t exactly our usual M.O.,” he says.

“Would you prefer it that way?” Rozanov asks. “A scenario where I wine and dine you before I take you in your bedroom.”

Shane abruptly turns away and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

“You are too easy, Hollander,” Rozanov says while laughing. 

“You just can’t say things like that here,” Shane says but now he’s the one shouting, making a scene. He really hopes the rooftop’s bar music is drowning them out. 

Rozanov saunters forward again and as if reading Shane’s thoughts, says, “No one can hear us up here, and if they do, they will probably assume I am messing with you. That is also sort of our whole…” He waves a hand around, “thing.”

Shane breathes out a short laugh though the description Rozanov gives pains him. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he mutters. He still feels tense with worry about someone walking in on them doing… Well, nothing exactly. Nothing but talking. Shane reminds himself to relax and feels his shoulders slump down a bit. That tension doesn’t have a chance to entirely escape because Rozanov doesn’t know when to shut up.

“What would you do without me, Hollander?” He muses.

Shane frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“Say I leave for Russia and never return,” Rozanov says and Shane feels his stomach drop.

“You wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

Rozanov shrugs, face relaxed as if this option wasn’t entirely off the table. “Money and career is nice, but say I get tired of it and there is nothing left for me here?”

“What about me?” Shane hears himself ask. 

The corners of Rozanov’s mouth twitch. “What about you, Hollander?”

Embarrassment creeps across Shane’s face. He clicks his teeth and says, “Forget it.”

“No, no,” Rozanov steps forward again, using his hand to grab at Shane’s chin, forcing his attention back on him. And then steadily, he says, “Use your words.”

Shane is lost momentarily in the intensity of Rozanov’s stare, but he finds the words slowly and spells out the obvious to the man he’s been associated with since they first met. “My career is tied to yours. Has been since we first started, and now I just…I don’t know. That’s important,” Shane says. It’s partially why their secret getting out freaks him out so much. If the hockey world knew, Shane’s career would be over as would Rozanov’s. There were larger implications of what it would mean to be discovered, but Shane already has difficulty imagining who he’d be without hockey with that alone terrifies him enough to not even think of the rest. 

“You’re also important to me,” Shane begins to say. He watches Rozanov’s expression carefully. “In other ways.”

“So you care for me,” Rozanov says flatly, jaw tensing slightly.

Shane feels himself smirk. “Your ego doesn’t need the boost.”

Rozanov drops his hand and Shane already misses the touch. “My ego could use another drink,” he hears Rozanov mutter before he adds, “Tell me, Hollandar. What is there to do in this garish place? I hear they call it the city of sin. That means it should be fun.”

Shane nods. “That’s what they say, yeah.” 

He doesn’t bother correcting Rozanov on the name. Not that he really has time to as Rozanov pulls out another cigarette and waves Shane forward. “Come on. No more arguing. We go out. Maybe by the end of the night you will hate me less.”

Shane starts to follow. “I don’t hate you.”

Rozanov glances at him over his shoulder. “Hm, then maybe by morning you will.”

This is how Shane finds himself first at the rooftop bar with a glass of something sweet pressed into his hand. The girls from the elevator are still there and they wave to him before becoming a bit shy around Rozanov who smiles lazily back. Shane distracts himself by downing the first drink, wincing and coughing when the burn of whatever alcohol it had in it hits the back of his throat. Rozanov is already waving down the bartender again. 

Shane doesn't know how long they stay there. The world becomes fuzzy again, and Shane can’t even be bothered by the loud clanging and packed crowds of the casino. 

When did they get to a casino?

He’s handed another glass with a little umbrella by Rozanov who encourages him to keep up as they loiter by a blackjack table. Rozanov asks Shane how to play, and Shane who has zero knowledge of how to play dutifully explains made up rules to him. 

The outside air hits them again, and Shane realizes how light he feels. He even hears himself laugh at something Rozanov says as they stumble through stores and the occasional building with it all becoming one giant scene that continues to get muddled in Shane’s head. Rozanov keeps managing to find them drinks and no one asks. In fact, Shane is pretty sure no one is really paying them much mind and that’s rather nice. This could be because of the sunglasses and hat that Shane has somehow acquired. He thinks the hat says ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, and he feels pretty determined to hold true to that because after tonight, he will never allow himself to have fun like this with Rozanov again. It’s a brief and fleeting promise in his head that dissipates when he realizes Rozanov has also acquired sunglasses and a hat; only his hat is bright pink and has Las Vegas bedazzled across it. He looks ridiculous in it.

Shane finds himself laughing again. 

The night carries on and Shane’s reservations have all but vanished probably three drinks ago. Tomorrow is going to be a hellscape. He knows that, but he lets himself enjoy the freedom of brushing up alongside Rozanov without a care in the world. To everyone around them, they’re just two drunken idiots enjoying their night like the rest of the city. That peace carries them further as they explore what feels like all of Las Vegas. 

Shane feels like he’s never been in a place with so much to do even though that’s probably not true. But Rozanov doesn’t slow down once even as the night becomes less and less coherent. 

They had to have stopped at some point though. Shane has no clue when that happened, but he’s abruptly broken out of the wisps of memories of it all by the blaring of an alarm sounding from somewhere. 

He groans and palms blindly at the nightstand beside him, hitting what he hopes is his phone to get it to shut up. The alarm eventually subsides and he settles further into the hotel pillows that are scratchy against his skin, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

His head starts to pound as he gains awareness, and his body feels like it’s been put through the fucking ringer. He pulls the pillow over his head and presses down hard like that will stop him from feeling like he’s on the verge of throwing up or passing out or possibly both. Shane feels sticky and terrible, and opening his eyes is a herculean task that he thinks deserves some sort of acknowledgement for.

“You’re awake.”

Well not from him.

Shane bolts upright and the room tilts. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop his vision from spinning and blows out a long breath that tastes like the remnants of last night. Oh he is definitely going to be sick later. 

A soft chuckle sounds out from beside him. 

Shane slowly cracks his eyes open again to find Rozanov putting his suit jacket back on. “Rough night, Hollander?”

Shane glares at him. “This is your fault,” he complains, rubbing at his face. When he pulls his hands away, he looks down and realizes he’s still fully dressed in his suit from the prior night. Another look at Rozanov and aside from the messy hair and circles under his eyes, he seems to have been fully dressed too.

“We didn’t…”

For some reason Shane can’t finish the sentence. Rozanov goes still however, before very seriously saying, “No. We did not. I would not do that in the state we were both in. When we have our first time, you will be present, Hollander. It is group activity.”

Shane nods at that, relaxing a little bit, but then he realizes that means they ended up falling asleep together. Or passing out. Still, they don’t exactly do mornings together. 

Rozanov must feel the awkwardness of it as well as he clears his throat and says, “I have to get back to my room. You should as well.”

Shane looks at him. “This isn’t my room?”

Rozanov smirks in return. He pulls on a pair of sunglasses and tucks an awfully pink hat under his arm and says, “You have a long day ahead of you, Hollander.”

And then he goes to leave. Shane watches from the bed, struggling to catch up. He’s never felt this sluggish or out of it in his life. Still, he feels his heart uptick slightly when Rozanov stops at the door and looks over his shoulder back at him. “See you next season.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Shane remains sitting upright, fully clothed—even his shoes are still on, which is just embarrassing—trying to process everything. He went out last night. With Ilya Rozanov. He also apparently went to sleep beside Ilya Rozanov. There is a significant gap in his memory of last night that sort of freaks him out, but Shane is interrupted from concentrating on it too much by the buzzing of his phone. He turns back to the nightstand with the movement nearly being the thing to make him hurl.

The brightness of his phone screen doesn’t help either, but he only notices that it’s a text from his mom. His parents were in line to board their flight home and she was wondering if he was up and out yet. 

Normally, Shane would have been up hours ago. The time on his phone tells him it’s nearly noon and yet, he feels fucking exhausted. He manages to shakily type back a short response saying he slept in, but he’s heading out to the airport now. His mom responds back quickly, wishing him a safe flight. They’d see each other in about a week anyway with Shane heading back to Ottawa after wrapping up a few things in Montreal. Then they’d head to their family cottage where Shane could check on the additional cottage he’d already started building across the lake his parents’ cottage backs up on. The idea of lounging around the lake sounded heavenly right now. 

A shower also sounded nice.

That is what ends up being his motivation to crawl out of the hotel bed. He’d have to sort out why he and Rozanov woke up in a room that was neither of theirs. In fact, it was five floors above his actual room which was untouched since he’d left for the award ceremony. 

Shane makes slow work of stripping his suit and trying to wash away the remnants of the prior night. The water helps a little bit and he manages not to vomit, but his head is still pounding and all his thoughts feel like they’re dripping in too slowly. 

After the shower leaves him feeling minorly better, Shane collapses on the perfectly made hotel bed and groans. He needs a gatorade or something. Several Advil as well. All of that was probably in the hotel lobby, which Shane should really be heading to given he needed to realistically be at the airport in a little over an hour. The thought of sitting in the back of a cab to get there brings a new wave of nausea, however, so he decides he can waste a little bit more time. 

He manages to pull on a sweatshirt and sweats. He repacks his suitcase, tucking the sunglasses and hat from the night beneath the rest of his clothes, unsure why he feels so awkward keeping them at all. He’s slowly doing the laces to his sneakers while trying not to fall off the edge of his bed when his phone buzzes again. 

Shane finishes off the tie before slowly sitting upright again. He grabs his phone and squints down at the screen. He expects another text from his mom or dad about getting to places on time or maybe even a few congratulatory texts that were still trailing in from last night. But the message is neither of these things. Instead, it’s an email from an unknown sender. 

Frowning, Shane clicks on it, letting it load slowly. 

Your photos are in!

Photos? He doesn’t remember taking any photos last night. He could probably check his phone but these are coming from somewhere else. Shane checks the email address again and then his world sort of stops.

Chapter End Notes

I have fallen victim to the hockey show and spent the last few days writing a fake marriage au. SUE ME.
There are a few additional chapters written but updates will probably be sporadic. There is an ending. It will get written. I'm going to hold myself to it.

Chapter 2: No One Will Know

Chapter Notes

everyone has been so kind about the first chapter so here is the second!!
are these accurate divorce laws? no. it's called we pretend these laws exist to keep the plot together. and by god these convenient plot points WILL return.
hope you all enjoy!

Rozanov picks up the fifth time Shane calls him. 

“What?” He says sternly. There’s commotion in the back, and Shane suddenly remembers that Rozanov is probably already at the airport. Fuck.

“Do you remember what we did last night?” Shane asks immediately, skipping any pleasantries or awkward small talk over the fact that this is the first time they’ve ever called one another. 

Rozanov audibly sighs on the other end. “We drank. You showed me the supposedly tourist spots of Vegas, though I am sure you missed many fun places because you are you. Then we returned to the hotel but you insisted on buying a different room for us to sleep in. We did nothing more there except sleep as I told you.”

Shane paces his actual hotel room, running a shaky hand through his hair. The tourist spots. Fucking hell, what was he thinking?

Taking Shane’s silence as annoyance, Rozanov speaks again. “I am sure the room was probably expensive. Is that why you sound so upset? Could you not afford the room? I will say, Hollander, I did not expect to have to offer you help so soon, but we can come to an agreement–”

“Shut up,” Shane interrupts. “What do you remember about the tourist spots?”

Rozanov is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, he does so slowly like he’s realizing Shane is actively panicking about something. “What is this about?”

Shane lets out an exacerbated breath. “I just got an email from a place called the Little White Chapel.”

“And this is concerning because?” Rozanov presses.

Shane almost throws his phone in frustration. “Rozanov, do you know the one thing people can do in Vegas that’s sort of like a fucking joke except it’s not really?”

“Hollander, you are speaking all out of sorts. Is making it hard to understand. Just spit it out.”

“The Little White Chapel is a 24 hour place where people can get married on the spot,” Shane rushes out. “I got an email from them saying I had pictures ready, which doesn’t make sense because I sure as hell am not married nor would I get married here, but the photos are there, Rozanov. It’s you and I getting married.”

Shane’s heart is beating erratically out of his chest as the words tumble out. Saying them out loud makes it all real. As real as the damning photos on his phone of him and Rozanov kissing at a fucking altar. Elvis was also there which just added to the absolute absurdity of everything. He doesn’t realize he’s slid to the floor with his phone clutched tightly to his ear until he hears Rozanov honest to God laughing.

“This isn’t funny!” Shane shouts. 

“Is a little funny,” Rozanov counters, still chuckling. 

“It isn’t,” Shane snaps again. “We have to fix this. I looked it up and we have to get it annulled here because it has to be in the same state you get married in. They have an office right by the chapel. You just have to be there.”

“Ah, small problem,” Rozanov cuts in. “I am about to board my flight.”

Shane wishes the building would collapse and just take him. “Fuck,” he breathes out. And then again only louder. “Fuck! This is really bad. Like really bad.”

“I don’t think it is so bad,” Rozanov suggests. 

Shane debates on if he can make it to the airport in time to strangle Rozanov before he gets on his plane. “Rozanov, if any of these photos get out or if anyone saw us last night and goes to press, then that’s it. It will be over for our careers. You know this as well as I do that getting impulsively married to your rival will not go over well in the league. We’ll be fucking laughed at and who knows what else. Do you even remember doing this?” 

It feels a bit accusatory to blame this all on Rozanov considering Shane was also present for his own apparent wedding, but he figured Rozanov was better at holding his drink and would know not to get fucking married in Vegas. “Everything is a bit out of order,” Rozanov admits almost sheepishly. “I only remember a casino and then dragging you back to hotel because I thought you were going to collapse in street and sleep there. Though I think it would have been funny for you to wake up on a street bench, I was struck with sympathy and got you to a bed.”

“That I fucking paid for,” Shane huffs. 

“I cannot always be perfect,” Rozanov says nonchalantly. 

“So what now?” Shane asks, voice breaking slightly. “We just forget it happened? What if there’s like a public record and people find our names. Fuck, I should email back the place and tell them to delete any evidence we were even there. Maybe I could have divorce papers mailed to you?”
“Hollander.”

“I can’t believe this happened. You know this is technically your fault.”

“Hollander.”

“If we hadn’t gone out drinking, none of this would have happened. We could also get in trouble for underaged drinking by the way. This is the worst fucking psa to not drink because now I’m fucking married and going to be divorced before I’m even twenty-one.”

“Shane!”

Shane shuts his mouth abruptly. Rozanov hardly ever uses his first name. It feels strange coming from him, but Shane tries desperately to ignore the way his pulse jumped at the sound of it. Over the phone, he hears sharp words in Russian before Rozanov settles himself and says in English, “Is not the best thing to have happened, no. But there is not much we can do about it now. I will check with the chapel about records, but if it is only photos from them, I am not worried. Even if it gets spread on internet, it will be taken as a joke. But I will make sure the chapel only sent the photos to us, and I will ask if anyone else was in attendance.”

“You don’t have to do all that,” Shane says quietly, feeling himself starting to crash from all the panicking he’d been doing. 

“If it will help, I can do it,” Rozanov assures. 

“What about getting it annulled?” Shane continues just as softly.

“Already trying to divorce me? Is our marriage really making you that unhappy?” Rozanov jokes. Shane tries to bite back his smile, but it does slip through.

“I’m serious, Rozanov,” he sighs. “We can hope nothing gets leaked, but we do have to eventually get the marriage annulled. Like legally.”

“I know,” Rozanov mutters. In the background, Shane can hear the airport announce something. There’s a bit of rustling and then Rozanov’s voice again. “It has to be done in this state?”

“That’s what the internet said,” Shane mumbles. 

Rozanov sighs. “When will we both be in Las Vegas again?”

Shane runs a hand down his face. “I have no fucking clue. Are you sure you can’t delay your flight and just do it today? I can push mine back as well.”

“I am practically on the plane, Hollander,” Rozanov says, sounding slightly exacerbated by the suggestion. 

“Fine,” Shane says as he tries to think of a different solution. “Is the summer out for you entirely for a quick trip back to the states?”

Rozanov huffs. “There is nothing quick about flying back to America,” he says. 

“What about during the season?”

“Ah, yes with all the free time we both have,” Rozanov mutters sarcastically.

“I’m trying to fix this,” Shane says tersely. 

“Well, it seems it cannot be fixed right now,” Rozanov points out. Shane is about to start arguing with him again but then the other man says, “The NHL awards are held in Vegas every year.”

“And?” 

“We will both have to attend. We will be in Vegas.” He pauses for a moment, waiting for Shane to respond. Shane’s too busy thinking of every possibility under the moon of how this was going to go wrong. “Did you hit your head last night or am I not being clear enough for you?” Rozanov continues. 

“So we wait a whole year and then get it annulled when we’re both back in Vegas,” Shane says, ignoring Rozanov’s insult.

“Da.”

“A whole year,” Shane echoes, mostly to himself. 

“Hollander, it is not like we have to behave like married couple for that whole year. The photos will not get leaked and no one will know. We get divorce first thing when we return to Vegas and it will be as if it never happened.”

Shane nods even though he knows Rozanov can’t see him. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. A year. He could do that right? Like Rozanov said, they’re not a couple and they certainly don’t have to act like they’re married. It will just be something to undo down the line. Shane will probably forget about it for most of the year anyway. Definitely. “Okay,” he says. “We wait until we’re back in Vegas.”

“Is decided,” Rozanov says with a breath of relief that the conversation was finally veering to a close. And then, “I have to go now.”

“Okay,” Shane repeats. 

Rozanov doesn’t end the call though. Instead, Shane continues to hold his phone by his ear, listening to the commotion of Rozanov’s flight boarding. That is until he hears Rozanov ask, “Are you going to be all right?”

The question snaps him out of his haze. “Yes,” Shane says immediately. And then, more gently, “Sorry for dumping this on you so suddenly.”

“I appreciate you telling me I got married, Hollander.”

Shane swears he can hear the smile in Rozanov’s voice. “Don’t mention it,” Shane says, smiling to himself all the same. 

“That is the plan,” Rozanov assures. “Goodbye, Hollander.”

“Bye.”

Shane’s head thumps on the wall he’s been sitting against. He glances at the clock on the nightstand and feels panic shoot through him again given he’s supposed to be on the way to the airport by now, but he can’t seem to quite stand up and move. His knees are pulled tightly to his chest with his hands looped around them as if he were trying to ball himself up as small as possible. He’s still clutching his phone in one hand. 

He allows himself another minute to just breathe before he unlocks his phone and scrolls through the email again. The photos take a minute to load but in the tiniest of pixels, he sees three photos of him and Rozanov. 

The first is them holding hands in front of the altar with the officiator beaming behind them. Oddly enough, despite the fucking sunglasses and awful hats—it is called a disguise, Hollander—Shane can tell that he’s smiling in the photo. Rozanov is downright grinning beside him, and Shane joins him in the second photo where they’re both laughing before the third one loads. They’re kissing with the edges of their smiles masked from their lips pressed firmly against one another. Rozanov has one of his hands trailing up Shane’s back and the other holding the side of his face. Shane is holding onto the back of Rozanov’s suit jacket like he’s afraid of letting go. 

He turns his phone off. 

The ride to the airport is both nauseating and a blur. Shane is looking out the window for most of it, trying to swallow down the threat of vomiting as his hangover settles itself at his temples. He does manage to get some water and Advil at an overpriced store in the airport and sits silently at his gate before mechanically boarding his own flight home. Shane ends up sleeping for most of the flight with the exhaustion of the night prior and the panic from this morning finally catching up to him. 

Still, he feels rather unrested by the time he’s dragging his feet to his parked car to head back to his apartment in downtown Montreal. Everything is done at a distance today. It’s not him starting his car up to drive home in silence. He’s with his mind elsewhere, drifting as he makes the half hour drive home. 

Shane starts to work out the timeline of how this was all going to work. He would have his summer at home in Ottawa with Rozanov back in Russia doing whatever it is he did for the summer. Shane would have to check their next season schedule but the earliest they would see each other again in person would probably be some time in October. They’d play their season as usual with Shane briefly wondering if they were going to continue other things as usual before playoffs arrived. He had high hopes for his team this year, but they were still sort of rebuilding in some ways, and Shane knew a spot in the playoffs was never guaranteed. Then the season would be over with one team lifting the Stanley Cup to finish everything off. And then the end of June would arrive and Shane would find himself back in Las Vegas. He would get the marriage annulled and that would be that. 

Shane compartmentalizes all of this, putting it in a neat list that feels easier to understand and tucks it away in his head as he steps through the door of his apartment. He kicks off his shoes and drops his bags, planning to deal with unpacking later. 

He finds himself collapsing on his couch, pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until he sees stars. His headache is still there with Shane silently vowing to swear off alcohol for the rest of his life. Slowly, he pulls his hands away and blinks against the dim lighting of his silent apartment. Minutes pass with Shane doing nothing but staring at his ceiling and contemplating every life choice and where he went wrong to be in this fucking situation with Rozanov. He thinks back to that photoshoot they had and of course the shower that came afterward. A slippery slope of the occasional hotel room meeting that led to them getting accidently married on a whim in Vegas. 

Shane sighs heavily. There was nothing they could do about it now. Not until next year at least. Rozanov was probably counting down the days the same as Shane was. One down, 364 more to go. Easy. 

He reaches for his phone again, turning it on to see multiple messages waiting for him. He responds to his parents first, assuring them he got back alright. Replies in his team group chat as proof of life considering a few of his teammates apparently had overslept and missed their flights today. Responds individually to Hayden who was asking if had time to catch dinner with him and Jackie tomorrow. And then his fingers hover over the last unread messages that came in a few minutes ago. 

Lily: The photos are nice. They got my good side. 

Jane: You have a good side?

Shane hates the way he can feel his heart beat faster when the three dots appear. Rozanov’s reply comes almost immediately.

Lily: This is no way to treat your husband.

Shane’s smile falters. Technically, joking about it would probably make all of this easier, but given it’s still rather fresh, and Shane isn’t quite sure that they were out of the clear, he can’t bring himself to play along.

Jane: Did you check with the chapel about guests?

Rozanov’s response takes longer to arrive than the first.

Lily: Yes. Only guest was dead musician. The photos are private for only us. I do not think they knew who we are.

Jane: Dead musician?

Jane: Oh, you mean Elvis.

Lily: Do you think he will share our secret? I hear there are lots of them in that city. How can we be sure we are threatening the right one?

Jane: We’re not threatening anyone. Thank you for checking with the chapel.

Lily: If I did not, you would have anyway.

Jane: Probably.

The three dots appear again only to disappear. Shane holds his phone close to his face, focusing on those reappearing dots as if they were a lifeline. The response takes what feels like forever with Shane starting to worry he was about to receive a paragraph lecture even though Rozanov isn’t the type to do that over text.

Lily: I am thinking for honeymoon we make up for the night ruined by the snow storm.

Shane feels his breath catch. 

His fingers hover over the keypad, typing, deleting, re-typing. He actually has to sit up as he tries to think of a response. Rozanov still wants to do whatever it is they were doing despite the whole marriage debacle. Shane shouldn’t feel this relieved about that, but it’s the only normal thing about the two of them and knowing that it wasn’t going away anytime soon settles something in him. 

Jane: When?

Lily: Next time I am in Montreal. I will make it good as if it were our real wedding night.
Laughter escapes Shane before he can swallow it down. Their situation was ridiculous, but for the first time since discovering he was in the situation to begin with, Shane actually relaxes. Things were still a little weird, but Rozanov seemed to insist that the accidental marriage wouldn’t change anything between them. Shane could still have this because Rozanov was letting him. He smiles to himself, leans back on his couch and starts to make plans for October. 

-

Shane spent most of the summer convinced he was going to see his name on the news for all the wrong reasons. He checked his phone almost obsessively to the point where even his dad noticed and asked if everything was all right. Shane thinks he muttered some excuse about just being anxious for the season to start which had gotten his parents off his back as fall approached. He still felt tense with anxiety as the months continued to pass, but nothing ever came. The only evidence it even happened in the first place was the email to both him and Rozanov and those three photos. He tries to tell himself maybe that meant he could relax. They seemed to be in the clear.

It wasn’t long after that Shane fell back into the swing of early practice and the distraction that hockey offered him. Between the grueling workouts and constant meetings, there was little else for Shane to think about aside from the wellbeing of his team. That didn’t mean he just forgot about what happened in June like he had hoped he would. 

In between checking his phone for leaked news about the accidental wedding, Shane found himself awaiting anything from Rozanov. But summer slipped away and Rozanov never texted. He didn’t call. Even as the season openers approached, it was as if Rozanov disappeared off the face of the earth.

That is until Shane saw an ESPN report on Boston that claimed the team looked good. That Rozanov especially seemed ready to take on the rest of the league with ease. The familiar drum of competitiveness escalated in Shane. He was no longer thinking of Vegas and the impending divorce next year. He was back to wanting to compete against Rozanov. To beat him and have the whole world see.

He wonders if Rozanov felt the same thrill as the season started. If he also thought about their small competitions for just the two of them because the rest of the league couldn’t quite keep up. The race to who could score fifty goals first. The most goals. Who was going to get the cup before the other.

Fuck, Shane missed this.

He hears his phone vibrate in the cubby above his locker. Without taking his eyes off his team who are chatting wildly in preparation for their game against Boston tonight, Shane reaches up and grabs his phone.

Lily: What’s a girl to do on a lonely night in Montreal?

Shane’s heart suddenly feels like it’s in his throat. He makes quick work of wiping the smile off his face and goes to type something back. It had been months since he’d heard from Rozanov and a single text had him as eager as ever.

“Hollander!”

Shane’s eyes snap back up. His coach is at the locker room door. 

“Press wants a word before we head out there. Make it quick.”

Shane stuffs his phone back in the cubby and stands, mind slipping back into place for hockey. “Sure thing, coach.”

And for a few minutes, Shane forces himself not to think about Rozanov. 

“Hollander.”

Rozanov lowers himself in front of Shane, hands adjusting on his stick as he smirks at the flustered expression Shane is probably wearing simply from Rozanov being in the same vicinity as him.

“Rozanov.”

“I think it will be nice to break the winning streak your team has tonight. Is good to keep you humble,” Rozanov continues.

“Fuck you,” Shane mutters but he knows his heart isn’t really in it.

Rozanov hums with a pleased smile and then the puck is dropped. Shane’s ego remains intact for the night as he’s reminded of all the ways he loves to compete against Rozanov.

He knocks on the door a little after midnight. Shane has his hoodie pulled up and anxiously bounces on the balls of his feet. Rozanov takes his sweet time opening the door to his hotel room, smirking as Shane quietly slips inside. 

He turns to find Rozanov leaning against the closed door with a tanktop and sweats on. His arms are crossed over his chest, which Shane allows himself to stare at for a moment until Rozanov says, “I have early flight tomorrow.”

Shane swallows hard, understanding what Rozanov is trying to say. He only came by the hotel so late because he had to be convincing enough for the rest of his team that he was driving home only to actually looping back to the hotel Boston was staying at. This probably would have been easier if Shane had just given Rozanov the address to his apartment but that felt… like too much. So here he was. Back in a hotel room. Back to their old antics.

“We can be quick,” Shane assures before striding forward and capturing Rozanov’s lips with his. Rozanov lets out a pleasant hum against him before his hand slips beneath Shane’s hoodie, dragging up the naked expanse of his back.

“I will save you for a better night,” Rozanov whispers against Shane’s mouth.

“Okay,” Shane says easily, feeling pliant under Rozanov’s touch. 

“When we have a proper bed,” Rozanov continues, backing Shane further into the room and pulling his tanktop off in one fluid motion. 

The bed—a queen—hits the back of Shane’s legs as he sits on its edge. “Okay,” he whispers again, in complete agreement with Rozanov.

Hands and lips find him again and Shane groans as Rozanov pushes him down into the mattress. Rozanov is smirking as he props himself above him. “Preferably somewhere my teammates cannot hear how much you enjoy taking it,” Rozanov whispers.

Shane feels his hips jerk upward. “Fuck,” is all he manages before any other words are swallowed by Rozanov. In all honesty, Shane doesn’t want any of Rozanov’s teammates hearing them either. He probably cares more about it than him, but Rozanov caring about Shane’s worry seems more far-fetched so he keeps his mouth shut. Well, he keeps his mouth busy. 

“When we have our first time, it will be slow,” Rozanov goes on as Shane’s breath thins. His head cranes into the hotel bed’s pillows as Rozanov’s mouth trails down the line of Shane’s stomach. “And I will enjoy taking my time with you, Hollander.”

That’s the last thing Shane registers before his world is consumed by nothing but Rozanov who reminds him how much he also missed this.

Shane is lacing up his tennis shoes at the end of the unmade bed while Rozanov lays beside him with his shirt and pants still gone but the sheets remain lazily draped over him. He gives him a side glance only to find Rozanov watching him carefully.

Shane straightens and asks, “Have you heard anything about…” He waves an awkward hand around. “You know.”

“Our marriage?” Rozanov delivers bluntly.

Shane winces. They were alone in a hotel room. He shouldn’t feel the need to talk in code about it. He nods, hands wrapping anxiously around themselves in his lap.

Rozanov shakes his head in return. “Told you no one would know.”

“Right. You did say that,” Shane agrees quietly.

“Don’t look so miserable, Hollander,” Rozanov says. “Being married to me cannot be as terrible as you make it seem.”

“It’s not,” Shane blurts before his eyes go wide, only making Rozanov grin at the slip up. “I mean… nothing’s really changed. So it’s fine. I’m just worried. The repercussions could be bad.”

Rozanov chuckles. “Oh, I am aware.”

Shane turns to him. “Is your team weird about that sort of thing?” Shane asks.

Rozanov’s attention is wrapped up in the corner of the bed sheet that he has twisted around his fingers, but he shakes his head again. “No. I do not think they would care. They may be disappointed I married a lesser hockey player, but what can you do?”

Shane shoves him, smirking. “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath. The humor settles back into silence, leaving Shane enough time to gather the courage to ask, “Is your family not…”

He doesn’t finish the question when he notices the way Rozanov’s jaw tense. The bedsheet corner wraps around his fingers once more. “My family is the least of my worries,” Rozanov mumbles, but his brows are scrunched together like that statement isn’t entirely true. “Russia is–”

He stumbles over his words for the first time, and Shane feels himself freeze at the delicacy of the moment. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” he tries to backtrack. He knows Russia has less than kind laws, but his knowledge about those laws is rather cursory, he's suddenly realizing. Shane makes a mental note to look into it more, but nudges Rozanov’s leg that’s dangling off the end of the bed. “No one will know,” he assures. 

Rozanov offers nothing more than a nod but some of the tension in his shoulders has fled.

Shane rubs his hands up and down his legs before standing. “I should go,” he says.

Rozanov doesn’t stop him as he goes to the door, but Shane turns back once with the door cracked. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”

The other man’s mouth twitches at one corner. “Goodnight, Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 3: Happy Anniversary

Chapter Notes

convenient plot conflict INCOMING

May 2012

It turns out married life is relatively easy when you only see each other practically once a month. Their dance continues in these brief encounters with each of them rather familiar with nearly every hotel in either Boston or Montreal. It’s consistent. Easy. It makes sense with no fanfare and the whole marriage thing fades into the background as playoffs are well underway. And though both their teams made it further than last season, the finals are going to exist without either of them. Which was fine. 

Shane keeps telling himself this as he watches the rest of the playoffs from his couch. He has a little bit of free time before the season officially ends, and he uses it to consider how the mistakes Montreal made this past year are considerably less than the last season. It’s all about pushing forward. Another season is under Shane’s belt, and he’s only getting better.

So is Rozanov.

Shane’s phone buzzes beside him. He knows who it’s going to be before he unlocks his phone.

Lily: Has Detroit always been this bad?

Shane smiles. 

Jane: Didn’t you lose to them in four?

Lily: I don’t know why I talk to you.

Shane rolls his eyes, unable to help the small laugh that escapes. He glances back up to the television with the game dwindling down and also losing Shane’s attention. 

His thumbs hover over the screen. Shane’s honestly not sure why Rozanov continues to talk to him either. He realizes they’ve been doing their thing for a couple of years now. And they’re technically about to be married for a whole year. 

Shane straightens on his couch, humor melting out of him. The NHL awards were a little over a month away. Despite having anticipated them for many, many months now, Shane suddenly feels himself coming up short. He thinks of his last night with Rozanov. It was their usual escape in a hotel room where they could entangle themselves with one another behind paper thin walls and between scratchy hotel sheets. Rozanov had yet to ‘take his time’ with Shane and that anticipation still hangs over him every time he stands outside of a hotel room door. Rozanov hasn’t brought it up since so Shane has kept his mouth shut.

It suddenly occurs to him that the next time they will be seeing each other will be in Vegas to get divorced. And though that has always been the plan, the finality of it only hits him now. What if Rozanov wants nothing to do with him after it’s all said and done? The secret hookups are a bad habit for them now, yes, but they’re nothing more than brief meetings of mutual attraction. They don’t talk much afterward. One of them always leaves. They haven’t spent a full night together since that one time in Vegas. 

What if that’s all there is to them? The occasional mistake with a looming divorce to finalize the cut off. 

Shane’s grip around his phone tightens. He’s not sure why the idea of things changing between him and Rozanov upsets him so much. Maybe nothing will change just how everything stayed the same after the accidental marriage. Maybe they would keep things going. But to what end? 

It terrifies Shane when he realizes he doesn’t have an answer.

He turns off his phone and goes back to watching the game, pretending June wasn’t suddenly approaching faster than he wanted. 

It’s a night out with the Voyageurs that Shane finds himself at after multiple pleading texts from Hayden. Given it was just dinner at some restaurant that also served decent drinks, Shane figures he’d be fine to last for a few hours. He’s been meaning to spend more time with his team. It’s not that he feels out of place, but he’s often absent from the post win celebrations or the parties at other players’ houses. Shane will occasionally stretch himself to spend time at Hayden’s. Sometimes he’ll even go out with J.J.’s friends just to stave off the constant requests that come nearly every week. But besides those two, Shane isn’t really that close with the rest. It hasn’t affected their game chemistry. They’re clicking more than ever, which makes Shane excited for the upcoming season. He doesn’t need to get to know the other players personally to score goals for them. 

Still, a dinner or two with them doesn’t hurt. Besides, it’s about a week out from the NHL awards and if Shane finds himself wasting another night obsessively thinking about Vegas, he’s going to work himself into another panic attack. 

So here he sits, tucked at the corner of a long table beside Hayden, twirling his fork through pasta as he nods along to meaningless conversation around him. 

“I really think she’s the one man,” Hayden is saying.

“You met her like six months ago dude,” huffs Comeau. 

Hayden shrugs as if that means nothing. “When you know you know,” he says without hesitation. “And I just know it. I’m gonna marry that girl.”

Shane had heard everything about Jackie down to the way he knew Hayden was already planning to propose by the end of the year. He was ridiculously happy for Hayden and loved Jackie. She got along well with everyone and seemed to keep Hayden on his toes. 

Comeau rolls his eyes, but he has a small smile on his face. “Marriage can be tough but it’s worth it. It’s also a big decision though.”

Hayden nods along. “I’ve thought it all out. It’s going to be great,” he assures. 

Shane stares intently at his pasta, making sure to nod with the conversation. A big decision. His hand tightens around his fork. There was frankly nothing thoughtful about his accidental decision to get married. There was also nothing that had been difficult about the marriage itself aside from planning out their decision to get divorced. Shane is sorting through all of this when Hayden nudges his side.

“What about you, Hollander? Any girl in Montreal catch your eye?” 

Hayden had been trying to set Shane up on a date for a while now. He thought that because Shane was maybe a little closed off and didn’t spend much time with the team outside of practice and games that meant he was lonely. But it isn’t the lack of someone that gives Shane pause at Hayden’s question. It’s the mention of that person hopefully being a girl. Something twists in his stomach as he chews his food slowly, trying to figure out why he suddenly feels sick.

Clearing his throat, Shane tries answer. “Um,” he starts, words failing to come together. 

Then his phone starts buzzing on the table.

Shane glances down as does the teammates he’s sitting by. Lily flashes on the home screen. Shane freezes.

Then he abruptly stands, gathering his phone. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Hayden’s brief confusion morphs into a knowing grin. He puts both his hands up before gesturing for Shane to get some privacy with a small chuckle that Comeau joins in on.

Shane nearly stumbles into a nearby table as his phone continues to ring in his hand. He rushes outside the restaurant, greeted by the warm night of the approaching summer. Shane swallows a breath and then answers the phone.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat and then Rozanov’s voice cautiously says, “Hollander.”

Shane glances around and finds himself wandering to the side of the restaurant’s building and settling in a slim alley. “Yeah,” Shane says. “Is everything okay?” 

He’s become so used to Rozanov texting him that a call feels entirely out of place with Shane only having called that one time before. Even their texts had become sparse as the season ended. Shane had secretly wondered if it was because of the approaching NHL awards.

“Sort of,” Rozanov breathes out. He sounds tense and almost frustrated, which makes Shane feel anxious in return. His back presses against the building’s side wall while he chews on the inside of his cheek and waits for Rozanov to explain. 

It takes a moment with hushed grumbling in Russian slipping out before Rozanov says, “I am calling to apologize.”

“For what?” Shane asks.

Rozanov sighs again. “I cannot go to Vegas next week.”

“Oh,” is all Shane manages and when he doesn’t say anything else, he hears Rozanov curse on the other end again.

“I have to travel back to Russia unexpectedly and will not be able to attend the awards,” he explains, and this momentarily shakes Shane out of shock.

“Did something happen?” 

His tone must not come off as actually caring because Rozanov clicks his teeth like he almost feels bad about having to let Shane down in the first place. “No,” Rozanov says shortly, clearly lying. “Everything is fine, but I want you to know that I am not trying to avoid divorce. I would not have skipped out on the trip if it were not something important. We can find some other weekend in the season to go to Vegas and–”

“Ilya,” Shane interrupts, fighting down the jolt that goes through his body as Rozanov’s first name rolls off his tongue. Rozanov has been rendered entirely silent on the other end. 

“It’s- it’s okay,” Shane pushes on. His teeth gnaw on the inside of his cheek for a moment as he tries to think of how to best handle this. Whatever is actually pulling Rozanov back to Russia, it doesn’t sound like Rozanov actually wants to discuss it. Shane won’t pry, but they need a plan if one of them will be in an entirely different country for the rest of the off season. “Look, you can tell me that this is a bad idea and we’ll think of something else, but…” He paces to the other end of the alley, trying to gather the courage to say something that really feels like the simplest solution. “We can just wait until next awards season. No one has figured out what happened and it’s not like it’s… changed anything.”

Rozanov remains quiet long enough for Shane to start thinking he’s suggested the wrong thing. His pacing becomes faster with his phone pressed against his ear as he listens for any commotion on the other end. 

“You would not mind being married to me for another year?” Rozanov finally asks with a bit of humor in his voice to mask the nerves hidden beneath it

Shane actually breathes out a laugh from relief. “I don’t know. Am I going to regret this?” Shane asks.

Rozanov chuckles as Shane’s steps still. He leans forward, his forehead pressing to the wall with a small smile. “We would already be divorced if you actually regretted any of this, Hollander,” Rozanov points out.

Shane can only hum, wondering how true that is. 

“So we wait another year,” Rozanov checks.

“Yeah,” Shane answers. “It’s still too complicated to travel in the middle of the season and I think it would bring more attention if we both happened to fly to the same area on short notice. And I’m assuming your trip back to Russia isn’t a quick turnaround.”

“No, Hollander. It is not,” Rozanov says. He sounds more relaxed which allows Shane to exhale. “We wait then.”

“We wait,” Shane echoes. 

The line goes quiet with Shane listening to the faint static as he slowly breathes. There’s something comfortable about just knowing Rozanov is there in some capacity with neither moving to end the call even though everything has been decided. 

But all good things eventually have to come to an end. Shane knows that. He needs to get more used to it.

“Thank you for understanding, Hollander,” Rozanov says quietly. 

“It’s nothing,” Shane says awkwardly. And then, maybe to redirect the conversation away from him, he adds, “I hope everything is okay back home.”

It’s a thin tether; Shane trying to reach out and maybe cross that line once more that was firmly drawn between them. They were removed of anything personal. Outside of the late night texts and the understanding of how their bodies slotted so perfectly together, they don’t talk about their lives. Everything Shane knows about Rozanov is about the same as the general public, though he’s seen glimpses of Rozanov’s true feelings about certain things. Mostly, that maybe, just maybe, Rozanov wasn’t always that inclined to go home.

“It will be,” Rozanov says definitely, offering nothing more. 

The call has delineated to a natural end, but Shane still isn’t quite ready to hang up. He realizes he’s going to miss seeing Rozanov in Vegas. He’s missed him a lot actually since their last crossing during the season. “Good,” Shane manages.

“See you next season,” Rozanov finishes.

Shane smiles. “See you then.”

The call ends and Shane stays in the alley for another five minutes to gather himself. 

He must do a poor job of this because when he finally returns to the table, Hayden’s less than subtle jabs about whoever ‘Lily’ is fall incredibly flat with the topic dropped altogether by the time the checks arrive. Shane goes back to his apartment alone, pretending like nothing has changed. If he keeps telling himself this, maybe it’ll remain true.

And for the most part, it does. 

Rozanov doesn’t text him for the rest of the summer aside from a single message the night of the NHL awards.

Lily: Happy anniversary ;) 

Shane smiles way too long at that single text. 

It’s not long after that the season resumes. Rozanov returns from Russia with little gossip or conversation as to what had him so panicked to get back early. Things slot into place so easily with room numbers shared and face-offs won and lost. Their schedules become a delicate trail of breadcrumbs leading one to the other with no mention of the missed NHL awards that Shane ended up not attending. He wasn’t set to present anything nor was he up for any nomination. It saved him a bit of money not having to fly out, and it actually helped him relax further into his decision knowing that things would have simply felt wrong if he was there without Rozanov. 

That’s another thing Shane is learning to tamper down. When he shares a space with Rozanov, everything sort of just settles within him. It’s a comfort and a terrifying ordeal altogether that he tries to tuck away even as he anxiously waits in a stairwell for a text from Rozanov. 

His nerves are at an all time high for multiple reasons tonight. The primary reason being that they weren’t about to meet in a hotel room. A first for them that has Shane grinding his jaw in a silent debate of whether this is an entirely rash and stupid decision to have made. The second being that they still hadn’t talked about the larger need of Shane wanting Rozanov entirely. Maybe Rozanov would take the use of a full apartment as a silent plea, and Shane wouldn’t have to stupidly fumble for the right thing to say. 

Lily: Here.

Shane opens the door to the stairwell quickly, perhaps a bit frantic. Rozanov stands in the connecting alley with his phone in his hand, brows pinched with concern as he glances around the less than well lit area. 

“You have brought me here to murder me for life insurance money,” Rozanov mutters. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Just get in here,” he urges. 

Rozanov complies, sauntering forward as his wariness melts into something more smug upon seeing Shane just as flustered. The door slams close behind them with Rozanov adding, “You know they always suspect the husband first.”

They start to take the stairs, shoulders brushing against each other with little done to move away from avoidable contact. “No one knows we’re married, idiot,” Shane mutters, but there’s a small smile on his face at the acknowledgement that he and Rozanov were still inexplicably tied to one another from a ridiculous mistake. 

Shane leads them down a long hall that’s also subtly lit while Rozanov continues to talk freely. “But they will suspect when they find my body in… What is this?” 

Shane unlocks the door to the apartment. It’s fucking massive with tinted windows that overlook most of Montreal. There’s a large fireplace in the center where a couch and the rest of the living room would be. An open kitchen attaches itself to the rest of the unfilled space with an extensive granite countertop and all new appliances. Shane had left the lights on but they’re a soft yellow that doesn’t fully capture the wonder on Rozanov’s face as he kicks off his shoes beside Shane’s. 

“Empty apartment,” Rozanov assesses but his face is threatening to break out in a grin. He turns to look at Shane who is loitering by the kitchen island. “I did not know you lived in squalor.”

“I’m still renovating it,” Shane explains as Rozanov goes to stand across from him. 

“Will this be your apartment then?” 

Shane mulls over his words, wondering just how much honesty will result in the least amount of teasing. “No,” he starts slowly. Rozanov watches him intently, making Shane fidget. “This place is separate from my actual apartment. I bought it recently at the start of the year. This and the floors above and below us. I figured you would appreciate more space than a hotel room for once.”

His eyes must have drifted to the floor at some point during his little explanation, but Rozanov is completely silent, drawing Shane’s gaze back up. Rozanov is practically grinning. His eyes are alight, and Shane has the indescribable urge to kiss him. 

“You bought a whole building,” Rozanov says, taking one languid step forward. 

“I’m going to start renting out the other floors,” Shane mumbles as Rozanov moves closer. “I didn’t want to have to worry about people seeing you coming and going.”

Rozanov hums before his fingers reach the hem of Shane’s sweatshirt. Shane stays still as Rozanov leans in for a kiss that draws a soft moan from Shane’s lips. “This is good planning,” Rozanov whispers, peppering kisses down the length of Shane’s jaw. His throat. “My husband, so sensible.”

“Rozanov…” Shane mutters, head tilting back while he can feel the developing arousal Rozanov takes pleasure in. 

“How should I repay you, hm?” Rozanov continues to talk. His hands drag up Shane’s back, hiking his shirt higher. “This kitchen counter should hold us both.”

He’s pulled back to muse at the island behind Shane. Rozanov’s pupils are blown as he redirects his eyes back to Shane who feels his words come out thickly. “I am not letting you do anything on the kitchen counter,” he warns. Rozanov smirks at him like it’s going to be his new mission to change Shane’s mind about that.

Shane swallows, still feeling Rozanov’s light touch graze his waistline. “If the kitchen is off limits, where do you want me? Against the window, the floor…”

“The bedroom is furnished,” Shane blurts

Rozanov smirks, dragging his hand up to cup one side of Shane’s face. “Of course it is.”

He lets Shane lead him down the hall with the two awkwardly stopping at the doorway before Rozanov takes the first steps inside. Humming idly to himself, Rozanov says, “I see you have decorated it to resemble our usual boring meeting places. Very hotel, Hollander.”

Shane stays by the doorway, rolling his eyes. “It’s just temporary,” he explains, choosing to not mention the very standard decoration package he’d impulsively bought just to have the room furnished by the next time Boston was in town. When Rozanov would be in town. “I can switch the sheets and add better decorations later, but I–”

He’s interrupted by the soft press of Rozanov’s lips against his. Shane leans into the touch, eyes closing easily as his hands uncross from his chest to find Rozanov’s waist. 

“Enough talk about sheets unless you plan to ruin them very, very soon,” Rozanov warns, spinning them to push Shane back toward the bed. 

Shane gazes up at Rozanov’s hungry stare before he watches the other man pull off his shirt easily before climbing forward. Shane stays very still but can’t help the soft, “Fuck,” that escapes his mouth.

Rozanov captures the word easily. They melt against each other, working each other up with familiar intent whispered between each gasping breath. 

When Shane is pretty convinced he won’t be able to last longer if they keep this up, Rozanov pulls back. He has one hand planted by Shane’s head while he drapes himself over him. The crucifix necklace he always wears dangles close to Shane’s mouth. 

“You have everything?” Rozanov asks, apparently ready to move forward as well.

Shane nods. “In the drawer.”

Rozanov grins and presses a chaste kiss to the side of Shane’s mouth before he goes digging. But while one hand is casually shuffling through the nearby bedside drawer, his other hand travels south, lighting Shane’s nerves on fire.

“You buy me a whole building,” Rozanov hums mostly to himself as if he were baffled by the idea. 

Shane can barely concentrate but he manages. “Apartment,” he huffs out, eyes squeezed shut. “And it’s not just for you–”

Rozanov gives a hard tug on his cock and Shane swallows his words. There’s a bit of rustling and the clear absence of Rozanov’s hands that has Shane finally opening his eyes again. He pushes himself up onto his elbows to find Rozanov kneeling before him, stroking himself as he looks at Shane with clear want. 

But just as Rozanov’s hands leave himself to find Shane once more, Shane blurts, “Have you done this with anyone else?”

Rozanov pauses. Stupid, Shane curses himself. He starts to shake his head, stammering for a way to forget he even brought it up. “I mean–”

“Before you, yes,” Rozanov answers. “Recently?” He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Shane prompts curiously.

Rozanov leans back on his heels. “I have not said no to the occasional kiss with someone beautiful in a dark club where no one knows me, but…” Rozanov is still watching him very closely. Shane waits with bated breath. “I always felt bad about it in the moment, so I never let it continue past that.”

Shane exhales slowly. “If this is about the marriage–”

“I can make my own decisions, Hollander,” Rozanov says with a small smile.

Still, Shane expected to feel relieved that Rozanov apparently manages to be entirely his at the moment. The faceless people in the clubs were so far removed from them right now, but Shane instead finds himself feeling guilty about everything. The secret meetings. The fucking marriage. Rozanov can make his own decisions but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t actively thinking of Shane’s feelings on the matter.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers.

Rozanov’s face scrunches. “Hollander, stop panicking,” he says sternly. Shane does his best. “I have everything I want right here and will be perfectly happy with my choices very soon unless you want to back out.”

“No, no,” Shane says immediately. 

Rozanov waits a moment, searching for something from Shane. Then his shoulders relax and he turns back into the very thing that has Shane’s heart beating rapidly in his chest. And for the rest of the night, for the first time, Shane lets himself be taken apart.

Later in the night, after Rozanov takes his cab back to his team’s hotel room, and Shane wanders back into the empty apartment, feeling dopey and giddy all at once, he goes to the bedroom and finds a black long sleeve left carelessly on the floor. He recognizes it immediately as Rozanov’s and before he can question himself, Shane carefully folds the shirt and tucks it in the empty dresser.

The apartment starts to become a fixture in their occasional meetups as the season continues. Shane even finds himself missing it whenever he’s in Boston with Rozanov muttering something similar when a hotel room isn’t entirely perfect. Too small of a bed. Shitty bathroom. Scratchy carpets. 

Shane starts to decorate the rest of the apartment with all of this in mind. The bedroom looks less like a hotel. The couch in the newly furnished living room is massive and entirely sturdy, which Rozanov claimed he had to test and did so dutifully. The kitchen starts to get filled with a mix of both of their individual likes, never to be touched unless Rozanov was in town. And despite his aforementioned plans about the building, Shane never rents out the other floors. Even as a year approaches of him owning the apartment, Shane can’t be bothered to even consider the option.

Instead, he sleepily scrolls on his phone while completely undressed in bed. Rozanov is in the attached bathroom and by the sound of it, is brushing his teeth with a toothbrush he may or may not have left behind a few months ago. 

Shane listens to the movement in the other room, barely paying attention to his phone until he gets a notification. Hayden has texted him a news article announcing the NHL awards for next June. It’s barely into December with the year almost to a close, but the headline catches Shane’s attention, stomach dropping.

“What the fuck?” he mutters.

Rozanov appears in the doorway almost immediately, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. He has a towel wrapped loosely around his hips and Shane’s thoughts stutter for a moment before Rozanov asks, “What?”

Wordlessly, Shane scrolls back up on the article before leaning forward to pass Rozanov his phone. Rozanov squints down at it as he continues to slowly brush his teeth. Shane knows the exact moment Rozanov finishes reading the headline however when his eyes flick back to Shane.

He immediately goes back to the bathroom with the sound of spitting and the sink running following soon after. He returns with Shane’s phone still in his hand. “The awards are in Nashville next year,” Shane says just to say anything. He suddenly wishes he was in another room, another country, another place than here with Rozanov. Whenever they start to have more serious conversations, they’ve had the benefit of doing it over the phone. But with Rozanov right in front of him, Shane feels himself wanting to shell up. He hopes his anxiety isn’t as visible as it feels. 

“That means…” He can’t even get the words out. The convenience of a divorce in Vegas is gone again. You are stuck with this for another year. Unless we make a panicked trip. Do you regret this? Not just the marriage, but all of it? With a frustrated breath, Shane takes his phone back from Rozanov and frowns angrily at it as if it were the source of all his problems. “What the fuck are we going to do in, Nashville?” He mutters.

“I heard they are putting on hockey awards there. Might be good to attend,” Rozanov speaks for the first time since Shane brought this up.

“This isn’t…” Shane tries to breathe again. He can’t get angry at Rozanov for this. It’s not his fault. Just like the accidental marriage isn’t entirely his fault either. “Would it look bad if we both happened to get flights to Vegas in the off season instead?” He asks weakly.

Rozanov has taken a seat at the edge of the bed. The distance between them is minuscule, but it feels staggering to Shane. “We could,” Rozanov starts slowly. “A mistakenly bought ticket.”

Shane smirks despite himself. “Some mistake,” he says.

When he glances at Rozanov, he finds him doing that thing where he watches Shane, searching the details of his expression for some answer to an unknown question. But then the spell breaks like always and Rozanov pushes forward in trying to find a solution. “If you want to travel there instead of Nashville, I will go,” he says with no inflection in his voice. 

“You would?” Shane asks curiously.

Rozanov nods. “If you do not want to be married another year, I will not force you to be. We will plan how to keep it quiet to avoid anything getting out.”

He says this all simply as if that really were the simple answer. But Shane’s overthinking always kicks into overdrive especially when it comes to this particular issue. “Would we go before or after the awards?”

Rozanov shrugs, suddenly not looking at Shane anymore. “Whatever you like, Hollander.”

Shane notices the rigid tension along Rozanov’s back. There’s a faint bruise along his right shoulder Shane wants to kiss if only to get a gasp or reaction out of him. He finds he doesn’t quite like when Rozanov is this subdued. “Well, what do you want?” He deflects. This decision shouldn’t solely rely on only him. 

“I don’t know,” Rozanov says shortly, but sounding rather honest. Shane tries to think of how he feels about the worst case scenario. There’s a lot of uncertainty that seems to match Rozanov’s feelings. And then there’s the deeply hidden fear that a divorce means Shane loses all of this. Rozanov in his apartment, using his towels, his bed. That long sleeve is still in the drawer with Rozanov occasionally donning it when they lounge around after sex only to conveniently forget it every time he leaves. Shane tries so hard not to think of why the idea of losing Rozanov scares him so much. 

Maybe it’s because the fear makes him impulsive. It overrides his normally logical thinking and has him saying and doing stupid things. Such as, “We can wait another year.”

Rozanov’s eyes flick to him. “This is very bad joke if you are trying to make one,” he says in return.

Shane laughs and pushes Rozanov slightly just to touch him. “I’m not joking. Maybe the awards not being in Vegas this year is like some sort of fate thing we shouldn’t test.”

This was all a load of bullshit Shane didn’t really believe, but the playful expression Rozanov was wearing made all the pretending worth it. “We go to Nashville then,” Rozanov tests.

Shane nods, ignoring the relief spreading through him. “There’s always the next year.”

Rozanov grins at him before climbing closer to Shane on the bed, backing him up against the headboards. “What do you want to do in Nashville then?”

Shane shrugs with his heart beating steadily in his chest. He knows he’s smiling like an idiot, but Rozanov gives him the courtesy of not mentioning it. “I’ve only ever been there to play,” Shane says. “I don’t really know what there is to do.”

“Do they also not have place to get quick married?” Rozanov asks. “I think we should do it in every state.”

He starts to kiss Shane slowly, absorbing the surprised laugh that had escaped. “I don’t think that’s a thing,” Shane says against his lips.

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Stupid American rules.”

His mouth starts to trail down Shane’s chest and even though Rozanov was supposed to head back to his hotel half an hour ago, Shane doesn’t interrupt him. He can taste Rozanov’s toothpaste as he breathes out in short gasps, muscles tensing and relaxing as Rozanov’s mouth and hands go to work.

“Roz…” Shane sighs only for Rozanov’s hands to slow despite Shane’s immediate protests.

He opens his eyes to see Rozanov resting the side of his face along Shane’s inner thigh. He’s looking up at him through golden lashes and Shane thinks that he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as him. 

“You called me Ilya once,” Rozanov says. 

Shane blinks at him, transported back to the alley by the restaurant that wasn’t even more than five blocks from this apartment. It’d been a sudden decision to stop Rozanov’s panicked rambling. Just like…

“You called me Shane once too,” he points out.

Rozanov hums as if remembering that morning after their accidental wedding. He shifts slightly, mouth nearing Shane’s erection. “Seems silly,” Rozanov whispers. “For my husband to not call me by my actual name.”

Shane’s attempt at saying ‘Rozanov’ gets choked on when Rozanov’s lips wrap around his cock. “Fuck,” he shutters. Rozanov’s towel has slipped in the commotion, leaving Shane the glorious view of his entire back tensing with every long breath of Shane he takes.

“Roz–” He tries again only for Rozanov to suck harder, hollowing his cheeks all the same. 

Shane’s hands dart to the bedsheets that are still a mess from their first go around. His head dips back, hitting the headboard with a dull thud. “Fuck, I’m going to–”

Rozanov adjusts the angle and something else slips out of Shane instead. “Fuck, Ilya, there. Don’t stop. Ilya,” he practically chants until he’s coming with Rozanov’s name still on his lips. Rozanov comes close again, kissing Shane through his dreary muttering.

“Shane,” he whispers back as his hand has him spilling on Shane’s chest. Shane’s brain lights up at the sound of his own name coming out of Rozanov. He’s beautiful, Shane thinks again as he kisses him harder. 

“Ilya,” he murmurs back, smiling as his teeth nip at Rozanov’s lower lip—Ilya’s lower lip.

Ilya Rozanov. His rival. His accidental husband. His whatever.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading!

Chapter 4: Until Next Time

Chapter Notes

a bit of a shorter one but the next chapter has a pov change and is a bit longer so you'll have that to look forward to!

June 2013

Nashville certainly isn’t Vegas, but Shane doesn’t mind. The night is warm and the nightlife feels more casual with Shane switching out his suit for the awards to jeans and a button up for the rest of the Voyageurs dragging the team out for drinks to celebrate another finished season. He’s nursing a beer, knowing this freedom will disappear when he eventually slips back into the strict regime of the post-season. He’s still incredibly early in his career, but Shane has the idea that if he wants to make his career last, he needs to take care of himself in smaller ways. That meant cutting back on alcohol, healthier eating, and continuing to build a steadier relationship with his team—hence why he’d agreed to come out tonight. 

He’d been told that it was likely he was officially going to be named captain going into this next season even though he’d been essentially operating as captain since he joined the team. Though Shane had been thrilled in the moment—as had his parents when he’d told them—the responsibility was starting to settle on his shoulders. So he agreed to come out and drink with his team as a sort of bonding experience. They’re at a rooftop bar with Shane leaning on the balcony railing when he notices someone come up beside him. 

“What has you all thoughtful?” Hayden asks, settling beside Shane.

“Nothing,” Shane lies. 

“You have your overthinking face on,” Hayden corrects. 

“My overthinking face?”

Hayden nods dutifully. “Your eyes go all distant and I think it’s the few times I see you not focusing on keeping up appearances.” Hayden takes a swig of his drink, not realizing that he’s pointed out a habit Shane wasn’t entirely aware of.

“Huh,” he says quietly.

Hayden nudges his shoulder against his. “Don’t forget to relax this summer all right?” He adds. “It’s going to be a big year for the season and with the Olympics coming up.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “Maybe that was why I was overthinking,” he comments. 

Hayden rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “I know you too well, man,” he says. “But seriously, take it easy. Jackie also wants to start a sort of family dinner thing on Fridays. You’re obviously invited whenever you get back from your cottage retreat or whatever it is you do without the rest of us.”

“I’ll be there,” Shane assures. Hayden squeezes his shoulder in response before slipping away to get another drink. Shane murmurs something about meeting him in a second, only to look back out over the street to finish his first drink. 

Then he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. 

Smiling around the rim of his drink, Shane pulls out his phone, already suspecting who’s contacting him. 

Lily: 1212

Jane: Am I supposed to know what that means?

Lily: Don’t play dumb. We have an anniversary to celebrate and I am impatient.

Shane laughs to himself, replying with a short ‘Be there soon’ before pocketing his phone again. He finishes off his drink and discretely leaves the bar without so much as a goodbye to his teammates who are still rowdily drinking the night away. Shane keeps his head down as he navigates toward the corner of a nearby street and orders a car to take him to the hotel most of the players were staying at. 

The ride is short with Shane noticeably without any of the usual anxiety that had permeated every inch of him in the early years of this thing between him and Ilya. It’s all second nature now as he gets out of the car, strolls past the front desk, and gets in the elevator.

He scrolls through his phone as the elevator ticks past his actual floor and steps out when the doors open to twelve. Shane allows one glance down the otherwise empty hall before finding the correct room and gives a short knock. 

The door opens almost immediately and a thrill goes through Shane at the idea of Ilya waiting for him. The thought gets smothered though as Ilya’s hands are on him, as is his mouth.

“Missed me?” Shane smiles into the kiss.

“Nashville is boring,” Ilya mutters, already reaching for the stupid buttons on Shane’s shirt. “Nowhere to make incredibly stupid decisions.”

Shane lands on the hotel bed, eyes grazing over Ilya who’s already down to just his boxers. “What, like getting impulsively married?” He’s found it easier to make jokes about their situation as if Vegas two years ago was just some blip that has become a fond memory. The implications of what it means to actually be married never reach them, and Shane happily settles in their imperfect bubble. 

Ilya smirks, “Happy anniversary. I promise to make tonight memorable.”

And he makes good on that promise.

Long into the night, Ilya is smoking on the attached balcony of his hotel room while Shane sits in a nearby chair, just out of view of the open window. He watches as Ilya flexes his hands each time he goes to smoke, leaning forward with his ankles crossed. He keeps sneaking glances back at Shane who only reacts with a small smile hidden by the hand he’s propped his head up with. 

“I don’t get how you manage to smoke and still play the way you do,” Shane says.

Ilya’s smile is a beautiful thing this late. “It’s called talent, Hollander,” Ilya says, entirely serious.

“It’s called smoking is bad for you and will eventually catch up to you,” Shane corrects.

Ilya shakes his head with his smile staying put before he goes to stub out the half finished cigarette. He dips back inside, moving to stand over Shane and using a hand to prop himself over him. “You care about my wellbeing or are you waiting for the chance to catch up to me in hockey?” Ilya asks.

“I don’t need to catch up to anything,” Shane says, heat rising to his cheeks as Ilya leans down. 

He receives a small kiss for this. “Hm, no you don’t,” Ilya assures. 

He turns then and Shane almost reaches for him to stave off the lack of warmth at the sudden distance. He should really get back to his hotel room soon. It’s well past midnight and his flight is early tomorrow. Ilya has gone to gather up his clothes, tugging on his shirt with little urgency of leaving either. 

Shane’s eyes track Ilya across the hotel room. He’s become rather good at reading Ilya if he does say so himself. Someone can only be inside of you so many times before you feel like you really know them afterall. That’s maybe why after Ilya starts messing with the bedsheets as if trying to put them back in place that Shane notices something is wrong. 

“Everything okay?” He asks. 

Ilya’s movements still. He drops the comforter from his hand, turning slowly to Shane. His arms cross over his chest. “Yes,” he says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Ilya’s voice has gone slightly tense. Shane wonders if he should keep pushing or back away entirely. They still didn’t do this often—talking outside of the joking conversations following and before sex. They sometimes talked about hockey when they were in season. But personal facets were always guarded. 

“Nothing,” Shane starts, sitting forward to search for his shirt. “Sorry.”

He locates his shirt and plucks it up from the floor. His pants as well. Shane is doing up the third button on his shirt when Ilya finally breaks the uncomfortable silence Shane put them in. “I go back to Russia in three days.”

Shane’s hands drop to his sides. He looks at Ilya; really looks at him. Tension pulls at his features with his fingers clasped tightly around his arms which remain crossed over his chest. He remembers this expression. It was the same one Ilya wore in Vegas when he’d taunted about leaving Shane behind to stay there for some undetermined length of time. 

“Oh,” Shane whispers just to move the conversation forward.

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches. “Yes, oh.”

“You aren’t planning to stay in Boston longer?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shrugs; more of his carefully orchestrated indifference. “I have no reason to in off season. Moscow is home. So there I will be.”

“Do you want to be there?” Shane guesses, feeling his pulse become thready in his throat.

Ilya stares at him for a moment. “What do you mean?”

Shane takes the chair again. Ilya remains standing, stiffly waiting for Shane to speak again. “I mean that it seems like you get really…” He waves a hand around the air trying to find the right words. “Tense? Frustrated? I don’t know. You just don’t seem to be excited to go home.”

Ilya doesn't say anything for a long time. The hotel room no longer feels like this comfortable place the two of them so often easily share. Shane starts to regret even bringing it up. They don’t step outside of their comfort zone. He should know better. That’s not what this is. 

Shane stands. “I should get going,” he says quietly. “Early flight.”

He goes for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle as if waiting for Ilya to call him back. Back to bed, back to the sweet sanctity of the quiet hours they get to share so briefly every year. But the request never comes. Shane leaves the hotel room in silence, going to sleep with a sense of dread he can’t quite shake even as he leaves Nashville the next morning. 

-

November 2013

Shane leans forward for the face-off, eyes distant until his vision is filled up with Rozanov who works his jaw. Montreal is down, and Shane’s playing maybe one of his worst games since the season started. It’s a home game and he is downright embarrassing himself in front of his own fans. The captain’s C burns into his chest as it lines up opposite to that of Rozanov’s. 

“Still enough time for a hattrick I think,” Rozanov muses. Shane doesn’t respond, just keeps his gaze low and chews furiously on his mouth guard. Rozanov’s voice gets softer, barely loud enough to be heard over the hammering of the crowd and the ref’s whistle. “Maybe it will be a nice gift for my husband.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “What?” He manages to breathe out just before the puck is dropped.

Rozanov wins the face-off. And then he wins the game.

“Shane, a tough loss for you and Montreal today. After a strong start to the season, what do you think happened?” The reporter shoves the microphone into Shane’s face.

Ilya Rozanov happened, Shane thinks.

“Yeah, definitely not how we wanted the game to go today. We never really caught our rhythm, and I take responsibility for that,” Shane says instead, eyes firmly locked on a spot right above the reporter’s shoulder.

“As the team’s captain this year, what do you plan to do to get your team consistent as the season progresses?”

Shane cycles through his usual bout of answers. Better communication. Better line changes. Better transitions up from defense. He thinks he mutters a combination of all three before once again stating, this game was on him. 

He nods to the reporters before making his exit, wanting nothing more than to go home and review every mistake he made tonight so they never happen again. 

His teammates are also packing up. The locker room is subdued from its usual commotion with most players planning on just ending the night quietly. Shane keeps his head down, grabbing his bag and running a hand through his freshly showered hair. He should probably give some sort of speech about how they’ll get them on the next one, but his heart isn’t in it. He also suspects his teammates don’t expect that from him. He’s not that type of captain and it’s worked out thus far aside from tonight. 

With his keys and phone pocketed, Shane leaves the facilities, muttering only brief goodbyes to Hayden and J.J. who look just as defeated as Shane feels. 

He tosses his things unceremoniously into his car, slamming the trunk closed with more force than necessary before he gets into the driver’s seat. His forehead hits the steering wheel once. Then again as Shane blows out a long breath. He’s never really handled loss well, especially when it’s his fault. Shane’s done nothing else his whole life aside from working to be the best. But when that falls through, Shane can’t seem to get a grip on things.

He tries for another breath, hands angrily tensing around the wheel his forehead is still pressed into. His phone goes off in the cupholder. Shane blows out more air before he reaches for it, expecting a few texts from his parents telling him that the next games will be better.

And those are there. But so is a text from Lily. The first text since Nashville. 

Lily: The alley you usually threaten to murder me in is cold. Hurry up.

Shane squints down at the text in confusion. He feels frozen for a moment with the weight of Ilya reaching out after a game making him stop like a deer in headlights. But then the surprise dissipates while the message’s familiarity rushes through him all at once, causing Shane to put his keys in the ignition and start his car. 

Montreal had played two other games in Boston prior to today and one other game in Montreal. The heavier crossover of their teams would occur following the new year only to get interrupted by the Olympic break. Shane had practically been dreading each interaction though since Nashville. Rozanov kept to himself and was entirely polite; a major shift from his usual demeanor on the ice. And Shane’s phone was silent before, during, and after each game with either Rozanov or Shane leaving the respective cities with little fanfare. But Shane felt the absence tremendously.

He feels it now as he hastily parks in the attached garage to the Montreal apartment. Shane pockets only his phone and keys before he’s practically racing down the hall to get to the stairwell. And even though he just played an entire game, Shane is running like his life depends on it.

The door slams open, startling Ilya who stands on the other side of the alley casually smoking. Shane’s lungs burn. For too long, they stand there staring at each other. Shane keeps the door propped and the toe of Ilya’s sneaker is pressing his discarded cigarette flat. 

“Well?” Ilya finally asks. The dam breaks.

“Get inside,” Shane snaps. 

Ilya is barely through the door before Shane is grabbing the front of his shirt and pushes him toward the nearby wall. His back hits the wall with the only evidence of his surprise being the slight widening of his eyes. But then he sees Shane’s expression and his humor fades.

“So you are upset,” Ilya says blandly.

“Upset?” Shane scoffs.

“Yes,” Ilya continues. “I did not want to score four goals tonight, but I am just too talented, Hollander. You know this.”

Shane’s grip loosens on Ilya’s shirt. “You’re talking about the game,” he says, practically in disbelief. 

Ilya cocks his head as if that was obvious.

“You haven’t spoken to me in four months,” Shane goes on, bewildered. “And then you pull that shit in the middle of the game. What if someone heard you? What if someone didn’t take it as a joke?”

“I was not joking,” Ilya says with a shrug.

Shane scoffs. “You’re unbelievable.”

He goes for the stairs, adrenaline dying down. The effects of the game are finally starting to wear on him.

Footsteps echo behind him. Shane doesn’t tell Ilya to go back to his hotel. He doesn’t turn to leave for his actual apartment. They both enter the Montreal apartment at the same time. Shane kicks off his shoes and waits for Ilya to do the same so he can put them away properly. Shane’s coat goes on the hook beside Ilya’s. The first place he goes is to the kitchen. 

One ginger ale. One Coke. He sets one on the counter and cracks open the other before leaning tiredly on the flat surface. Ilya’s hand drifts along the granite before settling at Shane’s hip. Shane keeps his eyes closed and his grip on the can until Ilya takes the ginger ale away from him, setting it beside his untouched drink. His hand then comes up Shane’s chin, tilting his face toward his so their eyes can meet. 

“You are mad at me,” Ilya says.

Shane rolls his eyes and goes to move his head away from Ilya’s touch, but his grip keeps Shane’s head steady. “And I am sorry,” Ilya finally adds.

Shane blinks at him. The only time he’s heard Ilya apologize for anything is when he had that impromptu trip to Russia that ruined their initial divorce plans. But even now, his words sound more genuine and less frantic. Shane tries to soak up as much of it as he can.

“For what?”

Ilya smirks, one hand continuing to rub the space along Shane’s hip while the other has a thumb brushing from his chin to his lower lip. “You are going to make me work for it,” he assesses.

Shane urges his arms to move. He manages to sneak one between them and soon he’s pushing Ilya back toward the opposite wall. “I think it’s only fair,” he says.

Ilya’s pupils are blown and it does something to Shane knowing he has that effect on him. “I am sorry,” Ilya draws out, “for ignoring you. And for Nashville. That was not how I wanted to finish our night.”

Ilya sounds entirely genuine though it probably wouldn’t have taken much for Shane to believe him. God he’s missed this. He missed Ilya.

“Want to make up for it?” He asks.

Ilya answers with a swift kiss and arms moving to pick Shane up. Shane goes willingly, letting Ilya carry them both to the bedroom. At some point, he convinced himself four months wasn’t that long. Ilya wastes no time proving how wrong Shane was.

Their breathing is heightened as Ilya collapses on top of Shane, kissing his chest in between murmured Russian phrases Shane desperately wants to understand. He thinks that even if he did know the language, however, he’d be no use in translating right now. His head is light and his body hasn’t felt this relaxed in months. 

Ilya apparently feels the same way. “You have killed me, Hollander,” he mutters. “I am dead.”

Shane smirks and rests his head atop of Ilya’s. “Hope your life insurance is worth it.”

Neither has a plan to move anytime soon and what a relief it is for Shane to not have to overthink anything for once. Ilya’s back in his arms, back in the Montreal apartment. Everything is in place again. 

Shane has the urge to immediately fall asleep with this reassurance. Ilya’s breathing has evened out as well, with Shane knowing that eventually all of this has to come to an end at some point. Ilya’s team will fly out tomorrow morning and Shane will drive back to his actual apartment, drunk on a single night. In the back of his head, he knows this is bad news; the fact that he’s come to hate anticipating the renewed distance between them. He can feel it deep in his bones, but he doesn’t want to bring that up right now. 

“I’m going to get you back for those four goals,” Shane murmurs into Ilya’s hair. The other man chuckles with the sound vibrating through Shane’s whole body. He tilts his head up to look at Shane, chin propped on his chest.

“Trying to catch up to me, Hollander?”

Shane rolls his eyes. They were essentially even in the number of goals for the season with Shane knowing that after tonight’s performance, he was going to correct everything to make those strides ahead. “It was one game,” Shane says.

“Ah, but I think the cup will be mine,” Ilya counters.

“Oh really?” Shane goes along. “So does that mean I get gold at the Olympics if we’re deciding to trade off here.”

Some of the light in Ilya’s eyes dim, but he pats Shane’s chest to cover it. “We can all dream, Hollander.”

Then he’s pulling away, yawning and mumbling about taking a shower. Shane settles back into the bed, hand drifting through the still warm sheets beside him. His eyes are half closed when Ilya returns, signaling the end of the night. Shane bites back a sigh and gets dressed, knowing he can clean up after Ilya leaves. 

They stay quiet as they make their way back to the stairwell only for Ilya to drag his feet and pretend he forgot to tie his shoes before coming downstairs. Shane humors him by sliding down to sit on one of the stairs as Ilya props one foot up to tie. He mentally runs through their schedules, wondering when they could do this again now that everything seems to have been smoothed over and realizes that with the Olympic break, they would be seeing each other as rivals on Team Canada and Team Russia respectively. 

There is something exciting about that concept. It doesn’t feel that long ago that Shane approached an idly smoking Ilya Rozanov just outside of a stadium. He remembers his hands freezing despite being shoved into his jacket pockets and wondering how Rozanov’s hands weren’t getting cold as he took a smoke break in a designated non-smoking area. The memory comes back to him with the youthful joy of it overshadowed by the bitterness of Shane losing to Rozanov and Team Russia later in the tournament. That was the start of it though. And now they’re wasting time in a stairwell in the middle of Montreal.

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya leans close, causing Shane to blink out of five years ago.

“Saskatchewan,” Shane answers.

Ilya’s brows furrow before the memory slides into place. “The boring town I beat you in?”

“Hey, I beat you the following year,” Shane points out. 

Ilya leans closer, lips barely brushing Shane’s. “Seems like we need a tie breaker,” he whispers before kissing Shane slowly. “I know you hate to lose.”

Shane sighs into the kiss, ignoring the jab from Ilya. Not that he’s wrong. Shane hates coming in second, and the one person who seems to constantly render him a runner up is now kissing him like he’s starved of it. 

Ilya pulls back first with some difficulty, taking his coat from Shane’s hands. “Until next time, Hollander,” he says. “Try to play better.”

Shane laughs with a shake of his head. “Asshole,” he murmurs, but as Ilya pulls on his coat, Shane adds, “The next time we’ll see each other is at the Olympics.”

Ilya’s movements slow. He appears to think about it for a moment before saying, “Yes.”

His expression goes distant as Shane tries to talk around the obvious fact that the games were to be held in Russia. “I’m super excited. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of really,” Shane goes on to say, gaze dropping to the space beside Ilya’s shoes. “My parents were complaining that they couldn’t come out to see me play, but I’m sure they’ll happily ruin their sleep schedule to watch it all on the tv.”

He wants to ask if Ilya’s parents will be excited to see him play in their home country. Shane suspects that Ilya will probably be the captain of Team Russia, which is no small thing. Part of him feels immensely proud of Ilya even though he knows the two will have to compete against each other just as they have for most of their lives. That’s perhaps the most consistent part about them. 

Ilya has remained quiet this entire time, inspecting his sleeve. Shane swallows, knowing how cagey Ilya can get about certain things like home. Especially home. It’s a very thin line that he’s tumbled right off of whenever he’s attempted to balance on it.

“I’m assuming we can’t see each other then,” Shane says, already knowing the answer. He just wants to break Ilya out of his silence.

“No, Hollander,” he finally says. “We cannot.”

Shane nods at this with nothing really changing he supposes. His hands flex in his lap now that he no longer has something to hold, and really he’s waiting for Ilya to leave again so he can go back to pretending that all this doesn’t shift something within him. 

There’s a bit of shuffling by the door, but instead of the door opening, Ilya gently guides Shane’s face back up, capturing his lips sweetly and surprising him all the same. He leans forward, Ilya taking the movement in stride. His hand cards through the back of Shane’s hair and then he dips away with a pained smile. 

Shane lets out a breath, feeling more settled as Ilya slips out the door. He lets his head lean back on the railing with a pleasant smile remaining. The Olympics will be strange given there hasn’t really been a competition or place where the two of them haven’t crossed paths in ways that didn’t involve playing hockey. But Shane knows they both need to focus for their teams. He also knows the fact that the games are being played in Russia is probably weighing on Ilya and decides to stop pressing on the issue. It’s been made perfectly clear that Ilya kept his private life—more private than whatever they were doing—to himself. Shane could respect that. Besides, it’s not like he was going to be bored competing at the Olympic level. He also found himself somewhat excited to see Ilya play. When he wasn’t competing against him, there was no other player Shane would rather spend time watching.

Neither of them quite knew that there would be little watching done. They were barely a week into the games before Russia’s dream of Olympic gold faded fast.

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos! can't wait to ship Ilya's ass to torture town in the next update!

Chapter 5: Whatever You Want

Chapter Notes

Ilya pov I say with joy!!! (buckle up)
CW: mental health content, brief references of depression

February 2014

Ilya Rozanov was off his game. 

He knew it. His teammates knew it. His father definitely knew it. Hell, the whole fucking world knew it at this point because Russia lost. On home soil. To fucking Latvia. 

The shame of it riddles his whole body, rendering him tense and irritable and certainly wishing he were anywhere but here. In the lead up to the games, all the media could talk about was how excited he must be to play for his country back home. To be the captain that would bring them Olympic gold in front of their own audience. But then they got out on the ice and the anxiety of the weeks of preparation Ilya had felt suddenly made sense because everything blew up in their face and now they were simply the laughing stock and no one feels this shame more so than Ilya. 

It takes him forever to wake up this morning. His body aches from the cardboard beds they issue to all the athletes. Technically, he could probably travel back to Moscow given he still has a few weeks off before the games are up and Ilya is done competing. This is a reality that deeply pisses him off, but for some reason, getting up each morning to do something about it feels like the most difficult task in the world. When he does get around to it—his thoughts distant and stomach often empty—he drifts around the games, taking note of random competitions he can stumble upon just to stay here a little longer. 

He knows he’ll have to face his family eventually. The constant texts he keeps receiving from Alexei is a pretty big hint as to how fucked he is for avoiding the inevitable lecture for this long. Not that it really matters. His father’s anger will dissipate just as all his memories seem to these days. Ilya just doesn’t want to have to deal with that right now. He puts up with it enough as it is, especially given Alexei enjoys making everything ten times harder on him, on everyone. 

Ilya’s too tired to manage it all.

So he drifts. 

He’s always found figure skating rather fascinating. He understands the fundamentals of skating and how to dig your blades into the ice to get momentum, the twist of your hips and how to distribute your body weight correctly so you don’t fall flat on your face, but there’s something about figure skaters that easily holds his attention. The music fills the arena, occasionally spliced by the sound of a blade gliding across a sheet of white. 

Ilya rests his head on one of the support beams, removed of his Team Russia gear so he can pretend that he’s just like any of the other audience members. He is not Ilya Rozanov, an embarrassment to Russia. Nor is he the son of Grigori Rozanov whose name holds too much weight here. Ilya can pretend for just a few minutes that he isn’t suffocating. He’s nothing at all.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. One more text from Alexei he ignores. 

Another athlete is lining up to start their program, taking a slow lap around the rink’s outer edge before centering himself. 

The music filters in as does something else in his periphery that has Ilya’s whole body tensing. 

“Hey.”

Normally it would be an incredible relief to hear Shane Hollander’s voice. Ilya loves that voice. He craves it more than he should. But hearing it here makes his blood run cold. He feels his blunt nails dig into his palms that remain carefully hidden in his coat pockets. Turning his head to briefly look at Shane who looks back with no apprehension, he then directs his gaze back to the program before muttering, “Not here.”

Don’t you remember? I told you I could not have you in this place. 

“No, I’m not here for–” Shane’s words stop and start again. “I just saw you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” Ilya says shortly. “Go sit down.”

Shane doesn’t move. God, why won’t he move?

“We–”

Ilya shuts that down immediately. “We are not anything, Hollander,” he says between clenched teeth as if it were painful to say the lie aloud. “Go away. Please.”

You shouldn’t be here, Ilya thinks. Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He should be home. Needs to be. He can’t be this close to Shane when he’s like this. All of his careful work to remain stoic in front of someone like Shane instead of the disappointing mess he really is has started to fracture.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that first part and then I’m going to ask again if you’re okay,” Shane says quietly with no malice in his voice even though Ilya knows he deserves it. He’s being an asshole, true to the insult Shane and the rest of the hockey world so often throws at him. 

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes out. “Please. Go.”

Embarrassingly, his voice wavers on the last word. And even worse, Hollander does not immediately move. Ilya keeps his eyes on the figure skater below, ignoring how his vision becomes blurry. 

“Fine,” he hears Shane say softly. And then, “Fuck.”

Shane leaves then. Ilya only turns to watch him go when his back is facing him. Ilya feels himself continue to drown. 

This heaviness hangs off of him in the days following. It’s a miracle he’s even showing up to the gala his father insisted he had to attend for appearances. In a way, Ilya knows this is some sort of punishment. Ever since he became taller and stronger than his ailing father, things like this were the only way to really get a jab at Ilya. Not that it affected him all that much recently. The great Grigori Rozanov has been slowly whittled down to a man with declining health and too many metals on his suit. Ilya counts them as his father approaches with a drink and a critical eye. 

He assesses Ilya who made sure that everything about the suit and his appearance was perfect for tonight, but his father always finds a way to create a mistake even when there is not one. In this case, it’s Ilya’s hair. 

“You need a haircut,” he says shortly.

“Yes, sir,” Ilya responds easily, a habit of his. 

“It is some miracle the minister still wants to meet you tonight, despite everything,” his father goes on to mutter.

“I am honoured,” Ilya responds. His father presses the drink into his hand. Ilya washes down his humiliation and lets it settle in his empty stomach. 

“Like I said, it is a miracle considering your loss to…” His father’s sentence doesn’t finish itself. 

Ilya swallows, knowing that Grigori has barely taken interest in his hockey career since it began but that even if he had, a small detail like the team Ilya lost to would likely escape him unless it could be used as a criticism. 

Like now.

“Latvia,” Ilya offers. 

“Latvia,” Grigori repeats like it’s a curse. “My son, the great hockey player of our country. How could you let that happen? Do you not feel ashamed?”

“Of course I am ashamed, Father,” Ilya says perhaps a bit too shortly, but he’s felt nothing but shame for the last month and there is nothing he wants less than to be reminded about it by his father. 

“Not nearly as much as you should be,” Grigori criticizes. “That American league has made you soft. Made you sloppy. They have taken the talent from your youth and squandered it.”

Ilya lifts his chin slightly. “I am a better player now than I have ever been, Father,” he explains. “The team here did not connect in time. Our goalie is injured. The line changes were not practiced enough. Small things like that cost us.”

“Connection,” his father scoffs. “You do not need to befriend your teammates to get them to play well. You are the captain. This rests on your shoulders. You spend all that time in America and you have yet to lose the habit of looking for someone else to blame for your mistakes. You have been like this since you were a boy.”

Ilya clenches his jaw, wondering how much pressure it would take for all his teeth to crack. 

Since he was a boy, yes. He’s been reminded of his faults by the same man standing across from them since Ilya learned how to speak and understand the words being spoken to him.

Calm down, Ilya. Do not be so needy, Ilya. Get it together, Ilya. You’re burdensome when you’re like this, Ilya. Do not embarrass me, Ilya. 

The words drift through his head now, cycling over and over while he does not notice the moment his father’s eyes have latched onto a different fault. 

“Who tied this for you?” He asks, gesturing to Ilya’s bowtie. Ilya doesn’t respond with his mind trying to catch back up to the moment. Even more so when his father adds, “Was it your mother? She doesn’t know how to do this properly.”

Slowly, as Ilya feels that familiar ache strike through his chest, he says, “No, Father. Mom is dead. Don’t you remember?”

The reminder feels like a bomb going off in the otherwise silent room. His father’s gaze is still distant as he does his usual shtick of fumbling for a correction that doesn't feel too far off. Ilya knows he’s gotten worse given his lies aren’t as foolproof anymore. His father’s health has been a rollercoaster over the past few years. There have been brief periods of perfect lucidity that Ilya feels guilty for resenting, even more so when the alternative feels so much worse. Public appearances like today are far and few between now, and he’s not often in the country to deal with them the way he’s made sure Alexei will. But he can see it in his father’s disgruntled expression that time is slipping faster for him than the rest, and Ilya just can’t seem to get it all to stop. 

“I meant your stepmother,” his father says. Ah, yes. Ilya’s stepmother. Who is in Moscow. He continues to mess with Ilya’s bowtie, doing nothing more than straightening it from his initial fretting. 

Ilya slowly brings a hand up to stop his father. He needs to get out of this room. “We have to go or we will be late,” Ilya says. His father won’t stop looking at his damn bowtie. “To the gala,” Ilya adds, hoping to see some sort of recognition on his father’s face. “So I can meet the minister.”

His father’s expression remains blank, but he says, “Yes. The minister.”

He works through the last few minutes where his memory is clearly failing him. Ilya stays silent as they head toward the door with Grigori adding just as they go to leave, “Do not embarrass me any further, Ilya.”

And like the good son he tries to be, Ilya says, “Yes, sir.”

Ilya feels far away. He barely remembers the conversation with the minister and finds the endless rounds of drinks to be enough to keep his hands and mouth busy. He does not speak unless he is spoken to with his father at his side for most of the night to answer the questions for him. He doesn’t focus too much on how incorrect the answers are. Ilya doesn’t have the energy. He’s still too tired. 

“Ilya?”

He blinks and sees Svetlana approaching him. “You look like you are in need of another drink. I am sure you have heard enough about hockey for today.”

Svetlana’s father chuckles. “But you love talking about hockey, darling. You should join us.”

“Only when we are winning,” she corrects before reaching for Ilya’s hand and dragging him away. 

His head still feels a bit foggy and he’s lost track of how much he’s already had tonight. Clearly not enough given he’s still standing, but he lets Svetlana take him down a flight of stairs and mutters his thanks to her. 

“You looked miserable,” Svetlana points out. “Someone had to come save you.”

Ilya doesn’t agree with her but says, “I do want another drink.”

She continues to guide them toward a quieter part of the massive building. Chandeliers twinkle overhead with heavy curtains draping each of the windows they pass. The world is dark outside with Ilya wondering briefly about the results for the final. To his deepest annoyance, the final consists of Canada and the United States. Ilya hopes Shane wins it all to save him from their collective embarrassment of Scott Hunter winning anything.

“I have a better idea,” Svetlana says, bringing Ilya out of his thoughts. 

Ilya’s steps slow, letting his hand slip out of Svetlana’s. With an irritated huff, she turns back to him. Just past her is a set of doors to a closed off bathroom. There are barely any other guests loitering around here, but something in Ilya’s gut tells him there will be someone waiting beyond those doors. He thinks of Shane again though for entirely different reasons. 

“Come on,” Svetlana urges, gathering his hand again to drag him the final bit of distance before they’re both slipping into the bathroom. 

Sasha’s eyes meet his just before his nose drags across a line of coke. In the opposite mirror, he continues to watch Ilya as Svetlana perches herself on the edge of a bathtub with a bottle of what looks to be very expensive champagne. 

“Long time, Ilya,” Sasha says with a hazy grin. 

“Long time, Sasha,” he echoes. Ilya turns away and shucks off his suit jacket. His knuckles whiten against the counter and he briefly meets Svetlana’s gaze in the mirror. She’s taking a swig from the champagne bottle, studying him before she turns her attention to Sasha who gestures for the bottle. 

“I see he is in a bad mood,” Sasha comments. Svetlana only hums at this, not wanting to speak for Ilya. “There’s no reason to be, Ilya. I do not think you played that badly.”

Ilya scoffs as he leans against the bathroom sink. “I would say thank you, but you and I both know you didn’t watch a single game.”

Sasha raises the bottle to that comment, and Ilya feels some of his subdued anger start to simmer. Svetlana, easily noticing the developing tension, says, “Not that it matters much when there are more important things on the horizon, Ilya.”

Ilya frowns at her. “Is that so?”
“You and your team in Boston have a good shot at the cup this year,” Svetlana says, completely serious. And who is Ilya to doubt her? Maybe that’s why he lets her explain how the playoffs will work out with only the brief mention of Hollander and Montreal causing him to waver in his faith in her. But Svetlana continues to insist that Boston can take Montreal this year, explaining as she presses a bottle into Ilya’s hand and finally gives him that drink he so desperately needs that the journey to the cup following Montreal was easy. Sasha watches all of this with little interest. Ilya knows his attention is often fleeting, always wanting the next rush. 

“And I will be there to see it,” Svetlana finishes. “You will win the cup a year earlier than my father bet you would. The satisfaction will be worthwhile.”

Ilya smiles at her. It’s probably the first real smile he’s managed since being here. He wants to tell Svetlana how grateful he is for her. How she makes being in Boston easier given she’s the one lifeline to his culture that he doesn’t hate. 

“And until then,” Sasha cuts in, “we can go to the clubs to help Ilya relax. You seem so tense lately. I miss when you were fun.”

Ilya answers by taking another drink. Svetlana’s eyes narrow at the shift in his behavior and stays opposite to him with Sasha having switched places with her to lounge in the bathtub. 

“Unless Ilya has other plans,” Svetlana tries. 

Sasha looks between the two of them before groaning loudly and gathering up his drink. “Like a party? Or does he also not do that anymore. You have become a terribly serious person, Ilya.”

Ilya takes out his phone to stop himself from saying something stupid. 

“Maybe it is an early night for us,” Svetlana says. Ilya glances at her with a silent thank you. She smiles at him, but there’s concern in her eyes.

Ilya tries to ignore it as Sasha goes to leave, making a dramatic exit that involves a lot of sighing about how boring Ilya has become. And perhaps he has. Ilya wonders when the idea of that stopped seeming so terrible in his head. 

“Next time then,” Sasha exclaims. “It was nice to see you, Ilya.”

He offers nothing more than a nod and, “Sasha.”

Sasha smirks at him, shaking his head like he can’t believe this is the same Ilya he let bend him over behind the practice facilities back home. “What a waste,” he mutters and then he’s gone. 

Ilya has his eyes on the shut doors when Svetlana says, “You’ve met someone.”

Ilya turns to her slowly with a raised eyebrow. “No,” he says at first only for Svetlana to shoot him a look. The image of Shane fills his head then. The photo of them accidentally getting married filters in as well. Ilya has told no one about this, and he certainly does not plan to say anything here. Even if he desperately wants to describe Shane to Svetlana who will probably understand and could probably figure out a way to solve their problem if the two of them weren’t so set on extending the problem each time a solution presented itself. He would get divorced if Shane asked. Ilya has told himself this since his world was changed in the Nevada airport after a single phone call. He could let Shane go in that way if only to continue having him as he’s foolishly allowed himself to since he’d gotten a hotel room number out of Shane that one summer. The same thrill he felt then still hits him every time Shane asks for his room or they set up a time to meet in Montreal, in the building Shane bought and is still claiming to be for some real estate plan that makes no sense to Ilya. And with all of this, he misses him terribly. It’s a feeling that petrifies Ilya because it means they’ve gone too far. If the marriage is one thing, everything else is too much. 

“The situation is complicated,” he tells Svetlana, which is mostly truthful.

Svetlana has her arms crossed and eyes him. “Complicated enough that you refuse, Sasha?” Ilya gives a subtle nod. Her eyes narrow as she pushes off the sink counter, her heels clicking as she comes close and plucks the bottle out of Ilya’s hand. “What about me?” She tests. 

Ilya rests his free hand along her waist, the touch familiar and slotting perfectly in place as they had plenty of times before the thing in Vegas made everything in Ilya’s life more complicated. 

“My heart is not in it tonight, Sveta,” he says quietly. 

And though Ilya never wants to hurt her feelings, she rolls her eyes like he’s being too fragile with her. “It is sweet you think I’m dumb enough to believe this has anything to do with your heart.”

It has everything to do with his heart, actually, but Ilya has to keep that to himself. “You know I love you,” he tells her, meaning every word. 

Svetlana sighs before going on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yes, I know. Maybe one day you will love me enough to tell me about your complicated situation.”

“One day,” Ilya submits even though he knows he will probably be divorced from Shane before that day ever comes. But Svetlana doesn’t know about the marriage, nor does she know about Shane outside of his stupid hockey skills. So she takes his word for it now, considering it to be enough. 

They waste the rest of the night drinking in the bathroom until Svetlana complains about needing to sleep, causing her to leave Ilya alone in the bathroom with a nearly empty bottle. Without the distraction, his thoughts dip and his body settles into that bone deep tired that plagues him every now and then. He wishes he was back in Boston in bed where he could dim the windows and slip under the covers to never resurface unless someone absolutely needed something from him. But he can’t do that quite yet. No matter how much he wants that.

Don’t be so needy, Ilya.

He listens to his thoughts and makes sure his father is put to bed for the night. Ilya goes to the guest room he is staying at and finds another drink to silence everything a little longer. And without washing the remnants of the night off, he slips into bed and pretends tomorrow will be better. 

Things only get better when Ilya starts to feel a rhythm in his playing again. The fallout from Sochi is a brief media circus that he quietly dismisses any time a reporter brings it up. He always redirects their attention back to Boston and what they plan to accomplish by the end of the season. It seems Svetlana was not that far off from her predictions as Ilya and his team start to win consistently. It’s not long after Sochi that they’re at the top of their division with Ilya finally being able to funnel his excess anger and frustration from the Olympics into something. 

Others start to notice. His coach constantly praises him for his ability to lead with those praises making Ilya smile more than he has all year. Even more so when his team actively leans on him, trusting him with everything each night they go out on the ice. They’re an unstoppable force that blows past team after team as the playoffs commence. 

Ilya’s focus is entirely wrapped up in getting his team to the finals. So much so that he refuses to let himself slip into that needy comfort from Hollander who has not texted him since Sochi, leaving an unanswered message on Ilya’s phone asking if he was going to be all right. And that hurts a little bit, only because Ilya worked so hard to get back into his good graces after Nashville. He suspects that if he keeps fucking everything up every time Shane gives him a chance, a divorce will be the least of his problems. But thinking of the alternative causes him to spiral a bit so he doesn’t think of it at all. Ilya’s fine. Great even. 

He’s shaken off the shadow that comes whenever he is back home and beneath his father’s gaze. He has a purpose here in Boston with no one asking too much from him. So he plays his best for his team and they continue to win because of it. 

“Listen the fuck up!” He shouts with all murmurs in the locker room going silent. His pulse is racing as he goes on to talk about what this final game will mean for them. How he doesn’t want to drag this out and have them play in San Francisco. There is nothing more that Ilya wants right now than to win this game. For his teammates. To prove the world wrong. Maybe even a little for himself. 

In the background, the stadium rumbles with anticipation as if they were cheering at his very words. Ilya knows from the smug grins on his teammates' faces that they’re all in tonight. They just need this one game to take the series and then it will be over. Ilya can take a breath. 

Marleau comes close, grinning at Ilya. “Great fucking speech,” he says.

Ilya grins back in return. “Go fuck yourself.”

He pushes him out of the locker room before following. And just before their skates hit the ice to the drum of cheers and the flash of electric lights, Ilya untucks his necklace, kissing the crucifix once before tucking it safely back in place. 

Despite all his preparation, Ilya doesn’t remember much of the game. He only remembers the feeling of his gloves flying off and the sounds of skates rushing toward him. Marleau is screaming in his arms and the crowd screams with him. 

Everything blurs a bit after that. The cup gets handed to Ilya first as the captain and he knows he’s probably smiling too big. 

Calm down, Ilya.

But then his teammates are smiling with him, cheering as a camera comes close. Ilya lifts the cup and proclaims the win for his mother who he hopes watches every one of his games, even still. The crucifix flashes among the arena’s lights and for just that moment, it’s all enough. The families and partners take to the ice and Ilya just holds onto the trophy, smiling despite knowing his father is likely asleep back in Moscow. His brother will not have watched and will disregard any word of the game after hearing Ilya won it all. His coaches back in Russia will not care given he did not provide this winning streak for them in Sochi. 

He allows himself to depart with no ill will about any of it. How could he possibly think of them as he goes to celebrate later that night with his team. He gets nearly as drunk as he probably did in Vegas that one night. If only Shane were here so he could marry him all over again. 

The thought causes Ilya to slow his hand that’s halfway to bringing a glass to his lips again. Shane. 

Ilya has never wished to be in fucking Canada so badly in his life than right at this moment. But because he is not in Canada, nor is there a boring Canadian by his side to stupidly, accidentally marry once again because he thinks it would be nice to do it in Boston as well, he makes the nearest idiotic decision he can. 

The phone is ringing before he can think better of it as he mumbles something to Marleau about taking a call outside. The weather is perfect this time of year and it’s a beautiful contrast to the stuffy bar his whole team had holed up at for celebrations. Ilya breathes in deeply as he holds his phone close, listening to it ring and ring and ring. He’s a bit unsteady on his feet, but he chooses to blame all the drinking he’s been doing when he almost trips at the voice on the other end going, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ilya draws out happily. “Hi.”

Shane laughs quietly on the other end. “How drunk are you right now? Actually, don’t answer. Considering you’re talking to me right now, I can probably give a good estimate.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me, Hollander,” Ilya mutters. “I always want to talk to you.”

Shane is quiet for a little while before saying, “You do?”

Ilya hums into his phone as he presses it to his shoulder and searches for a cigarette. “Yes, yes, I want to hear my husband’s voice after winning big game,” he bemoans. Ilya knows he should probably quiet down. This is his city afterall and it would not be good for someone to recognize him and let it be known that Ilya Rozanov was talking on the phone and shouting about a husband. 

“Well, I’m here I guess,” Shane says, far quieter than Ilya. He imagines Shane probably at his apartment doing something boring like meditation because he read somewhere that it helps with sleep. The idea of Ilya interrupting that brings another smile to his face. 

With his cigarette lit, he sucks in hard and relishes in the faint burn coating his throat. “Not here,” Ilya corrects him, mumbling around his cigarette. 

Shane shifts or stands or something on his end with the sound muffled a bit before Shane’s voice comes through again. “I was starting to think you didn’t want to see me,” he says slowly as if he’s worried about telling Ilya this. 

Ilya remembers their conversation back at the Olympics clear as day. It haunted his dreams for a few weeks afterward, leaving Ilya irritable for several mornings from lack of sleep. But it’s not like he can go back and change what he said to Shane then. He’s not even sure he could really. The Olympics were a perfectly lined up catastrophe that Ilya saw coming since they announced the games would be held in Russia. There was no escaping his dread before, during, or after the shitshow that was his team’s performance, though winning the Stanley Cup has sweetened some of the bitterness of everything.

Still, Ilya deeply regrets Sochi and yet, he can’t explain it all to Shane. Certainly not then, and definitely not after how much he’s drunk tonight. He knows Shane has tried to pull little details out of him here and there after their occasional meetups and each time, Ilya has shut him down with a finality he’s impressed Shane keeps going up against. He’ll continue to smother curiosity if he has to. Even if Shane asks, Ilya knows he cannot burden him with everything wrong in Ilya’s life. They weren’t the type of people who did that for each other. Shane gives him things in other ways that Ilya selfishly holds onto, but he cannot let himself cross that final line and show Shane the ugliest parts of himself.  

You’re burdensome when you’re like this, Ilya.

“You still there?”

Ilya blinks, frowning at the cigarette wasting away in his hand. “Da,” he says a little hoarsely and then because he’s as selfish as he’s always been, he asks, “When will I see you next.”

Shane doesn’t answer at first. Ilya gathers up every miniscule ounce of patience he has, busying himself as he toes at the curb he’s been pacing by. Shane talks slowly again as if he’s trying to make sure Ilya is understanding everything that he’s asking. “Do you want to see me again?”

Ilya huffs. “Yes,” he says immediately. “Always.”

There must be enough conviction in his voice because he can hear Shane quietly sigh on the other end, and Ilya knows then that he’s won. “Next time will be in Vegas.”

Well that feels a little less like winning. 

Ilya forgets that amidst all the jokes he makes about their accidental marriage that none of it is real. Not quite. Especially when they approach the same conversation every year about fixing the issue entirely. And Ilya knows that he should comply. He really does. But he sort of enjoys having this secret with Shane. It’s maybe the one thing that Ilya can have of him and keep all to himself. 

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“I have an idea you will not like,” Ilya starts.

“More than any of your usual ideas?” Shane mumbles though not entirely shooting down Ilya’s clear avoidance of the larger topic screaming at them both. 

“This one you will really not like,” Ilya pushes but he does wait for Hollander to fully buy in, at least hearing him out.

“What’s your idea?” Shane asks with much less hesitation than Ilya expected.

“We will both be up for MVP at awards,” Ilya explains. 

“They haven’t released the nominations yet, but yeah. Most likely.”

Ilya paces the front of the bar again, head ducked even though anyone within the vicinity of the place would probably recognize him. Already he’s getting a few glances from the waiting queue at the front door, prompting Ilya to casually cross the street to a quieter area. He knows Shane gets anxious about people finding out about them. This small thing he can do to prevent him from feeling overwhelmed, especially given what Ilya’s about to ask him.

“If you win, we divorce,” Ilya says with the idea still too fresh in his head to make complete sense, but he feels determined so he adds, “And if I win, we wait another year.”

“You’re right,” Shane says distantly. “I hate this idea.”

“Don’t be so boring, Hollander,” Ilya whines. “One last competition for the season since your team lost in second round.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he can hear the laughter in Hollander’s voice. Ilya holds onto it, hoping that this silly idea of his will get the okay. He just needs Shane to agree even though they both know that Ilya probably has the award in the bag. 

Shane seems to think so as he finally says, “Do you really want to do this another year?”

For many years if you would let me, Ilya thinks. But he doesn’t want to scare Shane off given he is so easily spooked so he slips into his usual unaffected demeanor as if every decision he’s made in his life was on a whim. “Is easy secret to keep,” he says, though sometimes it feels like that familiar suffocation. Ilya doesn’t mention that bit to Shane because no one else knows about that feeling and no one else will. His mother knew about it. But she’s not here to comfort him when those thoughts come. That remains in Ilya’s head with all his other complicated feelings when it comes to Shane Hollander.  

Shane hums on the other end. Ilya can imagine his face scrunched in concentration, overthinking everything as always. He wishes they were together right now so he could run his hands over Shane’s face, smoothing everything out. 

“One last competition then?” Shane speaks again, breaking Ilya out of his thoughts.

He feels a small smile play on his lips. This is his favorite thing in the world, he thinks. Competing with Shane is something he hopes to do for a very long time. 

-

June 2014

Both of them knew it wasn’t going to be a close call. What Ilya had managed to accomplish following his return from the Olympics was nothing short of a Cinderella story as the reporters had started calling it. 

Not that Boston had been doing terribly prior to Sochi, but the team Ilya pulled together in the months afterward was certainly something that felt once in a lifetime. So he pretends to be humble when he accepts the award for MVP. He raises it with a wolfish grin for the cameras with no one else in the crowded room of his colleagues and coaches knowing the gravity of winning an award he knows will likely come into his possession again some other season down the line. He spots Shane slowly clapping from the audience. Ilya raises the award a little higher, adding a wink for good measure. 

The gravity lingers on him as he undoes the buttons of his dress shirt and then takes a long sip of vodka he poured for himself like he needed it for strength. Ilya shakes out his arms, vaguely looking at the label of the bottle after being somewhat surprised it wasn’t shit.

Shane should be on his way. 

Ilya chose an entirely separate hotel that was a few blocks away from the awards and the celebrations that always concluded the night. He suspects no one will miss him after his subtle disappearance following one round of celebratory drinks. Vegas is a city that never sleeps, and he is known to love everything messy that comes with that, so he will let them all assume he is out there somewhere making terrible decisions and not waiting alone in a hotel room for someone special. 

Ilya is not the most patient person in the world, but Shane frustratingly does things to him. Shane is perhaps the only person Ilya would ever wait for.

The knock on the door comes a little before midnight. 

Ilya pushes off the wall he was leaning against, bare feet striding across the room to reach for the door. He simply undoes the lock, cracking it before turning around to pace again. Another sip of vodka, another attempt to dampen his nerves. 

The door closes behind him. Ilya keeps his gaze firmly on the city skyline. It’s been too long since he’s been back here. This useless place has become important to him now and perhaps important to the person behind him who says, “Congratulations.”

Ilya grins as he turns, arms spread wide. He takes in Shane’s slow drag of his eyes from Ilya’s hips to the bare skin peeking out from his undone dress shirt. God, he missed this.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it. He’s heard congrats hundreds of times tonight, but hearing it from Shane is the only thing he really cares for. 

Shane has his suit jacket off and draped over his forearm. He lingers near the massive couch, studying Ilya with a decent amount of space between them. Ilya can tell he’s nervous as well by the small tick in his jaw that means he’s probably shredding the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Ilya wants to kiss him senselessly to get him to stop.

But he doesn’t get the chance as Shane blows out a long breath and says, “Just so you know, by choosing to not get divorced tonight, we are actively choosing to remain married. For literally no reason.”

Ilya pretends that doesn’t hurt to hear. He shrugs to hide anything his face may betray. “I have plenty of reasons,” he mumbles into his glass.

“I haven’t heard them,” Shane counters.

Ilya’s gaze flicks to the windows that cover one side of the room. “I hear health insurance when married is very nice. I keep fucking up my shoulder so this will be good to have better care for. Canadian citizenship is also good thing to have. I hear your national team may need help in the future.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, far too soft for how grave the conversation is starting to feel despite Ilya’s best efforts to make it anything else. But hearing Shane say his name like that always renders him quiet. “I’m serious. What are we doing?”
“What we always have done,” Ilya says with disinterest as his chest tightens only slightly. 

“We haven’t always been married,” Shane points out, voice still small in a too big room. 

“Yes, quite obvious, Hollander,” Ilya mutters. He feels his frustrations start to rise and maybe he should stop making ridiculous bets and decisions while drunk. 

Shane is holding his jacket a little tighter. Ilya’s eyes focus on the movement before he scoffs, turning away again. “If this is too much for you, we go get divorce now, yes?” Ilya mutters.

He can’t see Shane’s reaction behind him, but he can hear the hesitancy as he responds with, “That wasn’t part of the bet.”

“Fuck the bet, Hollander,” Ilya snaps irritably. “Is simple joke, like the marriage. If you do not want to continue, we can go now.”

He finishes his vodka and finally faces Shane again. His eyes are wide and his expression is almost struck, making Ilya want to swallow every wrong thing he’s ever said. 

Get it together, Ilya.

“I just–” Shane starts, words stuttering as his eyes drop to the floor and a hand comes up to scrub the back of his neck. “It’s not a joke,” he whispers. “No matter how much we pretend it is, it’s not. Forget all the problems it could cause for our careers. What if you find someone else you actually want to marry or even be with? I don’t want to keep you tied to something where you get nothing out of it.”
“I get plenty out of it,” Ilya responds coldly. Shane flinches at his tone, but before he can say anything else stupid, Ilya asks, “What about you? Do you want to find someone else to be with? Maybe a nice girl who can wear your jersey in the stands.”

He’s being mean. He knows it and it reads on Shane’s face as shock. Shane seems absolutely horrified at the idea, but there’s a pinched furrow to his brows like he’s also catching up with himself that he is horrified by being with anyone else. They’re not together though. Not like that. A sham marriage and a few hookups does not make a relationship. Ilya thought he knew better.

“I don’t want that,” Shane breathes out. 

Ilya risks taking a step forward. “Then what do you want?” He asks with Shane none the wiser about how much Ilya needs to hear him say he wants him. That their accidental situation means Shane chooses Ilya just this once. They can get the divorce sorted when it all inevitably comes crashing down, but for now? Ilya needs this.

“I want–”

Shane cuts himself off. His chest is expanding and collapsing rapidly as if he were in the highest of precipices and Ilya was taunting him to jump from it. Ilya can recognize the panic in his eyes that matches the tremor in Ilya’s chest. He’s setting aside his empty glass to caress Shane’s face even without his answer. Shane lets out a breath that sounds more like a whimper as he squeezes his eyes shut, head shaking in Ilya’s gentle hold. 

“I’m not–” He tries again. “This isn’t–”

Shane tries to swallow another breath. Ilya takes his jacket from him, leaving it carelessly on the couch before he leans close, trying to get into Shane’s field of vision. 

“Shane,” Ilya says gently. He rubs a thumb across the freckles decorating Shane’s cheek. “Shane,” he repeats, “breathe with me. Focus on just me. There is no one else here. This,” he adds, tapping Shane’s rapidly beating heart and then his own, “can be whatever you want it to be.”

Shane nearly doubles over when he manages to swallow his first full breath of air. Ilya continues to hold him, letting Shane collapse into his shoulder. His hands slide from Shane’s face to the back of his head. Ilya presses a chaste kiss to his hair before he can think better of it. 

“Whatever you want,” he repeats. 

Shane is fisting the back of his shirt, focusing on the sound of Ilya’s voice, of his own chest rising and falling. Ilya can barely explain his own feelings on all of this, so he doesn’t expect Shane to explain what’s going through his head. 

But he does manage to get out, “I don’t want to lose this.”

Ilya smiles because Shane’s head is still tucked against his chest and he won’t be able to see how ridiculously happy he makes him. “You aren’t going to lose anything. Except for the MVP award.”

Shane lets out a weak laugh. “Asshole,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. His eyes are still a bit unfocused when he looks up at Ilya. 

“You like it,” Ilya comments.

Shane hums. “Yeah,” he whispers as if it pains him to admit it. “I do.”

Shane leans forward first, and Ilya finally gets what he’s been waiting for since Shane walked into the room. He presses hard into Shane, going slowly as he starts to drag them to the separate bedroom. Ilya takes his time, eyes squeezed shut as he waits for Shane to take the lead again, to let Ilya continue until they’re both gasping for air and sleepily tangling their limbs in the afterglow of the one good thing in Ilya’s life. 

He does his best to keep it. As his hand slides down the length of Shane’s back and he leans over him, breaths coming out in short gasps as Shane grips the headboard, face flush against the sheets. “Stay,” Ilya moans. “Stay here with me after.”

Shane mutters an expletive as Ilya maintains his pace only to stutter a bit when Shane leans back into him. Ilya’s close and he can’t help but push Shane further into the bed, picking back up his pace. Shane breathes hard but somewhere in the mess of it, he whispers, “Okay, okay, okay.”

Ilya leans forward to press a kiss along his spine, relief flooding him as he comes down from his release. He keeps kissing along Shane’s back; a silent thank you for an answer, for agreeing to stay for once. It will be a nice reprieve until he has to go back to Russia where this can’t exist. Where he will drift away until he’s allowed to resurface in Boston, a little less like himself but still present as much as he can manage. And then the season will commence and the walls will slowly be chipped away by his surroundings, by the person in his arms that he curls around, feeling safer in a random hotel room than anywhere else in the world.

Ilya loses track of time as they lay there in the aftermath. He’s idly tracing lines along Shane’s arm with Shane’s back pressed against his chest. He wishes they were facing each other though when Shane whispers, “We can wait. I want to– We can wait.”

Ilya’s hand pauses. He waits for Shane to correct himself, but it doesn’t come. Still, he asks, “If you are sure.”

“I’m sure,” Shane whispers, turning slightly to look Ilya in the eyes. 

Ilya looks down at him, tracing every inch of his face to commit it to memory. Even if his mind fails him one day like it has his father’s, Ilya hopes that he can still hold on to these memories. He desperately wants to remember Shane like this forever. 

“Okay,” he says before pressing a kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. They don’t give any justifiable reason why they’re staying married. Smart decisions with clear answers are not a strong suit of theirs, so why bother now. Ilya will not be the one to go and suddenly change their routine. Why should he when Shane starts to drift asleep in his arms with Ilya following soon after.   

He sleeps easier that night than he has in months.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so sooo much for everyone reading!!! All the comments are so kind and really help with motivation for writing so yippee!

Chapter 6: When It Comes To You

Chapter Notes

to everyone waiting for an injury scene or getting outed just you wait!!! I have like three other chapter written and none of that has happened yet. think of this like a slow burn for divorce where I'm micro dosing happy moments before everything goes wrong.

A short update for now!

June 2014

It’s a slow morning. Shane hasn’t had one of those in a while. He blinks his eyes open slowly, body settling against silk sheets in a bed that definitely isn’t his. Nor does it belong to the hotel room he was staying at while in Vegas. 

The previous night comes back to him in bits and pieces. Shane finds himself smiling as he watches the morning sun dip through the wall of windows he’s facing. His eyes drift close again while he stretches his arm out to the other side of the bed, searching for warmth. But his fingers glide across nothing but sheets, causing Shane to irritably huff and roll over. 

Ilya’s side of the bed is empty. Shane blinks tiredly and forces himself to sit up. His annoyance only fades when he hears the shower going in the attached bathroom. Shane flops back into the bed with his smile returning at the knowledge of Ilya having stayed as well. Shane is surprised he even agreed to stay last night at all, but then he remembers Ilya coming close to hold him and Shane knew there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He cranes his head back to the other side of the bed, trying to see what time it is. His flight wasn’t scheduled until later in the night in case he needed to stay in Vegas longer but given they’d sort of decided to just leave the marriage as is for now, Shane has almost a whole day to waste. His eyes don’t latch on the digital clock however. They instead focus on a small box left just on the corner of the nightstand on his side of the bed. 

Shane’s heart starts to climb into his throat as he sits up again. He looks back at the door to the bathroom and then back to the box. That’s certainly not his, whatever it is. He’s reaching for it before he can overthink why Ilya left something on his nightstand. 

There was no one else in the room that could have left it behind and Ilya wouldn’t just leave it next to Shane if it wasn’t meant for him right? Shane isn’t quite sure though as he holds the box in his lap. It’s light and simple. It’s also clearly a jewelry box. He knows what could be in the box. All he has to do is open it and then put it aside and wait for Ilya to explain why he’s left a ring box for Shane to wake up to. 

But he ends up taking too long to decide. He’s still focused on the small box in his hands when Ilya exits the shower, stepping into the bedroom with a towel slung low on his lips. He slows his steps, noticing that Shane is awake, and when Shane turns, his eyes flick down to the box in his hand. A small smile plays on his lips as he goes over to where his clothes are discarded.

“Is gift,” he says casually. “Anniversary present.”

Shane’s heart does that funny thing whenever Ilya casually brings up the marriage as if it were really just a simple event in their life that didn’t have Shane panicking last night at the mere idea of it not getting erased from existence because they… didn’t want to? Shane still felt unclear about it all, and here Ilya was, leaving a ring box for him.

“Is this what I think it is?” Shane asks, finding his voice. 

Ilya shrugs. “Open up and see.”

Even after being told to, Shane hesitates. Pretending that doing the whole accidental marriage thing for another year is one thing, but pushing it to this… Shane takes a deep breath and opens the box.

It’s a signet ring, gold and faintly engraved with a ‘24’ on the face. The bed dips behind him. Ilya has crawled closer until he’s resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder, peering down at the gift that feels monumental in Shane’s trembling grasp. “I felt bad that your team is terrible and you not only lost in playoffs but would also lose to me last night,” Ilya explains with still a bit of humor clinging to his voice. Shane can’t stop staring at the gold glinting in his lap. His eyes start to sting as Ilya continues murmuring by his ear.

“There is a chain underneath it so you do not have to have it out in public if you do not want to,” he says. “Is nothing big, Hollander.”

“I didn’t get anything for you,” Shane whispers, voice scratchy as he turns to Ilya. He didn’t get anything for Ilya because he didn’t realize that was the sort of thing they did. Then again, they don’t usually spend the whole night with each other. This morning is a first for a few things, and Shane’s head is sort of spinning from all of it.

Ilya pulls even closer, moving to sit beside Shane on the bed. “Last night is enough,” he says easily, but Shane can’t shake the gentleness of Ilya thinking to get him anything at all.

“No, come on,” he urges. “This is too nice. I can’t accept it unless you get something too.”

Ilya smirks at this. “Want to buy me a ring, Hollander?”

Shane’s face heats up at this. “Or anything else you want,” he throws in a little too quickly. “Anniversary present, you know.”

Ilya rolls his eyes but he’s smiling like he enjoys seeing Shane all flustered over nothing. “Surprise me,” he says, standing to go in search of his shirt.

Shane remains seated, watching as Ilya patters around the room, stopping once to decline a call after staring at the caller ID for a beat too long to not make Shane curious.

“When are you leaving Vegas?” He asks.

Ilya glances at him from where he’s shaking out his discarded suit jacket. “Later today,” he says. “I’m going back to Russia.”

The fact that Ilya offers Shane this instead of Shane having to pry it out of him feels like another new step down a hallway Shane is currently navigating blind. It’s a tiny opening that Ilya is allowing him to look into, but every time he tries to cross the threshold, the walls immediately slot back into place. 

Shane doesn’t want to ruin the morning by going back to square one, so he asks, “If I get you something, should I send it to you there?”

Ilya fully turns to him. “No,” he says immediately. “Definitely do not do that. Send it to my place in Boston. I’ll text you the address. It will give me something to look forward to when I come back for the season.”

Shane’s never been to Ilya’s apartment. But now he’ll have his address. And he also now has a ring. That Ilya gave him. And a marriage that has not been tampered with despite their insistence that it needs to be gone at some point.

He looks down at the ring again and then back up at Ilya. “Ilya,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya stops his shuffling about and looks at Shane, sensing the change in demeanor. 

“What does this mean?” He asks almost sheepishly, like a love sick teenager who just got his first letter passed to him in class by his all consuming crush. Shane isn’t in love with Ilya though. He feels sick all the same.

“Well,” Ilya starts, “It is a ring. They are very common in marriage–”

“But we’re not…” Shane feels his chest tightening again just as it did last night. He notices that Ilya takes a step forward, noticing the change too, but Shane blinks hard and shakes his head. He can’t panic right now. He needs this to make sense to him before Ilya leaves.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” is what comes out of his mouth. Seconds of silence that feels like minutes, maybe hours, tick by.

Ilya has gone completely still, face empty of emotion as he says, “Nothing, Hollander. You don’t need to give me anything.”

His eyes flick from Shane to the box in his hand. He probably doesn’t realize that he’s holding onto his jacket a little tightly, but Shane notices. “You can sell it when we get divorced next year,” Ilya adds. “Is probably worth something.”

Shane frowns, thinking about the ring tucked beneath his jersey as he’s getting checked into the boards. “Well now I feel nervous about wearing it.”

It’s a small admittance that not only is he going to wear it, but he’s going to let his confusion pass for now. Ilya clearly thought it would be a nice gesture based on the worst inside joke between just the two of them. Shane’s birthday was about a month ago anyway. He’s received similarly nice things from his friends and teammates. This can be something like that.

“Don’t be nervous,” Ilya says, rounding the room again to crouch in front of Shane. “It probably won’t break if your defense gets better.”

Shane rolls his eyes as Ilya smiles up at him, hands draped over Shane’s knees. He looks once more at the ring and says, “This just feels like a pretty significant gift for a mistake.”

Ilya hums, shrugging again as if the ring meant nothing. “Consider it an apology for making you put up with me for another year.”

Ilya stands then, but not before pausing halfway up to plant a kiss on the corner of Shane’s mouth. His phone rings again, causing him to pause. Ilya mutters in Russian, angrily pulling out his phone and glancing at Shane once with a pinched expression before blowing out a long breath. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. Ilya steps to the other side of the room where a wall divides the living space from the bedroom and answers the phone. Shane remains sitting still on the edge of the bed, listening to Ilya’s clipped Russian reverberating from the other side of the wall. He can’t understand a word Ilya is saying, but it feels like he’s eavesdropping either way. 

Forcing himself to focus on the ring still in his lap, he tunes out Ilya and sighs. Don’t overthink this, he tells himself. He repeats it again in his head as he tugs the ring free from its box. 

True to Ilya’s word, a matching chain is looped through it. It’s long enough that Shane suspects it’ll easily hide beneath any of his clothes if he wants to wear it at all. He could just keep it in the box as a nice memory of something Ilya Rozanov gave him. His thumb brushes over the engraving, and Shane realizes he’s smiling again. 

Ignoring everything within him that says this is going to end up going south, Shane loops the chain over his head and decides to get ready for the morning. At his own insistence, he will not overthink this. The ring is simply a nice gesture that Shane is intent on returning the favor for. He mulls over what Ilya would actually appreciate as he showers; the spray of water loud enough to drown out Ilya’s ongoing heated conversation in the other room. But when he finishes, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, Shane realizes the conversation must have finally come to a stop. 

Carefully, he enters the bedroom again to find Ilya looking out the window, standing there motionless, perhaps as still as Shane has ever seen him. Ilya must know that Shane has returned, but he doesn’t turn to greet him with a smile Shane knows is probably forced. He’s been able to pick apart when Ilya actually means the emotions he’s trying to tell the world. His eyes are more expressive than he realizes. 

Whatever conversation they were about to have, Shane doesn’t want to do it while naked so he picks up his clothes, changing into them quietly. His dress shirt is halfway buttoned up when Ilya finally looks at him. His eyes find the small flash of the ring slung low around Shane’s neck and the morose expression he was wearing fades only slightly. Shane chooses to believe the small threat of a smile is just for him.

“Looks nice,” Ilya comments.

Shane straightens, hand coming up to press against the weight of the ring before he does up the final buttons, hiding it away. “Everything okay?” He decides to ask. 

Ilya’s expression shifts again, erasing that glimpse of joy. “Yes,” he says immediately. 

Shane doesn’t respond at first. They stand too far away, looking at each other in their suits from the night before. Shane has his hands wrapped around his jacket, grip tightening when Ilya corrects himself and says, “No.”

His eyes flick to the floor, jaw jumping like he’s admonishing himself for admitting a small thing. “I wanted to spend the day with you.” 

Shane can tell that adding that miniscule statement—a want, a need—pains Ilya. “You have to go now?” Shane asks, moving closer until he’s within arm’s length of Ilya. That distance is closed as he reaches out, shaking hand finding Ilya’s limp grip. They let their fingers tangle, neither saying anything about this being something too soft for them. Shane is wearing a ring around his neck; he thinks they’re allowed a few more unusual things this morning. 

Ilya’s fingers curl tightly around Shane’s hand. “There are things I have to do,” Ilya gives him a half-answer. 

Shane squeezes his hand in return, trying to give a bit of reassurance. “Okay,” he says. “That’s fine. Do you need a car to the airport?”

Ilya draws his eyes up from their entwined hands to Shane’s face. His thumb is brushing against Shane’s cheek in the next moment while he looks at Shane as if there were something wondrous about him. Shane knows what it’s like to be stared at. For an entire stadium of people to have their eyes on just him, but no one has ever quite looked at him the way Ilya does. His heart is in his throat, which Ilya can probably feel as he drags his hand down from Shane’s face to where his pulse hammers. 

“I do not need you to take care of me, Hollander,” Ilya says quietly. “I can get to airport just fine.”

His hand continues to drag down until it stops right at Shane’s sternum where the ring sits beneath the thin layer that is his dress shirt. The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches before he drops his hand altogether. “I will see you in Boston,” Ilya finally adds with a small exhale.

“Okay,” Shane murmurs back, but neither of them move just yet. Ilya continues to stare into Shane’s eyes as if needing an answer to an unspoken question. 

The silence is broken by shaky Russian. “Мне бы хотелось, чтобы этого было достаточно,” Ilya says quietly, his hand tightening around Shane’s before releasing it entirely. He steps around him, leaving Shane by the window to watch him go.

“What did you say?” He asks. Ilya has his back turned as he retrieves his jacket and phone he discarded on the bed. 

“Nothing,” Ilya murmurs. “Is nothing.”

Shane follows him to the other room while Ilya heads toward the door. He stops at the threshold to the bedroom, watching as Ilya also pauses by the door. “See you in Boston, Hollander,” he says. 

“See you,” Shane says back. Ilya’s shoulders are tense as he slips out of the room and Shane remains where he is, watching the hotel door click close. 

He stays there for a while, doing nothing. He doesn’t remember letting his hand pull out the ring from beneath his shirt where his thumb now slides over the face in a reassuring motion. The awareness of the action makes him frown though, additionally causing him to get on with his day. He gathers the rest of his things and leaves, pretending that he still wasn’t overthinking any of this.

That thought persists even after he’s changed and finds himself wandering around Vegas for a shop that will give him what he needs. Shane has sunglasses and a hat pulled low on his head. If anyone recognized him and saw the stores he’d been frequenting, the media circus that would follow would be an absolute nightmare. Shane doesn’t want to imagine what dumb excuse his agent would have to help him type up for eager reporters wanting the latest scoop on the perpetually single captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. 

The thought of probable headlines makes him cringe as he ducks into a jewelry store that has rows and rows of glass cases. Shane walks slowly through the narrow path, mumbling apologies when he accidentally bumps into people who are in and out while he carefully looks at the selection. He picks over the mess of silver and gold, of diamonds and other gems that bring way too much attention than what Shane is looking for. Shane starts to wonder if he’s out of luck again when his steps slow near the corner of one of the cases. His hands are in his pockets but he almost moves to reach for one ring in particular. 

“Find something you like?”

Shane’s gaze snaps up to find the store owner on the other side of the case. “Um,” he says first before finding his words. “Yeah, actually. The one in the corner. Second row.”

Shane doesn’t even know if it’s the right size. Hell, he doesn’t know Ilya’s ring size. They never talked about this because it wasn’t supposed to be a thing that was happening. Only now it was as the ring gets boxed up after Shane asks the owner to make some adjustments and then he’s slipping out of the store, head kept low as he melts back into Vegas’ midday crowds.

-

September 2014

Ilya comes back to his place in Boston with a heavy feeling in his chest he thought he could shake on the flight from Russia. He should know better by now. 

Running a tired hand over his face, he fumbles with his keys momentarily before shouldering his way inside. He’s greeted by a mountain of packages someone has carefully stacked by the doorway that now tumble to the floor at Ilya’s worn sneakers running right into them. He curses under his breath in Russian before taking a deep breath and dropping his keys into the nearby bowl. Ilya pulls his suitcase inside with another huff and slams the door with too much satisfaction that dissipates when he realizes his annoyance is still present. 

Ilya presses his back into his front door, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and not unearth himself until someone is dragging him to the rink for pre-season. Home always makes him like this. Tired and filled with too many complicated feelings all blanketed by an overwhelming sense of sadness. For what? Ilya has yet to figure that out.

Maybe it’s for his father’s health that continues to decline at a rapid pace while they all pretend that nothing is wrong even though the medical bills that are forwarded to Ilya’s address here say something completely different. Or maybe it’s because he gets glimpses of his niece and then of his brother and so much guilt swirls through him that it renders him useless to do anything that matters. Home has started to feel less and less like a place Ilya wants to return to. Ilya knows it hasn’t been a place he enjoys for some time now, but the feeling is more actualized now as if all that was left to wait for was the second shoe dropping and punching a hole in the fragile foundation of Ilya’s life. 

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes blinking hard. He needs to do something. Being still always makes him antsy like if he’s not moving, his thoughts will catch up to him. He should turn on the tv to any movie or channel just to have noise fill up his too big house. There was not much Ilya hated more than silence.

He moves forward to fix all these things when his shoe collides with one of the fallen packages. Ilya watches it skid across his floor before resting by the windows that make up one of the walls of his house. The box is small, probably no bigger than his hand, which makes Ilya curious as to what it could be. 

He takes it into the kitchen, setting it on the counter as he cracks open his fridge, ignoring the ginger ales he has lined up on one of the shelves for the fateful day he allows Shane Hollander into his home. Maybe this year he can coax Shane out of their usual routine in Boston to try something new. Ilya would much prefer to see Shane in his bed than some random hotel room.

Ilya takes a long drink of a beer even though it is the last thing he should be drinking this close to the season, but he’s had a long day. He deserves something nice.

He sets the glass by the package, fingers drumming on the counter in anticipation that he doesn’t understand. Ilya works his jaw and finally goes to open the box. He fumbles with the cardboard tearaway strip that finally allows him to see what’s inside. His eyes narrow when he turns the box over and out comes another box. 

Well, not just any box. Ilya feels his breathing slow. 

There’s a card at the bottom. Ilya leaves the other box to the side while he pulls it out, feeling himself start to smile when he realizes what this is. There, in neat, typed print:

Happy Anniversary.

-S

Ilya runs a thumb over the card. It’s nothing special. It’s a piece of paper, but Ilya imagines Shane overthinking something so simple and he can’t help the watery laugh that escapes, echoing in the emptiness of his home. He sets the card aside and finally opens the box. 

Set against plush velvet is a ring, silver and engraved just as Ilya had engraved the one he gave Shane. ‘81’ flashes up at him as he rotates the box in his hand. Ilya feels so terribly giddy about this that he almost misses the telltale sound of something sliding around in the bottom of the ring box. He wastes no time now, taking out the ring and trying it on each finger until it fits. 

Then he takes out the cushion to see the bottom of the box. He expects a chain even though Ilya would probably just slide the ring next to his mother’s crucifix. But what he finds instead is something he could have never expected. Another laugh escapes, though this one out of shock. 

The set of keys sits there, and Ilya doesn’t have to guess what they’re for. He’s seen Shane pull out these same keys countless times whenever he finds himself in Montreal. The apartment Ilya has sort of invaded in every capacity while waiting for Shane to tell him to knock it off. He never says anything though, so Ilya continues to leave things behind or comment about changes to make in the endless renovations and decorations so there are bits of each of them in every room. 

Ilya takes the keys out of the box as his eyes burn. He curls his hand around them protectively and feels himself breathing a little easier. 

-

October 2014

“So Rozanov, coming off your team’s Stanley Cup win, how do you think you’re faring this season?”

Ilya leans closer to the mic, fresh from the showers with his curls sticking to his damp forehead. Shane watches the television intently, more than he should, face neutral until he sees it. 

“Good,” Ilya answers easily. “The team looks good.”

His answers are always short with that grin of his making up for what the reporters actually want. They always ask for a show, and Ilya always gives it to them. 

“And what about you?” The reporter presses. “What does Ilya Rozanov have for the NHL this season?”

Ilya combs a hand through his damp hair. Silver flashes on the pinky finger of his left hand. Shane misses his answer as ringing fills his ears and maybe a bit of pride. 

Mine, mine, mine.

-

January 2015

“Hollander.”

Shane lowers himself for the face-off. “Rozanov.”

Ilya’s eyes flick down to the glimpse of a chain peaking out from beneath Shane’s jersey. A lazy smile spreads across his lips. It’s distracting enough for Shane to lose the face-off, but not the game. 

Montreal has been winning a lot lately. 

When they win the cup, Ilya can’t even find it in himself to be mad. He watches as Shane is passed the cup to lift before Montreal and their ridiculous fans. The camera angle is shaky and the lights halo Hollander briefly before Ilya sees the golden chain slip out with the ring flashing just as Shane lifts the cup, smiling without a care in the world. 

Ilya takes out his phone, opening his messages and typing before he can think better of it.

Lily: Now we’re even.

Shane probably won’t see it until much later in the night when the celebrations have died down or Shane inevitably leaves them early because having too much fun is against him. Ilya stares at the message once, frowning suddenly before he looks back up to the tv. Shane is surrounded by his teammates who are all screaming and cheering. Ilya realizes he now has the same number of Stanley Cups as Hayden Pike, which is horrifying enough, only there’s something else simmering right beneath the surface.

Ilya stands from his couch, heading toward the patio to smoke while Shane Hollander’s sweat covered, grinning face takes up his television screen. 

The cigarette doesn’t even feel good as Ilya hears Shane’s perfect French echo from his living room. He flicks ashes into his grass and forces smoke out of his lungs. 

-

June 2015

He’s smoking again even though he knows Shane hates it. But the motherfucker got to gloat with his team about winning the cup this year so Ilya is allowed one smoke. Vegas sparkles down below and Ilya lets his eyes blur over as he looks out onto a city that means far too much for him considering he should have no connection to it. 

He can tell Shane has moved from the chair he was haunting behind the corner when he hears the balcony door open a little further. Ilya keeps his back turned, heart starting to pick up speed as he waits for Shane to ask him to finish things off and go with him to the chapel to end their agreement. 

“Do you want to?” Shane whispers.

Ilya blows out smoke, eyes closing slowly. His thumb comes up to rub at the inner band of the ring still on his pinky. “Whatever you want, Hollander,” he says, stamping out the unfinished cigarette as he’s no longer in the mood.

His grip tightens around the balcony railing with his ring tapping incessantly against the metal before he hears Hollander breathe out a short sigh. “I meant do you want to hold off for another year,” Shane clarifies. “I need your opinion because if we’re not in agreement, I’ll go through with a divorce.”

Ilya turns slowly to find Shane anxiously chewing on the inside of his check, fingers tapping against the balcony door. His eyes are focused on only Ilya, but his body is filled with so much tension Ilya decides then and there to take pity on him. 

“We are even now, yes?” Ilya asks instead of answering Shane. “One cup a piece,” he confirms.

Shane doesn’t move from the doorway even as Ilya takes a step closer. They’re both shirtless with the occasional article of clothing pulled back on just so Ilya could get some air when he started to think that the end of the night meant the end of everything else.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “But I think I’ve got next season too.” 

“Oh, yes. You and your weak backhand will take your poor team all the way,” Ilya murmurs, hands sliding around Shane’s bare hips as he backs him into the room. Shane loosens up slightly, a smile slipping through as he looks up at Ilya. 

“Weak backhand?” He questions.

Ilya nods seriously. “I can forgive you for it,” Ilya says as Shane goes to sit down on the edge of the bed before letting Ilya push him back even further. He stands in front of Shane, gazing down at him and feeling his chest tighten with that unnamed feeling that’s been lingering for a few months now. Ilya pushes it down as he has each time, pretending that if he ignores it, he won’t have to end things with Shane. 

“We wait,” Ilya says slowly. “Whoever wins the cup decides divorce next year.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling easier now that Ilya is in agreement with him. “Do you have to make everything a competition?”

“When it comes to you, yes,” Ilya says before lowering himself and capturing Shane’s lips with his. 

Chapter End Notes

fun fact, signet rings worn on on the pinky used to be flagging in the community when you couldn't exactly be out :)

thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 7: An Honest Man

Chapter Notes

For those of you that guessed a rose appearance was coming, congrats your prayers are answered! For those that were worried about cheating, do not worry. It is not present in this house because Ilya would blow it up. a short update before shit hits the fan again.
Enjoy!

October 2015

“There are too many of them,” Hayden mumbles as he watches Ruby and Jade race through the aquarium tunnel, squealing in delight when they notice a stingray resting on top. 

Shane idly pushes the stroller that has Arthur conked out beside Hayden, smirking as he says, “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Hayden mockingly gasps before grinning and shoving Shane lightly as they both laugh at the absurdity of it all. Hayden turns back to his two oldest with his expression softening as it usually does whenever he looks at his kids. “My fault, my problem, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Good,” Shane says. “I’m sure Jackie would be pissed with an answer that’s anything less.”

Hayden sighs blissfully. “I don’t deserve her.”

“Not really,” Shane agrees.

That earns him another push. Shane plays along by shushing Hayden before pointing to Arthur who’s completely unaware of the nuisance that is his dad and his best friend. Hayden rolls his eyes but lowers his voice. “What about you buddy?”

Shane suddenly becomes very focused on the sea life in the tunnel. “What about me?”

Hayden says, “I mean when are you going to have the same problems I do? Marriage, kids, all that.”

Shane doesn’t answer at first. His brain snags on the word marriage and he has the urge to reach for the ring safely hidden beneath his hoodie. He can’t though. He can’t also mention that he technically has been married for four years and that it’s only a problem when he remembers he shouldn’t be married at all. 

Four years. Jesus Christ. 

Shane doesn’t realize he’s frowning when Hayden bumps his arm into him. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t mean to freak you out with all this stuff. I guess we should get you on a date first before we start throwing around words like marriage and kids.”

Shane forces himself to smile but he knows it probably comes off a little wrong. “I’m just not interested in anything right now,” he says robotically. Hayden looks at him like he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying, but because Hayden can sometimes be a good friend, he merely places a hand on Shane’s shoulder and nods.

“Sure thing. Let me know when it happens though. Whoever it will be is going to be the luckiest girl,” Hayden grins. 

Shane continues to smile even if he thinks he can feel something breaking in him. He watches his best friend get distracted by the pleas of his other kids who drag him down the tunnel. Hayden shoots him a look as if to say, can you believe this?

And Shane can’t. Not really. Because he’s been married for four years off of a whim and a few poorly timed bets. For him, there is no lucky… girl. There’s no kids or happy home that always gets described when he and the rest of his teammates huddle into the Pike’s house. 

He has hotel rooms and a ring he hides away and an apartment no one knows about and a man who makes him weak in the knees and makes his heart race faster than any hockey game has. Ilya’s face fills up his mind and Shane almost lets out a tearful laugh. He’s so beautiful when he doesn’t think anyone is watching him. In those quiet moments that Shane collects with far too much greed, he holds onto Ilya’s little idiosyncrasies, commits them to memory, and believes that it all means something. 

Shane doesn’t know when this switch happened. He’s always been infatuated with Ilya since he came across him all those years ago at the World Juniors when Ilya was more boyish but just as shut off as if waiting for someone like Shane to pick at the puzzle meticulously. But then infatuation turned into something softer, which only terrifies Shane because the marriage means nothing unless he puts feelings to it. If it means more than a ridiculous accident, then he has to stop it all immediately. He can’t let himself get tangled into a lie with Ilya when he doesn’t know how the other man feels about all of this. Shane knows that realistically neither of them can be completely straight, but he also knows Ilya has a history that means there are far more possibilities in the world for him when it comes to an ideal partner—someone he might actually want to be married to. 

And what does Shane want?

He’s always wanted to be married one day, but after having been doing exactly that—though unconventionally—the gaping question of what now stares back at him. He suddenly wants to go after Hayden and explain everything. Leave it in someone else’s hands so a decision can be made where Shane doesn’t feel entirely responsible for the wrong outcome. 

Four years echoes in his ears and he blinks hard in the aquarium tunnel where no one else knows that Shane Hollander has no fucking clue what he’s doing with his life. 

Arthur wakes up with a fussy whine. Shane’s vision clears as he uses the distraction to put all his issues aside again and again and again. He unbuckles Arthur from the stroller and easily picks him up from all the practice of spending nights and time at the Pike’s house. Shane doesn’t consider himself the best with children despite Jackie’s insistence on the contrary, but maybe he’s not too bad because Arthur’s big and teary eyes find his face and he settles before a full blown meltdown can occur. 

Shane rocks him a bit, smiling as Arthur starts to paw at his face before he goes to clutch his hoodie. “You all right there?” Shane whispers. “Don’t worry. Your dad will be right back.”

Arthur doesn’t respond because he obviously doesn’t understand a word Shane is saying. Shane doesn’t need him to though. Sometimes it’s just nice to talk to someone.

“Excuse me?”

Shane tries to school his expression into something neutral before he turns slowly, angling Arthur’s face away as he knows what’s waiting for him. He feels only a little badly about being annoyed when he notices that it’s two young girls anxiously holding their phones close. 

“Are you Shane Hollander?” One of them asks.

Shane bites back a sigh and nods, forcing a smile as he glances toward the phones. “Do you want a picture?” He offers. No point in denying it early. A few of the other aquarium guests overhear him though with their interest piqued. At the end of the tunnel, Hayden is on his way back with a giggling child in each of his hands. He raises an eyebrow at Shane as if to ask if he needs to step in. Shane shrugs as the girls in front of him practically cheer with excitement. 

“Oh my god, yes!”

They look around frantically, eyes landing on Hayden ironically before phones are being thrust in his general direction. “Could you take our picture?”

Shane has to swallow a laugh at Hayden’s face given the girls clearly don’t recognize him. “Sure,” he says because he’s not about to ruin their days.

Ruby and Jade stand by their father as he gathers the two phones. He eyes Shane when he says, “You want it with the baby?”

Right. Arthur is still tucked in Shane’s grasp. He mumbles some apologies to the teens as he tries to set the baby down only his hand has caught on something which stops Shane from being able to straighten back up. But when he realizes what Arthur has in his tiny grasp, Shane freezes.

Arthur has an iron grip around the chain holding his ring. Shane thinks he apologies again before crouching in front of a literal baby and slowly tries to unwork his fingers that seem rather intent on holding onto the damn necklace. “Come on buddy,” Shane mumbles before he finally frees himself.

He straightens awkwardly, smiling as if nothing is wrong. He thinks about tucking the necklace back in place, but Hayden is already looking at him strangely with the two kids still waiting for their damn picture. Shane shuts it all out and backs up, leaning forward slightly to match the girls’ heights as Hayden takes the photos. 

They thank him profusely with a few other aquarium guests switching from hovering to also asking for photos. Shane says yes to every single one, only relaxing slightly when someone actually recognizes Hayden and also asks for a photo. He signs a few things and then forces himself to say that he has to head out. 

Shane grabs the stroller, checks to see if Arthur is correctly in place and that Hayden has Ruby and Jade before they make their exit. On the way out, when Hayden is distracted, he tucks the ring away, letting it fall by his heart that’s hammering in his chest. He thinks of all the photos he just took. All the curious eyes that analyze too much of his life, always more than he wants. 

They’ll put it all together, he thinks when they get out to the parking lot. They’ll discover everything and then my life will be over. Our lives.

“Hey, you okay?” Hayden asks when he notices Shane lingering by the passenger door. The kids are safely buckled, giggling in the back about Uncle Shane being famous. 

“Yeah,” Shane says unconvincingly. “Sorry I ruined the kids' aquarium trip.”

Hayden squints at him for a moment, and Shane thinks then that he’s going to ask about the necklace and the ring that he’s kept hidden for the last few years for reasons that wouldn’t make sense to anyone without the whole story. But for the second time today, Hayden sets aside his curiosity and shrugs. “They saw what they wanted to. I bet Jackie will want them down for a nap anyway.” 

He gives Shane’s arm a reassuring squeeze before heading toward the driver’s side. Shane continues to force his unconvincing smile as he slides into his seat. 

He spends the entire ride back to the Pike’s with his gaze distant and his thoughts spiraling. 

-

November 2015

“Hollander, come on,” J.J. sighs loudly. They’re all finishing up in the locker room after a tough win against Toronto. Shane has an assist and a goal to his name. The team continues to look as good as they did at the end of last season. He doesn’t want to jinx anything though so he keeps his thoughts to himself and tries to tune into whatever J.J. is trying to ask him.

“I don’t know,” Shane mumbles, turning to his locker to grab the ring and subtly sliding it over his head and beneath his clean clothes. Hayden still hasn’t brought it up, so Shane continues to pretend none of this is going to blow up in his face.

“You always do this man,” J.J. complains. “You don’t even have a good excuse this time.”

J.J. was desperate to go out and get drinks to celebrate another home win. Shane wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse in the eyes of his friend.

“A few of the other boys are coming along. Even Pike is managing to get away for a few hours,” J.J. insists. 

Shane rubs at the back of his neck. J.J.’s eyes are wide and intent on him saying yes with a few other mumbles of confirmation across the room about being there for brief celebrations as well. Shane is the captain. He should celebrate with his team instead of disappearing to his apartment every chance he gets. Their eyes are set on doing a two-peat this season. He needs the team to be cohesive.

“Fine,” he relents. “Where are we going?”

J.J. grins, pulling Shane into a side hug as he starts to drag him out of the locker room. 

They end up at some fancy place downtown where the drinks are definitely overpriced and the crowd matches the price tag. Shane orders a single beer because they didn’t have anything else he wanted. He takes a sip as he turns to look back at the table where his team is and wonders how long he realistically needs to stay here before he can leave. The music is loud, making conversation even louder as people shout and try to navigate the crowded place.

“Sure you don’t want something stronger?” The bartender asks. 

Shane shakes his head with an awkward laugh. “You wouldn’t even let me pay for the beer. I’m good,” he says. 

The bartender smirks. “You’re Shane Hollander, man! Anything you want is on the house,” he says with a wink.

Shane feels his face heat as he raises his glass in a pathetic salute. 

“I knew I wasn’t seeing things when I thought I recognized some of the Voyageurs in the back.”

Shane turns, expecting to find a random fan he’ll forget about at the end of the night, only to see…Rose Landry?

“Uh,” he stutters over his words as she smiles at him, waiting for him to get over his clearly embarrassing moment of being starstruck. “Sorry, it’s just…”

Man, this is going really poorly, Shane thinks.

“Oh, please,” Rose says to ease Shane out of his awkward mumbling. “If anyone should be impressed, it’s me. You’re like the guy of Montreal.”

She nods to the free drink in his hand before raising her own and taking a sip. Shane smiles but finds himself ducking his head slightly. “I don’t know about that,” he says. 

Rose shakes her head, hand reaching across the bar to place it on his arm. He flicks his eyes down at the brief contact before distractingly looking at his drink. “No, no,” Rose is saying. “You’re being too humble.”

Shane smiles shyly again, but Rose retracts her hand all the same. “I’m probably making this weird,” she says in a rush. 

“You’re not,” Shane insists. I am.

She clearly recognizes how terrible Shane is when it comes to maintaining a conversation and shoots him that gentle smile again. “Let’s start over,” she says before offering a hand. “I’m Rose.”

Shane pauses briefly before finding himself laughing quietly. He takes her hand. “Shane.”

The shake is brief, but Rose continues to take the lead as they linger near their corner of the bar. “Nice to meet you Shane. What do you do for work?” She asks.

They’re both smiling like idiots at this point, but it’s easier to play along than try to navigate a conversation with someone Shane actually considers to be famous. “I play hockey,” he tells her. “And you?”

Rose pretends to act surprised by his job before she shrugs. “I act a little,” she says.

“Only a little?” Shane asks.

Rose sighs dramatically though Shane can see there’s a bit of annoyance in her expression that slips through the humor they’d been trying to maintain. She rotates the straw in her drink with just her finger as she says, “If you call pretending to get kidnapped a bunch of times acting, then sure. That gets boring if anything. What about you? Ever get bored of playing hockey?”

“Never,” Shane finds himself answering immediately, meaning it entirely. 

Rose smirks at how easy it was for him to answer. She leans on her hand and tells him, “You should try getting fake kidnapped if you’re looking for a change. I know a guy.”

“Is that why you’re here in Montreal? Is your guy up to something?” Shane asks, wondering if she’s filming something here. He has the urge to look around the bar as if there will be a multitude of other famous people he can make a fool of himself in front of. 

Rose leans forward a little closer. “No, actually. Now you have to keep this quiet but we’re doing re-shoots for the sequel to X-Squad,” Rose says, schooling her face into false seriousness. “Also, don’t tell anyone this too, but the whole thing is a mess. The fans are going to hate it.”

She goes back to rotating her straw as Shane honestly says, “Really? I was kind of looking forward to seeing it.”

Rose’s eyes snap to him. “You’re joking,” she says. When Shane gives a small shake of his head, her shock melts into something more appreciative. Shane wasn’t about to tell her that those movies were the easiest to watch on the countless flights he was always on. That and the fifty other movies in the same genre. He thought she’d been pretty good in the first one though. “You’re a fan then?” Rose asks.

Shane hesitates before deciding on the least embarrassing answer, “Casual fan of the movies. You have a lot of other decent stuff though.”

Rose hums, pleased with his assessment. “And I’ve seen a decent amount of your games. I can see why Montreal holds you in such high regards.”

Shane’s eyes widen at that. “Really?” 

The concept of famous people watching his games wasn’t anything new, but for some reason having one of them say so to his face sort of broke the whole mirage of it all. Rose is nodding at him. “Of course!” She says. “But if anyone from Michigan found out I was happy you guys won the cup last season, they’d never let me back in the state.”

Shane shakes his head with a laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Rose is grinning back at him and that awkwardness from the beginning has faded into the background. They continue to talk with Shane’s inclination of wanting to leave also being forgotten. He finds it’s actually really nice to talk to someone who won’t always bring the conversation back to hockey. He learns about some of the gossip on set and thinks that maybe Rose likes this too. Shane’s had friends before, but they’d always been teammates or people he’s played with at some point and decided to keep in touch with. It becomes rather startling to learn that outside of those options, his only other sort of friends would be his parents. 

Shaking that embarrassing fact out of his head, he also considers the fact that he’s never really had a friend who’s a girl. He had friends who were girls in school, but then the occasional few month stints of ‘dating’ really put a wrench in his plans on finding out what that could actually look like. Dating someone always ruins things, and Shane always wondered why that is. 

“So that means I’ll probably be here for another month since they can’t get the guy to deliver his lines without a tantrum,” Rose is saying. “I’m telling you, they’re all drama queens and then the press have the audacity to write hit pieces on all the women when the movie doesn’t perform well.”

“I believe you,” Shane says, knowing full well just how annoying any sort of press could be at the worst possible moments as if that was their job and not any decent reporting. 

Rose sighs at the thought of the inevitable before asking, “So since it seems like I’m going to be here for a while, what else is there to do in town?”

Shane leans back a bit, considering what would be a good recommendation for someone like Rose Landry. He’s not even sure he has an answer outside of the occasional restaurant his teammates have raved about, but he’s never found himself at. But Rose could probably get good food anywhere. There were of course the local markets and all the tourist traps that would be a nightmare for her, all of which brings Shane up rather short when it comes to having an answer.

“There’s some good restaurants in the area,” he says a little flatly. He gives her an apologetic look, adding, “Sorry, I don’t really get out that much and I travel for most of the year.”

“Seriously?” Rose says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“It’s more of my teammates’ thing to go out,” he says with a shrug. The reminder that he actually didn’t show up here alone hits him then. Shane turns slightly with Rose following his line of vision to the rowdy corner where J.J. has somehow commandeered a bunch of cards that are being sorted for a game soon. Funnily enough, Shane actually does recognize some other actors that are in Montreal for the same reason Rose is. His teammates all laughing and talking among themselves without a single clue that Shane has been without them for nearly an hour.

“I’ve been keeping you here this whole time!”

Rose’s voice has him turning back around. Shane is about to say that’s completely fine, but then he feels that touch again; just on the outside of his forearm. It’s brief and barely worth any notice, but Shane is already looking down at her hand that is now slowly removing itself.

“Sorry,” Rose says suddenly with a small smile as she tucks her hands in her lap. Both of them had already finished their drinks, leaving them to simply take up space in an already crowded place.

Shane immediately shakes his head, heart starting to hammer in his chest. He didn’t think the glance had been that obvious, but that single touch had him wanting to stand and maybe text someone who should be at least in the third period of a game in California. But that urge shouldn’t even exist here when Shane had genuinely thought he’d been having a good time talking with Rose. He thought that maybe this time, things could be different. “No, it’s fine,” he insists even as Rose tries to maintain a half-hearted smile. 

Shane has ruined things in an instant. There are no more drinks coming. Rose looks past him again at her castmates lingering by his teammates all crowded around a table he really doesn’t want to go to. Someone shouts again from that corner, nearly causing him to flinch. 

“It’s just–”

His mouth goes slightly dry. Rose still hasn’t left yet. She looks at him with wide eyes and a neutral expression. They don’t owe anything to each other. Hell, they just met. Rose is also probably one of the few people he’s met and been able to tolerate speaking for as long as they have in a place that had made Shane immediately feel desperate for air. This isn’t his scene, he’s reminded. Whatever he thought was going well with Rose is gone. He sort of wishes Ilya were here right now.

“I’m technically married.”

The words come out in a rush, earning a surprised, “Oh!” from Rose who immediately laughs, covering her face with her hands. Shane tries to focus on how even he can keep his breathing despite his mind training toward the fact he said technically. What does that even mean? Why would he tell essentially a stranger—a very famous stranger—his most well-guarded secret of the last four years? “I’m such an idiot,” Rose chastises herself, bringing Shane out of his thoughts even though he’s the actual idiot right now. “I can’t believe I just tried to flirt with a married man.”

Shane tries to laugh but it sounds more like a wheeze. “You didn’t know,” he says. “No one knows really.”

Rose drops her hands back into her lap and tilts her head slightly like she’s seeing him in a new light. “I was going to say, I figured the whole world would be up in arms if Shane Hollander had someone waiting for him at home.”

Her eyes flick down to the lack of a ring on his finger and then back to his face that probably holds a pained expression. She stands suddenly, and Shane’s anxiety shoots up again. “Come on,” Rose says, offering a hand this time instead of reaching for him. “Too many people here.”

Shane feels his shoulders collapse in relief. She wasn’t going to leave him here. He takes her hand and lets himself be dragged through the crowd and out the front door of the bar. The winter air immediately hits them with Rose slipping her hand from his to tuck them into her coat that she immediately goes to button. Shane zips his and continues to follow as they walk down the sidewalk. 

“I have an early call time tomorrow and need to get back to my hotel. I figured you just wanted privacy,” Rose explains with her breath frosting the air before them. Shane hums some sort of agreement to simply walk with her assumedly toward the direction of whatever fancy hotel they had the whole cast holed up in for the length of shooting. “So,” she starts again when they’re a block away from the bar. “Were you serious about no one knowing?”

Shane silently nods, hands shoved a little deeper into his pockets. The ring around his neck suddenly feels all the more present with the air making the chain cold against his skin. 

“I understand wanting privacy,” Rose goes on, unperturbed by Shane’s sudden descent into quiet. “Anyone I’m ever seen with gets blasted on every tabloid within a week.”

Something about that statement tells Shane that he should probably worry about that, but his mind his elsewhere given the first thing he says since they left the bar is, “You can’t tell anyone.”

Rose stops walking. Shane stops with her, turning slightly as he fidgets to keep warm. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are brushed red from the cold. The smile she gives him is sympathetic instead of pitying even if her eyes are searching him for a beat before settling, like she’s just realized there are clearly some missing pieces as to why Shane’s apparent marriage is a secret to everyone he knows. 

“I won’t,” Rose says. “I promise. You keep all my secrets about this disaster movie I’m shooting, and I’ll keep this secret for you.”

Shane has no clue who he would even tell about the drama going on with Rose’s movie. He’s not sure if Ilya’s even seen the first one to make it worthy gossip. 

“Okay,” he says, voice sounding small and maybe a little defeated. 

“Can I hug you?” Rose asks suddenly.

Shane blinks down at her. “Um…”

Her hands slip out of her pockets, immediately curling in on themselves because of the cold. Shane feels like he has to run a marathon to ease the tightening mess going on in his chest that’s only persisted despite leaving the overcrowded bar. Rose has been nothing but nice to him all night. A hug sounds really good right now actually.

“Yeah.”

She hugs him tightly and he holds her as he lets out a shuddering breath. Rose is on her tiptoes so her chin rests right on his shoulder as she mumbles, “Must be someone special if you’re protecting them like this.”

Shane lets out a short laugh with his eyes suddenly stinging. Rose rubs a hand along his back briefly before they’re pulling away. The weight on his chest is still there, but it’s lessened slightly. She offers him the crook of her arm. “Walk me the rest of the way back to my hotel?”

“Of course,” he says, hooking his arm with hers. 

They walk another block, enjoying the sound of the city as it slogged its way through another winter. Shane manages to swallow the ambush of emotions that had hit him and decides that he can freak out about acting this way in front of a celebrity when he’s alone back in his apartment. 

“You know, I always wondered what it would be like to date a hockey player. Or any professional athlete, I suppose,” Rose muses aloud.

Shane thinks of all his teammates in relationships. Of Hayden and Jackie and the little ones racing around their legs and Hayden always saving a warmup puck for them even though the twins definitely got bored of it a few years ago. He also thinks of Jackie being unable to travel with them because the kids have school and finding a babysitter is a nightmare. The late night facetimes where Hayden will sometimes fall asleep after a hard game before getting to tell his wife goodnight. He thinks of his other teammates and their wives who dutifully attend the games they can to see their husbands take hit after hit or have opposing crowds boo them so loudly it seems to echo. He also thinks of the ones who are still in that dating phase where Shane has to be reminded of the name of whoever they were seeing at the time with it all being an endless rotation like some nightmare carousel.

Then he thinks of whatever the hell he has with Ilya. The occasional text, the even less frequent call, the late night car ride to a spare hotel, the apartment waiting for either of them on the other side of this very city, the score of Ilya’s game Shane has pulled up on a hidden browser on his phone, and the inevitable divorce that will make all this disappear. 

“You could always date someone who works in hockey,” Shane says, trying to hide the frown that slips onto his face. 

They come to a stop in front of a massive hotel that has a doorman and waiting valet service. Rose turns to him, making it known this is her stop. “We should trade numbers so if you find anyone, you can introduce us,” she says. It sounds like she’s mostly joking, but Shane obliges anyway.

He gets out his phone and turns it toward her so she can put her number in. “We should also hang out more while I’m here. I have no doubt they’re going to have to extend shooting. Maybe we can find some nice places in the city together. Just as friends,” she assures, glancing up before returning his phone. “Don’t let your wife think it’s anything else. I want to keep you an honest man, Shane.”

He pockets his phone and tries to keep smiling at her. The word ‘wife’ keeps blinking in his head like an emergency light. “Yeah, honest,” he says perhaps a bit too quietly. Rose misses the slip this time and waves at him as she jogs inside to get warm. Shane waits outside the hotel a little longer until he can tell she’s at the elevators. 

Then he turns slowly, heading back in the complete opposite direction to where his apartment is—the one without all of the things Ilya and him happen to keep in one place now. And with the newfound loneliness, Shane descends quietly into his thoughts that keep racing even as he gets home and tumbles into a fitful sleep.

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much for reading!!

Chapter 8: Talk Soon?

Chapter Notes

Shane: why do you grow distant white boy?
Ilya: there are horrors plotting against me and you
Shane: this is a misunderstanding
Ilya: the horrors...
-
I fear I was laughing at all your comments theorizing about how ilya was going to react. This is more of a Shane heavy chapter because I wanted to strike him down with clinical anxiety. the other one also has clinical depression and their years long fake marriage is not going steady.

CW: brief description of panic attack, passive suicidal ideation

The tabloid story gets released two weeks later. 

They have a home game tonight against a team they should beat. Shane thought the morning skate went well and was back at his apartment to go through his painstakingly organized pre-game routine when his phone dings from the kitchen. 

He thinks nothing of it at first until it dings again. And again. Someone calls him next with his phone now buzzing erratically on the counter. 

Frowning, he rushes over, hoping that it’s not something to do with the game. They were almost to the halfway point of the season and the last thing they needed were accidents happening. 

But it’s not a text or a missed call from his teammates or coach. At least not yet. 

The first is an email notification from his agent, which Shane has come to learn is never good. The next is a text from his mom in their family groupchat, followed by a missed call. That’s also never good.

Shane chooses the email first. 

Do you want us to put out a statement confirming or denying?

He reads that line over and over before he scrolls a bit and sees the screenshot of a gossip newspaper that has a blurry photo of him and Rose walking arm and arm from two weeks ago. Bright, yellow font is splashed across the image with a smaller one of them talking at the bar framed in the corner. Rose’s hand rests on his arm. 

MONTREAL’S OWN, SHANE HOLLANDER, SEEN OUT AND ABOUT WITH ACTRESS, ROSE LANDRY: Individuals close to the two have confirmed they’ve been quietly going steady for months! Turn to page 27 to read more!

“What the fuck?” Shane audibly blurts in his empty kitchen. 

He exits the email and immediately goes to google himself. His pulse starts to hammer as he sees pages and pages of varying articles all with the similar headlines confirming that he’s supposedly started dating Rose Landry. He’s rapidly scrolling through one of the articles, frowning at the plain inaccuracy of everything when he stops at a particular paragraph.

Shane takes a seat on one of his kitchen barstools and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. 

Though it is rumored that the Voyageurs captain has been with the actress for a few months now, fans and other sources are not so sure. Witnesses at the bar that initially placed Hollander and Landry claim that the star hockey player had mentioned being married. This alleged statement made by Hollander also appears among circulated rumors from fans reportedly seeing him buying a ring in Las Vegas last year. Pictures recently taken with Hollander from fans also show him sporting a ring around a necklace that appears to be a new addition for the captain. Could this mean that Shane Hollander has been married without the public knowing? Even more enticing is the fact that Hollander was reported to go back with Landry to a hotel where she is staying during the filming of the upcoming X-Squad sequel currently completing shooting in Montreal. Is Shane Hollander not the nice guy he claims to be? Is he–

His phone clatters against the counter. He tries to breathe in once. Fails slightly. Squeezes his eyes shut and tries again. Better this time. Not good enough. 

He fumbles as he goes back to google, typing his name, misspelling it from how bad his hands are shaking, retyping, and then adding married with a question mark at the end. The results pull up links for twitter and the occasional article that has a scant line or two about this supposed witness having overheard him blurt to Rose that he’s fucking married. There’s a reddit thread here and there that speculate more on the marriage with people typing happily away swearing that they know for sure or that they’re going to find out when it happened. Twitter is worse. There are endless photos of him that day at the aquarium with Hayden. The ring is visible. He’s never been seen wearing it before then. He’d been so careful even with his teammates. He takes it off when he showers and would hide it beneath his clothes every chance he got. He swore no one saw him getting Ilya’s ring in Vegas. He swore no one would know about the fucking accidental marriage that was still in place off of a bet. He worked so hard to keep this all to himself and it’s suddenly blowing up in his face and splashed all over the internet. 

He gets a text from Rose.

Shane shakily breathes out and swipes out of Twitter to look at it. 

Rose: I just saw. I’m so sorry. I’ve already told my people to get it resolved. I should have warned you someone was going to make up stupid rumors. 

Rumors.

Shane realizes she must not have seen the one that speculated he was married. He goes back to the email his agent sent and finds the main tabloid that seemed to be heading the story. A quick glance through and not once is the marriage mentioned. He goes back to his texts.

Shane: It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful too.

Rose: Me more so than you! I can have my people talk to yours. This will be old news by the end of the week if things go as they usually do, but I really am sorry again. Let me know if there’s anything I can do! I can skip your game tonight if you think it’ll make things worse!

Fuck. Shane had completely forgotten that Rose was going to see the Voyageurs tonight with a bunch of her castmates. Shane had organized the tickets when he’d failed to yet again, think of something fun they could do together in the city on the few off days he had. 

Shane: You can still come. It’ll be nice to see you.

He hits send and exits out of his messages. His mom texts again. Then his dad. He swipes away the notifications and goes back to the internet. He sees image after image of him smiling awkwardly with the ring Ilya got him standing out against the white hoodie he’d worn that day at the aquarium. There are multiple comments and captions of distress about the rumored marriage alongside people claiming he’s not married at all. Those are significantly less in numbers though.

Marriage licenses are public record. You could just look it up.

He reads that particular comment and feels his chest tighten so abruptly that it actually feels painful. He hasn’t googled this stuff since that morning after it all happened. Shane can’t remember if Ilya checked to see if the marriage license was confidential. He can’t even remember if that was an option at that chapel. Typing his name next to Rozanov’s and then married feels like he’s stepped back to four years ago only he was panicking in a hotel room instead of his apartment. The deafening silence feels the same.

There’s nothing that comes up. He tries variations of it, debating on calling the chapel in Vegas to see if they even remember them from years ago when countless marriages have probably occurred since. He wonders if they can do anything to keep it extremely hidden, whatever that entails, only for his thoughts to come up short when he realizes that the most full proof way to make it so no one ever found out was to get the marriage annulled. Sure, that was another record people could probably search, but by next year, this could be the last thing people will be thinking about. And if anything came up again, there would be nothing to find. News and gossip move fast. Old news by the end of the week. Just like Rose had said. Shane has a solution. He just needs to breathe. 

Fuck, why is it so hard to breathe right now?

Shane lets out a pained groan as his body stretches forward. His forehead hits the cool granite of his kitchen counter as he tries to talk himself down. Most of the gossip was about him and Rose. There were far less mentions of a suspected marriage. The proof was word of mouth…and some pictures of him at a ring store and with a ring around his neck. 

That’s nothing, he tries to tell himself, but it doesn’t make the pounding in his ears subside. 

His phone is ringing again.

Blinking hard, he sees his mom’s contact photo pop up on the screen again. Shane knows that putting off talking to her will only make her worry. If this is all supposedly nothing that will blow over in a few days, he needs to act like it and not as if his world was being upended because realistically it hadn’t. Right?

He answers just before the call can go to his voicemail. 

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Oh, Shane finally!” His mom breathes out on the other line. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, wincing at how distant he sounds. “Sorry, I was doing– something and missed your call.”

He doesn’t mention the unanswered texts. His mom makes a noise of acknowledgement that tells him she knows he’s lying, but she skips over a brief lecture to ask, “I saw the tabloid thing. Rose Landry? How do you two even know each other?”

Shane pretends it doesn’t hurt to hear wisps of hope in his mother’s voice. He hasn’t had a steady relationship in what’s felt like years. Certainly not since he started his professional hockey career. Unless you counted– Yeah, no. Not in years. 

“It’s not like that, mom,” he says, focusing on a particular stain on his counter. His fingers itch to clean it. 

“What’s it like then?” His mom asks gently.

Shane turns his mouth away from the phone as he lets out an audible sigh. That painful feeling in his chest still persists and rubbing incessantly at his sternum isn’t helping. Nothing is helping. “We met on accident on a night out with my team,” he starts, picturing the bar easily in his head and the way he felt like you could hear a pin drop when he’d told Rose he’s married. The horrifying thought of his mom finding out he’s married from a celebrity gossip tabloid hits him, sending a new shockwave of nerves that makes him want to curl in on himself. 

“We’re just friends,” he says slowly. His mouth feels incredibly dry as his mom hums contemplatively like she’s already trying to figure out how to spin this into something positive.

“And she’d say the same thing?”

“Yes,” Shane answers immediately. “We should have known that people would see us talking and assume things. It’s fine. Rose said her people would handle it.”

Another hum. Shane wishes his mom would just tell him what she’s thinking. “And what about you?” She says instead. “Are you handling it?”

There’s still several opened tabs on his phone and an extensive search history that feels almost more damning than anything the tabloids wrote. “Yeah,” he says.

Yuna sighs then. “Your agent copied me on the email notice, Shane.” She tells him this as kindly as she can, but he can hear the tinge of worry. He’s not hiding this well enough.

“I’m drafting a response,” he lies.

“That’s her job,” Yuna corrects. “A yes or no will suffice from you so she can make that response.”

There’s nothing but static as a response from him. Yuna waits another breath before she returns to that calming tone that makes Shane feel like a comforted child. “Are you sure everything is okay? I know you don’t like your name included on things that have nothing to do with hockey or your team, but you sound a little off.”

He has to end this call. “Might be catching something,” Shane mumbles. “You know how the winters are.”

“Do you need me to bring you something when we come for the game tonight?” Yuna asks genuinely. Shane’s heart pangs. His whole life is filled with his parents supporting him in small ways that build up the larger picture. Helping him when he felt sick, taking him to extra practices, paying for equipment, training, all of it. And he’s repaying them by pushing them out of the important details of his life. They know every quirk about him but nothing of substance. Nothing that really matters. 

“It’s fine,” he says thickly. “We can get something afterward.”

“Shane,” Yuna trails off. He doesn’t interrupt her. His phone stares up from the counter and though Shane would normally love talking with his parents given they’re his favorite people in the world, there is nothing he wants more right now than silence with his own thoughts, away from the world’s careful, watchful eyes. “If there’s something–” Yuna starts and stops again. “You don’t sound like this isn’t a big deal.”

“The Rose stuff is fine,” he says unconvincingly. “It just threw me off, and I have a game today. I wasn’t expecting it.”

He’s rambling, not realizing that he’s essentially told his mom there is something that isn’t fine. “Was there anything you were expecting?” Yuna asks carefully.

“No,” Shane says too quickly. 

But because his mom is the best and knows him too well, she doesn’t let him escape this easily. “Shane, honey, I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” he insists. “I’ll respond to the email, and it’ll be resolved by the end of the day. Rose is coming to the game tonight. Maybe you two could meet. She knows a little bit about hockey.”
Yuna tries again, “Shane–”

“I have to go, mom,” he forces out, voice breaking slightly. “I’ll send that email and…I love you.”

Yuna doesn’t respond right away. He thinks he can hear muttering in the background—probably his dad trying to help his mom navigate their panicked son. Yuna’s voice comes back and says slowly, “I love you too.”

He ends the call, pushing up from his seat in quick succession. He paces a bit. He never sends that email response. Time passes in a blur, ending in Shane pulling up to the stadium in his game day suit as if nothing unusual had happened today. 

His phone continues to have an endless spam of messages that he doesn’t reply to because none of them are from the one person he wants to talk to. 

He ignores the jeering from his teammates when he enters the locker room. Even when J.J. claps him on the back saying he didn’t know Shane had it in him. “Rose Landry,” he says with a whistle. “That’s my capitaine!”

This earns a chuckle from some of the other guys. Hayden hovers at his locker, glancing at Shane every now and then as if to ask if he’s okay. Shane doesn’t play along, he puts his headphones in, and continues to pretend that nothing has changed. He laces up his skates. Straps on his gear and pulls on his jersey. He tapes everything religiously.

They do their usual warmups with Shane zeroed in on the fact that he keeps missing easy shots for no reason at all. He stands there during one of their drills a bit dumbfounded when he sees the puck go wide again. A pair of skates come to a halt beside him. 

“Everything okay?” Hayden asks.

Shane blinks, looking away from the net. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

Hayden shrugs before glancing up to where he knows Rose is sitting. “Big audience today,” he says, making sure to glance around the slowly filling stadium even though the general audience number is not what Hayden is referring to. 

Shane bumps shoulders with him. “Let’s give them a good show then,” he says before skating away to finish the rest of his warmups. 

He plays horribly, like embarrassingly so. Even Theriault gives him a long glare in the locker before going into the third period with the score kept at an even zero when they should be crushing the other team. Before Shane can escape back onto the ice to fix things, his coach puts a hand on his chest and leans close. The rest of the team files out, knowing this is a conversation for only the captain and his coach. 

“Something distracting you, Hollander?” Theriault asks sternly.

“No, coach,” Shane says flatly.

Theriault narrows his eyes. “Look, I don’t care if the fucking prime minister is in the crowd. Go out there and score a goal. Pick your head up. Clean up your passing. Clean up all of it or you're benched for the third.”

“Yes, coach,” Shane continues in his emotionless tone. Theriault lets out an annoyed sigh before stepping aside and letting Shane pass. 

He doesn’t improve much though he does manage an assist on Montreal’s one goal of the night that solidifies the saddest win of a promising season. Shane offers no encouraging post-game pep-talk despite the attempt to liven the mood done by J.J. and a few of the rookies. A win is a win, but this feels far from something good for Shane. Even more so when he gets picked for media despite his less than good performance.

“You had a rough go in the first period,” one of the reporters was saying. Shane glances at the uncomfortably close camera shoved near his face. “What was going on in your head at the time?”

Nothing, Shane thinks. The game is a whited out section of text that he can't scrub off to reveal something revolutionary. He played like shit. His team dug them out, but only barely. 

“I was thinking that I’m grateful for my team,” Shane lies. “We got the win tonight because of them. I didn’t contribute the way I wanted to.”

He blinks slowly as the reporter nods as if he’s saying something meaningful. “Any particular reason why that is?”

They're going to ask about it, Shane realizes. And he never responded to that damn email about how to proceed when it came to press. He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before saying, “It just wasn’t my night. We have a roadie starting tomorrow that will give me time to forget whatever happened out there.”

Shane had actually been dreading the weeks-long travel, but now the idea of getting out of Montreal for a bit sounded appealing. The reporter nods dutifully and Shane sort of feels bad about being annoyed by their presence when they’re just trying to do their job. “I’m sure the time away from your rumored partner will be difficult,” they say bluntly. 

Shane works his jaw. “I don’t have a partner,” he mumbles. “I do have a job as a captain of this team, and I intend to show up for them in the next few games. Is that all?”

The reporter seems put off by his short response, but they get the soundbite from him. The rumored relationship between him and Rose can be put to rest. Forgotten by the end of the week, he continues to chant in his head. 

“So you and Rose are seeing each other casually then? She was seen in attendance tonight,” the reporter presses, much to Shane’s irritation. 

He can’t withhold an annoyed breath as he clicks his teeth and says, “Friends and family are always welcome to come watch us play. It’s unfortunate we couldn’t have put on a better performance for them.”

He tries to emphasize the word friend because that’s all him and Rose are. They text casually now, finding that the ridiculous notion of them trying to date was best avoided even if Shane did have to tell her about the accidental marriage.  

“Will friends and family be attending the next few games?”

“No,” Shane says shortly, and then, “If your next question isn’t about tonight’s game, I think we’re done here.”

Shane knows he could get fined for refusing to speak with the press if they have more questions for him, even if those questions have nothing to do with hockey. But he has the need to get out of the stadium and crawl back to his isolated apartment where no one can hound him about anything to do with tabloids, Rose, or god forbid, the details of his life he’s worked so hard to keep from the likes of strangers. 

The reporters glance at each other like they’re debating on whether they want to see how long they can keep him here. Shane’s never had issues with the media. He’s been perfectly polite for his entire career. Not a single hiccup until now. 

“Do you think the Voyageurs are able to get back to consistency before we reach the half-way point of the season?” One of the reporters says just to move things along.

Shane breathes out slowly and gives a bland answer that can be summed up in a simple yes before there is a murmur of concluding the media time and he’s allowed to hit the showers. He doesn’t say thank you as the media shuffles out of the tunnel. Hayden is waiting, leaning against a wall and having heard everything. 

He gives Shane a concerned look that Shane tries to avoid. Hayden pushes off the wall, however, and goes to follow Shane who is too deprived of energy to refuse his hovering. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

“It’s one bad game,” Shane mutters. “It won’t happen again.”

“Dude,” Hayden stops him near the locker room entrance. Over his shoulder, Shane can see the furtive glances from his teammates who could definitely hear everything that was happening in the hall. “I don’t care about the game,” Hayden goes on to say. “We won. I care about you though. Something is up. I didn’t want to say anything at the aquarium, but have you really been seeing Rose for this long? And keeping it to yourself?”

Shane slowly drags his eyes from the locker room to Hayden. His face is scrunched in a mix of sympathy but also confusion as to why Shane would hide anything from him. If only he knew how much Shane liked to lie. “I’m not seeing anyone,” he grits out. 

Hayden’s mouth thins, which tells Shane he doesn’t believe a single thing he’s saying. “So you and Rose…”

“Friends,” Shane mutters. “I think. I don’t know. This whole thing is probably annoying for her too.”

“When did you meet?” Hayden asks casually.

“A few weeks ago when J.J. insisted on taking everyone out to that new bar and she happened to be there with her castmates because they’re filming something in Montreal for the next month,” Shane explains.

“And there’s nothing…”

“No,” Shane interrupts.

Hayden nods slowly though he’s still looking at Shane suspiciously. “Okay,” he sighs. “Whatever is happening though, I hope you know you can talk to me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane says quietly; his anger fading. He has no reason to be upset with Hayden who has been nothing but a good friend to Shane since they’ve known each other. If anything, Hayden has every right to be upset with Shane, especially if he knew the whole story. 

“Good,” Hayden says, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Is anyone else mad about this whole thing?”

Shane looks at him, confused. “Like my parents?”

“No,” Hayden says before lowering his voice, “Like Boston Lily.”

His body freezes as if a bucket of water were just dumped on him. “Boston Lily,” he repeats, voice echoing in his ears.

Hayden smirks. “Yeah, man. I know you like to keep your shit private, but she’s been around for a while right? You’re always texting and calling. I figured it was serious.”

“That’s–”

Shane stutters over his word, which only makes Hayden smile more. “I get it,” he interrupts before Shane can gather his thoughts. “But I better be invited to the wedding.”

“There isn’t a wedding,” Shane rushes out. “That’s nothing.”

“Uh huh,” Hayden nods like he knows Shane is lying through his teeth. Maybe this is why all of Shane’s secrets were getting out. Maybe he’s not as good at pushing everything down as he thought. “Well, whatever it is, I’m rooting for you guys. She seems to make you happy.”

Shane blinks at him. “How could you possibly know that?”

Hayden shrugs. “You get a certain look on your face when you’re staring at your phone and I always know who you’re talking to because of it. Everyone else gets the same look, but Boston Lily gets something else.”

“Can you stop–” Shane looks away, finding his eyes snapping up and down the hallway. “That’s not–”

“Hey, hey,” Hayden shifts so he’s standing in front of Shane, “It’s none of my business.”

It’s not that, Shane wants to say. He thinks, not for the first time, of how nice it would be to tell someone everything. Rose knew about the marriage, but not about who it was with or how Shane is in this mess to begin with. If this were anyone else’s problem, they would have already been divorced. For Shane, if he’d had any sense, Ilya would be a distant memory that only haunts him when they’re rushing at each other on the same sheet of ice. 

Hayden squeezes Shane’s shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. “I’m here for you,” he emphasizes. “Jackie too, assuming you’re coming with us to dinner at the end of the week.”

“Of course,” Shane breathes out. He hasn’t missed a single dinner since they became a thing. Jackie’s been far too kind to him, inviting him over, letting him spend time with her kids, and even making whatever food Shane politely asks for when they’re cooking at home. The Pikes were good people. He’s done nothing but invade their lives with his problems he’s so desperately tried to keep to himself. He was trying so hard. 

He forces himself to shower, packing up his things and pulling back on his suit that will be stripped the moment he gets home. Shane answers texts on his way to his car, choosing to ignore the multitude of emails about not just the existing tabloids but his response to media that had started to make rounds in the last hour. He tells his parents he’s fine; that he doesn’t need anything and will just try and get some sleep tonight. He thanks Rose for coming, confirming a plan to get lunch somewhere far more private than a popular bar. His agent has resorted to texting him, asking if she should take his media response as an answer to her prior inquiry. He apologizes—he’s always apologizing—and finally gives her some sort of answer to put out.

Then he shuts his phone off until he gets home. 

His apartment is empty, quiet, as it always is. Shane drops his bag and stares at the cold interior. The lights are off with the uncovered windows casting shadows every which way. Winter always makes everything more bleak. Normally, Shane wouldn’t mind the isolation, but after today, he can’t quite stand to be alone in a room with just himself. 

He’s grabbing his keys again and leaving before he can think better of it. 

The drive to the Montreal apartment is short. He could have probably walked and that might have cleared his head a bit. The place isn’t stocked with much food, which isn’t the best considering he just finished a game and should feel hungry, but things are a bit off today, aren’t they? 

Shane busies himself by flicking on a few lights and changing into something more comfortable. His fingers hesitate over Ilya’s long sleeve still folded neatly in the drawer before realizing no one can see him here and no one is dictating what he can wear to fall asleep. He tugs it on, the sleeves ending around his knuckles before he slides beneath the covers and finally turns on his phone again.

The messages have lessened though there are still a few here and there checking in. More curious emails now that his agent has started to push a narrative that will get everyone off his back. All should feel well.

He switches back to his message and scrolls until he finds the name he wants; has been wanting this entire wretched day. There’s nothing from Ilya. 

Maybe he didn’t see the tabloids or maybe he thought it was none of his business what Shane did in his free time because their marriage wasn’t real. Shane hadn’t put a leash on Ilya that said he couldn’t be with other people, right? The same went the other way around only Shane is starting to realize that his options are far more limited than he initially thought. He remembers the cold shock of dread when Rose had tried to flirt with him and they danced near that thin line of whether this was something friendly or something more. 

He’s been nervous around Ilya before. Way back when. But he’s never felt dread. 

The back of Shane’s head hits the headboard of his bed with a dull thud. His eyes burn and not just from lack of sleep. He’s probably known this thing about himself for a while. You don’t do things with another man for this long and not suspect something, but Shane realizes in the quiet of an empty apartment he bought for his fake husband that he’s always been this way, no matter how desperately he’s tried to keep it in the very back of his mind. His life has always been hockey, which provided enough of a distraction to avoid the need to see people. And ever since this mess with Ilya, he hasn’t felt the need to see anyone at all really. Another distraction to keep him away from acknowledging the obvious. 

It’s painful that the first thing he thinks about is what he’s going to tell his parents. They’ve dedicated their whole lives to making sure everything worked out for him, and they continue to support him in ways that feel immeasurable if he were to try and pay them back. They helped him achieve every one of his goals, but surely they still had hopes for him. It’s not lost on Shane they probably want grandchildren. They want him to be happy and have a family that can co-exist with their measly three. That kind of future probably didn’t have Shane as gay. 

He tries to blink the tears out of his eyes as he looks down at his phone. The last message is from a few weeks ago. A snarky comment from Ilya about him scoring more goals than Shane the last time they’d both happened to play the same day, just in different cities. 

Shane suddenly misses Ilya so much it takes the breath from him. 

He types out something short. Reads it over once before sending. He sits there with the chat open, waiting for even a flash of three dots or that Ilya’s seen the message. 

Shane ends up falling asleep before a response ever comes. 

-

Ilya sees the tabloids after Cliff had shoved a screenshot in his face over hotel breakfast. He had taken the phone and scrolled through the short report about things he knew were probably rumors. Definitely rumors. But the photos of Shane and this actress outside of her supposed hotel room does give Ilya pause. That and the one photo inside a dim bar with her hand gently resting on Shane’s arm. 

He gives Cliff his phone back. Stands and goes back to the breakfast buffet and pretends he doesn’t feel slightly sick. 

Which makes no sense because they’re not…Ilya stands in front of a tin of powdered eggs, brows scrunched in realization that he might be in deeper than he thought.

He straightens, skips breakfast, and goes back to his room to get ready for their game. 

This is ridiculous, Ilya thinks. He can’t just– Shane isn’t Ilya’s. He knows this. Even as he catches his thumb running along the inside of the ring still firmly kept on his pinky, though he’s taken to alternating which hand he wears it on like that will stop him from messing with it obsessively.

They never talked about seeing other people. Aside from that one hasty question and answer before they had sex together for the first time, where Ilya had lied through his teeth to maintain some semblance of his ego when it came to Shane. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t honest. They’d been accidentally married barely over a year at that point with everything sort of happening backwards, Ilya’s realizing. But since then? There was no discussion of anyone else. The only thing Ilya has to prepare himself for each year is when Shane inevitably brings up how they need to get divorced.

This is one hell of a way to announce it though.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” Cliff nudges Ilya by his locker. 

Ilya keeps focus on lacing up his skates and says, “We are in New Jersey, Marley.”

Marleau chuckles, shaking his head as if this is classic Ilya. Unchanging, unshakable Ilya. 

He takes out his frustrations on New Jersey and earns a hattrick for his troubles. It’s not enough. 

They have an early flight out the next morning to continue this god awful roadie that was starting to make Ilya resent hotels. This dashes any chances of a game winning celebration with everyone crowding back to their respective rooms the moment the bus drops them off. Ilya’s sharing with Carmichael who is an early sleeper and even earlier riser, the asshole. So when Ilya leaves the attached bathroom to find his teammate passed out in his bed, he sighs and grabs his coat before slipping out of the hotel room as quietly as possible. 

It’s cold this time of year. Ilya wastes a cigarette as he walks through the city, heading toward the river their hotel overlooks. This late into the night leaves him as one of the few people still milling about. The tips of his fingers are starting to go numb, but Ilya presses on, dutifully smoking all the while.

The river is hard to make out by the time he finds a little bench that overlooks it. Overgrown grass brittle from the building winter mix with the leaves that have left all the nearby trees barren. The stars are hard to see here with all the city lights polluting the sky. Ilya wonders what sort of place could give him the clearest picture of the stars he knows are hiding up there. He normally likes to see stars when he talks to his mother.

Ilya drops his gaze, focusing on the distant rush of the factories and nearby power plants that seem to dot this state’s coast. The noise is just enough to keep him at ease. Ilya still has a hard time when things are too quiet. 

The cigarette in his chilled fingers continues to burn as he lets his ass freeze on a random bench. His mind feels heavy, which is never a good sign. He’s been dwelling too much on the whole Shane thing, which only makes him feel worse.  

He should have stopped this before it went this long. Maybe he could have gotten a different flight the morning Shane called him after their apparent wedding. They could have had things resolved in less than 24 hours. A simple mistake to laugh about between chaste meetings in hotel rooms. 

But now look at what Ilya has done. Four years of whatever it is he’s trying to hold onto and for what? The rational part of his brain knows they can’t be out and married and happy. Those things do not exist together in their world. Ilya still isn’t even sure of the parameters of their fucked up sort of relationship. Shane is technically his husband, yes. He’s also never clarified if they were allowed to see other people. Ilya had made the decision for himself, but he’d never asked Shane.

He should have fucking asked because then maybe he wouldn’t feel like his heart was caving in on a goddamn bench in New Jersey. This is nothing like the docks he usually haunts back by his place in Boston when the world becomes a little too much, and Ilya internally battles with himself at the worst of times as he guesses how deep the nearby sea will drag him if he were to wade out.

Ilya curses at himself for being so stupid, angrily flicking his finished cigarette into the grass only to then feel bad about littering. He stands and goes to pick it up, making sure it’s completely stamped out before pocketing it. His fingers brush against his phone just as it vibrates. 

Ilya pauses on his way back to the bench. No one should be texting him this late. His brother has developed a horrible habit of trying to call Ilya at terrible fucking hours and using the time difference as an excuse. But it would still be a bit early for him back in Moscow. 

Unless something happened with their father.

Surely it was too soon, right? His health had been abysmal this last summer, but he was still functioning in ways that made Ilya sure he had a few more years in him. He had to accept that even if it freaked Ilya out that he was now calculating how many years left his father had. The man Ilya cared for over the summer could not be transplanted over the memory of the man he knew all too well. It was weird being in the same room as him and to not have vitriol flung around like an active wildfire. In fact, there were moments where Ilya’s father looked at him as if he had no memory of Ilya at all. Those days were harder for Ilya to manage given he spent most of his waking hours trying not to crumble under the immense guilt of feeling relieved that he’s become someone his father cannot recognize.

His phone vibrates again, reminding him he has an unanswered message.

Ilya pulls it out, expecting some urgent text from Alexei only to see Jane flash across his screen. He reads the preview of the messages sitting like a preemptive threat on his phone.

Jane: It’s not what it looks like.

Jane: But can we maybe talk soon?

Ilya turns off his phone and goes back to his bench. He all but slumps in it, feeling confused and far too many emotions for him to process anything. Talking with Shane meant bringing up the marriage, or answering questions about his life that he’s slowly been forcing himself to give small bits to Shane about just to hold him off. It’s been too much. Ilya has given away too much and now the rug is being pulled out from under him when he’s not finished with having all this to himself.

Stupid.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and blows out a long breath. Whatever hurt he will feel when this is all over will be his fault. There is no other way to look at it. Ilya just hopes that he’ll be able to continue existing if he comes out the other end of it.

He leans back on the bunch, eyes tilting back up to the sky. He’s not ready. He hasn’t been for some time. 

But how unfortunate that whatever Ilya feels for Shane Hollander won’t be enough to stop the inevitable.

Ilya can't help that Shane makes him irrational even on his most competent days. He’s turned Ilya into a man with too little hope that he uses on all the wrong things. Staring up at a blank sky, Ilya sends up a single, inexplicable, pleading prayer to some god he doesn’t really keep up with anymore. Or maybe this is for his mother. She’s never been one to let him down.

Please, Ilya whispers over and over as his pathetic desperation.

Chapter End Notes

I've been trying to finish writing this before I'm crushed by work that picks up again next week, but TRUST I have an ending organized and am torturing these two on the daily.
Thank you for reading!!

Chapter 9: Want It Too Much

Chapter Notes

I couldn't leave them in disarray for too long!!!
Someone commented a possible major spoiler down the line and I know some of y'all are going to hate me but I swear there is hurt/comfort throughout. emphasis on the comfort! as seen here! as for the hurt! who's to say when it will come back.
Enjoy!

February 2016

The unanswered texts sit like dead weight in his pocket for weeks. Months actually. 

New years came and went, and Shane spent it pacing his apartment alone as fireworks scattered themselves across the black sky that his windows perfectly framed. Rose had invited him to a party. He hadn’t gone. Hayden insisted he come over. He hadn’t moved from his couch. 

It was as if Shane’s life had been tethered to those coupled texts burning a perfect hole in his heart the longer they went unanswered. 

Their schedules made things even trickier. Montreal had their road trips that conveniently slid around Boston’s home stretch before the two teams swapped places with an expected reunion occurring only after the coveted All-Star week to welcome the halfway point of the season. 

Shane gets invited of course. It feels like he’s walking to an early grave.

The week of events will be held in New York, which everyone is only slightly pissed off about because of how cold it is. 

“I’m seriously hoping for Tampa or the fucking West Coast or something next year,” Carter Vaughan is telling Shane as they crowd into the open convention center attached to the hotel everyone is staying at. 

“Don’t you live here?” Shane points out.

Carter nods seriously. “Can’t take the boy out of New York, but he would appreciate a beach right about now.”

Shane can at least raise his glass to that. Carter goes on to talk about other things with Shane guiltily only half-listening as he searches the expanding crowd for someone in particular. He shouldn’t be that hard to spot given how fucking tall he is, but Shane has been practically vibrating with anxiety for two months and it’s making him a little spacey. 

“There’s supposedly a really great place a few blocks from here. Scott knows the owner or someone who works there I think,” Carter is saying. “We should all head out together after the big game.”

“That sounds nice,” Shane says, hoping he doesn’t sound too distracted.

“I’ll let Scott know,” Carter continues with perfect oblivion to the internal panic that has Shane on the verge of collapsing soon. He is going to be useless for the game. Carter is on his team. Shane should warn him. If he was to go down the list of players also on his team this year that he should warn, that meant he had to tell—

“What are you letting me know?” Scott Hunter appears as if summoned and right by his side is Ilya.

Shane blinks at the other man who’s already looking right back at him, expression unreadable, the glass in his hand nearly empty. Embarrassingly so, Shane’s eyes latch onto the ring still wrapped around Ilya’s pinky and feels his teeth clench with relief that it’s there at all. He moves his gaze to his own glass, missing Ilya taking note of the chain barely seen beneath the button up Shane is wearing.

“That bar you were telling me about. The King something,” Carter says to Scott. “I was saying we should all head there after the game.”

Scott, who was on his way to taking a swig of his own glass, pauses and says, “Ah, might not be your guys’ crowd.”

“Why?” Ilya suddenly cuts in, nearly making Shane jump at the sound of his voice. It’s been too long. He’s fraught with need and his nerves are being flayed alive from being this close to him. “Is this bar secretly a retirement home?”

Scott rolls his eyes, used to Ilya’s taunts by now. “Very funny Rozanov, but no. It’s just sort of quaint. Figured you like the stuff that’s more flashy and modern.”

Rozanov hums. “So you have been paying attention to me, Hunter.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you like to tell yourself,” Scott scoffs, though he’s smirking into his glass. 

“We should go out though,” Carter insists. “We have the rest of the week off afterward and I plan to use that well.”

“All right,” Scott smirks at his linemate. “Any suggestions then?”

Ilya takes the time to lean against the stilted table Carter and Shane were standing at. He shrugs and says, “I have been told I like somewhere flashy and modern.”

“Yeah, Rozanov is revoking his right to choose a place,” Scott mutters before turning his attention to Shane who’s been awfully quiet for the last ten minutes. “What about you, Hollander? Any preference?”

“Ah,” Rozanov interrupts before Shane can get a word out. “You have not been watching Hollander close enough or you would know he does not go out much.”

Shane studies Ilya’s face briefly, wondering what game he’s playing at. Slowly, he mutters, “Not during the season, no.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches and then he’s saying, “Unless it is to see famous movie stars in your city.”

Shane rolls his shoulders, startled that Ilya would even go there while their peers are surrounding them. “I’m not–” Shane stutters. He clears his throat, trying again. “I don’t go out.”

Carter awkwardly glances between the two of them. Scott has his eyes narrowed but doesn’t say anything. “Right,” Carter says to disrupt the tension. “What about breaking that rule for this week?”

“Sure,” Shane says shortly. “Whatever you guys want.”

Scott uses his free hand that doesn’t have a drink to scrub the back of his neck. “Um, I do know some places further in the city if you guys are willing to make the commute.”

He looks at both Rozanov and Hollander. Shane entirely indifferent and Ilya having a new light to his eyes that turn toward Shane, ready to press down further on a forming bruise. “Maybe we could carpool together,” he says, leaning closer on the table.

Shane doesn’t move. Just looks down at him and says, “In your dreams Rozanov.”

Ilya clicks his teeth, taking a sip of his drink for good measure and then saying, “So walking people places is only reserved for those special to you. Simple misunderstanding. My mistake.”

Shane’s hand tightens around his glass. Ilya clearly saw the tabloids from months ago. He clearly saw everything. Well, maybe everything. Shane wonders if he saw the bits about the rumored marriage that got buried along with all the other rumors after new celebrity gossip swept the interest off of him and Rose before the year was even up. 

Surely Ilya had to have seen those. Surely he cared enough to have read through all of it and let it torture him the way Shane had for the past two months. But the absence of a single conversation between the two of them in that time since hangs over Shane, reminding him that he doesn’t know Rozanov as well as he thinks he does. They may be married but there was far too much unsaid for that to mean anything here. 

“Are you sure you guys are set to be our captain and alternate for this week?” Carter asks with a short laugh that doesn’t spread among the four of them. 

“Yes,” Shane and Ilya say at the same time. Their eyes skip back to each other. This is nothing. Shane and Ilya have been bitching at each other for years with the league eating up every hateful word and playful attempt to even the odds every season. Their issues with each other never get in the way of hockey. Both have been incredibly careful to not let that happen. Even if the week is just All-Star antics, the stakes feel the same.

“Well, if anyone can keep Rozanov in line, it’s Hollander,” Scott points out.

Shane drops his gaze to the table. Ilya lets out a humored sound, and Shane knows he’s about to say something stupid. “Is tricky the other way around. I try to tell him things, but he never seems to listen.”

Shane hears himself scoff. “You barely say anything,” he grits out. 

“That is first time hearing that because everyone keeps telling me I have quite the mouth,” Ilya says, smile spreading when Shane’s traitorous eyes glance at his lips that have probably memorized every inch of Shane’s body at this point. 

“There’s always that one club that serves good drinks,” Carter interrupts, nudging Scott for some help. “Decent music too.”

“Music is good,” Scott confirms. “It’s too cold right now to go anywhere with a rooftop or patio.”

He keeps looking at the both of them with Shane wanting to shrink under the attention. Rozanov’s ring taps casually against his glass, unbothered by their audience. “That is shame,” he says. “Hollander loves a good rooftop bar.”

Shane could strangle him right now. What is he doing? What is all this for? To rile Shane up in front of all these people so he can reveal more than he ever wants to? Ilya must like watching him stumble for the right thing to say. Maybe this is payback for last year. 

“So do you if I recall correctly,” Shane says lowly.

Ilya feigns surprise. “You can remember anything from that night?”

Shane’s pulse ricochets in his throat. “Do you?” He snaps a little too loudly. Loud enough for Scott to jump in.

“Woah, okay,” he drags out, trying to prevent this from getting out of hand when it already has. “I’m not sure what the hell is happening right now, but for once we’re all on the same team this week. So let’s cool it before they have to make an unprecedented trade for an All-Stars game.”

Ilya straightens, entirely unaffected. Shane wishes he would drop the mask just once and show the parts of himself that he can actually understand. “Nothing is happening,” Ilya says. “We are fine. Right, Hollander?”

Shane breathes slowly. “Yes, fine.”

Everyone takes a drink. The tension doesn’t die even at Carter’s persistent attempts. “Do you guys think the league put you two on the same team this year to mess with you?”

Scott practically closes his eyes in frustration as he nudges Carter who looks at him with a confused shrug of his shoulders, like he’s asking what the hell do you want me to do? Shane almost feels bad for them if it weren’t for this conversation entirely pissing him off. 

“They like it whenever we’re in a room together,” Shane clarifies. “Normally, they prefer when we’re competing against each other though.”

“Which is better for us,” Ilya says.

Shane turns to him. “What? Playing against each other?”

Ilya holds his gaze and says, “Yes, I do not think we make a good team. Better as rivals, like the league wants.”

Ilya could have simply punched Shane in the face at that moment and it would have hurt less. He blinks at him, searching for any trace of hidden meaning that tells him this is all for show. That Ilya doesn’t actually mean that but he only comes up with smoke he can’t grab onto. Shane lets out a bitter laugh and feels like choking on it.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out this week won’t we,” he says before setting his drink down. “I’m going to do rounds and then turn in early, but I’m saying yes to whatever it is you guys decide on for later in the week.”

He pointedly keeps his attention on only Carter and Scott, ignoring the other set of eyes boring holes into his head. Scott tries to give him a well meaning look. “Sure thing, Hollander,” he says as Shane turns to go. 

He doesn’t bother with making rounds. He sees enough of these people throughout the year as is. Shane leaves the open convention and goes through the less occupied halls, blinking rapidly as he tries to organize his emotions into a neat little box he can kick off a roof—never to be seen again. 

He jabs his finger incessantly against the elevator button as if that will make it go any faster. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself, hands on his hips as he paces until he hears the telltale ring of the doors opening.

It’s blessedly empty inside and Shane is pressing the button that closes the door faster before anyone else can catch a ride with him. Then he’s hitting the number for his floor and angrily pulling out his phone, knowing he has sixteen floors worth of time to get out what he needs to say.

Shane ignores his prior unanswered text from December; pretends it still doesn’t cause hurt to lance through him and starts typing.

Jane: When you’re done showing off in front of the fucking Admirals, come find me. 1634.

Jane: We need to talk.

He swipes out of his messages just as the elevator doors open. His phone gets pocketed and Shane goes to his hotel room to continue his pacing. 

His shirt gets discarded as he slips on something more comfortable, ignoring the swinging of the ring around his throat that gets smothered as a sweatshirt gets tossed over it. He checks his phone. Nothing. The phone gets tossed onto the bed. Shane follows soon after, hands pressed into his eyes as he groans.

He waits another hour before checking his phone again. Nothing once more. 

Shane lets out a laugh and mutters, “Of course.”

Everything is imploding before him and Rozanov isn’t bothering to face it with him. They just need to talk so Shane can explain that the tabloids blindsided him and that nothing is going on between him and Rose. That he would never cheat on Ilya. That he would never do that to someone he loves.

Shane sits up. 

“Fuck,” he says again before tears promptly spring to his eyes. All his insistence, all his need for Ilya to respond, to tell him he didn’t fuck up, that they would be okay comes spilling out. Two months of him anxiously waiting, nearly five years of marriage that Shane realizes so abruptly he wants to continue. He wants to try. 

The sky is blue. A universal fact just as is the feeling blinking in his head, like a warning. Shane is irreparably in love with Ilya. This unmistakable truth hits him at full force as Shane practically doubles over with his head in his hands. 

His arms shift to hold his body as if he were trying to keep all these feelings in, but memories speed run of the last four years, showing only his time with Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. The wedding ring slips free, hanging in the air for Shane to hold onto to try and make a wish. This can’t be it. Shane isn’t ready for it to be over. 

Ilya never comes that night. For the first time since they’ve known each other, he doesn’t knock. Shane’s anxious anticipation turns into exhaustion that leaves him dead on his feet and almost late to call time for the skills event. He barely feels of use; he’s barely present at all. 

“You sleep okay?” Scott asks as the lights flash overhead in anticipation of today’s events. Shane only nods, watching as a rookie lines up with a flashing a grin at the over zealous crowd. He’s not exactly watching, but if he keeps his focus on the kid then he can ignore Rozanov sitting at the end of the bench. 

He’s not even sure what the current standings are for the playful challenges that are nothing more than ego boosters for them all in the long run. Shane competes, doesn’t look at his times and heads back to the bench, waiting for them to speed through everything. The sooner the day is done, the sooner he can get out of here.

And that moment cannot come soon enough. 

The players are gathered at center ice to decide the order for the one-timers. Shane is placed somewhere in the middle of the pack to which he easily agrees to. He lets himself be dragged and pulled in all directions this week, but especially today. 

The players start to go up with the sound of music mixing with the crack of sticks hitting pucks and subsequently the nets. There’s a methodical rhythm to it that Shane gets distracted by until a pair of skates come to a stop beside him. 

Shane doesn’t have to fully look to know it’s Ilya. Even if he couldn’t pick his skates out of a line of other options, Shane thinks he will always just know when Ilya’s close. Normally that brings him some sort of comfort if not excitement. Today, it’s damn near torturous.

“What do you want?” Shane says tiredly, keeping his voice down even though no one is paying attention to them. Players are chatting easily amongst themselves. Cameras are on the ice doing interviews. That steady drum of the puck rocketing toward the goal continues. 

“You wanted to talk, yes?” Rozanov says.

Shane closes his eyes, trying to search for the last remains of his patience he lost somewhere in the wasted hours of waiting up for Ilya last night. “So your phone does work,” he says, hoping Ilya at least feels bad about last night even if that’s probably the furthest thing from the truth. Because Ilya doesn’t care enough about him to even maintain their usual agreements. When one of them calls, the other one answers. That’s the most recognizable pattern since the summer before their rookie season before everything else complicated things. But Ilya changed that last night, inadvertently confirming to Shane that he was not in on this the way Shane is. If Ilya actually cared enough, he’d have come last night.

“Not here,” Shane adds for good measure. He can feel himself glancing at the nearby cameras with their large microphones and the constant murmur of their colleagues surrounding them. He feels cornered, entirely under a microscope that hasn’t let up since he was a teenager. 

Ilya pushes off his skates only slightly so he can come to a stop in front of Shane, blocking his view from the less than fascinating skills challenge. It’s almost his turn, but Rozanov stays put, earning Shane’s attention by simply being a nuisance. He finally looks up at Ilya and immediately feels his heart start to hammer despite his best efforts to ignore the reminder of how gone he is when it comes to him. 

What doesn’t help this is how carefully Ilya is looking back. Shane had been intent on avoiding him all day, but he starts to regret being so checked out. Has Ilya been looking at him like this the whole time?

His eyes shift to the collar of Shane’s jersey. “You are still wearing it,” Ilya says, sounding a bit surprised which is all the more evident by the slight furrow between his brows. Shane’s hand comes up to brush against the chain hidden beneath his jersey. Even in his meltdown last night, he hadn’t once thought of taking off the ring. If anything, he’d held onto it in tearful desperation that it still meant something. 

He drops his hand. “So?” 

Ilya’s walls crack a little further. He’s downright frowning now as he mutters something first in Russian—quick and annoyed—before saying directly to Shane, “We will talk. Tonight.”

Then he turns around and skates to where he needs to be for the skills competition, leaving Shane’s head swimming with aggravation. He should turn Ilya down. It’s what he deserves right? 

For the second time this week, Shane is pacing in a hotel room. He purposefully left his phone on the nightstand to stop himself from incessantly checking it like a lovesick teenager. But that doesn’t stop his eyes from flicking to it every few seconds even though Rozanov never gave him an actual time of when they were supposed to talk or if he would be coming to Shane’s room or the opposite. This left Shane plenty of time to paralyze himself with anxiety for upwards of an hour now after he’d excused himself early from the massive dinner they’d hosted for all the players in the main level of the hotel. He knows the dinner is still going on, but the longer this thing with Rozanov hangs over his head the more insane Shane will feel. He should have checked when he left that Ilya saw him leave in the first place. He should maybe text even though a third unanswered text will have him screaming the moment he sees Ilya next. He should—

A short knock comes from his door. 

Shane immediately stops pacing and stares at the door like it’s a trap. He hastily cards a hand through his hair, running through everything he wants to say in his head once more before he goes for it.

Ilya is waiting there patiently, hands in the pockets of his dress pants that match nicely with the barely buttoned up dress shirt he’s paired them with. Shane steps aside with Ilya gliding in. Neither says a thing as Shane presses his back against the door to close it. 

Ilya slowly turns to him, arms crossed over his chest. The ring on his pinky winks at Shane, distracting him momentarily before he takes in the expression on Ilya’s face. “You look annoyed,” he points out.

“Yes,” Ilya answers. “I am skipping dessert for this.”

Any care Shane was planning to use in handling all of this shatters immediately. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” he bites out. “I didn’t realize all of this is one big inconvenient thing you intended to avoid while I try to clean up the mess.”

Ilya scoffs. “I am avoiding nothing. I created no mess.”

“If you’re talking about the fucking tabloids from months ago, they’re rumors, Ilya. They always were. You could have heard that from me when they first came out if you would have actually picked up the phone. Instead, you ignored me for months,” Shane snaps back. His voice is rising, increasing in volume as he goes on to add, “I don’t even know why you’re being so weird about that. We’re not together.”

It feels like turning a blade in on himself as he says it, sounding breathless and too annoyed at the mere suggestion of them being anything more than a casual hookup. 

“Not together,” Ilya repeats, nodding to himself like something has become clear to him. “Right. Just like you and that Rose Landry are not together because the world would collapse if Shane Hollander were to be seen with anyone.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Shane says. “You’re notorious amongst the league for always seeing someone whether it’s a one night stand on the road or someone you decide to string along while you’re in the same city. The thing with Rose was a terrible accident which fucked with me by the way if you ever bothered to get your head out of your own ass to care about other people.”

Ilya works his jaw, eyes alight with something Shane can’t parse out. “What if one day you don’t want it to be an accident?” He asks abruptly.

Shane blinks at him, suddenly losing track of the conversation. “I don’t think I can go back in time and meet her under better circumstances,” he says.

Ilya exhales in frustration before looking away to do a pretty good impression of Shane’s frantic pacing from earlier. “I mean meet someone on purpose, Hollander.” 

He pauses just long enough to make sure his words reach Shane’s ears. Shane must still look confused though because Ilya carries on with, “That is what you want, yes? Nice girl to take home to parents. Nicer house. Smiling big for the press when you actually want your picture to be taken.”

Shane’s thoughts stutter there because that couldn’t be the most opposite scenario of what he wants. It startles him so much he says, “I don’t want any of that.”

“You are bad liar,” Ilya mutters.

Shane shakes his head. “I mean the house and media staying out of my business. Yes, that sounds nice, but Ilya, there is no ‘nice girl’. There never will be.”

Ilya squints at him for a moment, but luckily catches on. He takes a breath before adjusting to, “Nice boy then. Boring and Canadian to fit into your life how you like.”

“What are you even asking about right now? Where is this coming from?” Shane diverts.

Ilya shrugs in a way that attempts to capture his usual uncaring disposition but it falls flat, and Shane can tell he notices. “I saw pictures with you and Rose Landry and thought you might want to try other people. I have served my purpose. Time to move on.”

He says all this without looking at Shane. Ilya is suddenly very distracted by the beige ceilings while Shane experiences whiplash in real time. “Jesus, no. Those pictures were all out of context. I actually consider Rose a friend because of how she handled everything then. I told her that night that I was married out of panic. I didn’t mention I was married to you and I didn’t give any details, but she sort of knows it has to be a secret and she backed off. We’re just friends.”

“She knows you’re married?” Ilya asks like he didn’t even consider that to be an option.

Shane nods, wincing only when he remembers the minor tabloids that may have caught up on it. “That whole night was a mess. Someone overheard me mention it at the bar and a few outlets picked up the story. I don’t think anything will come out of it, but it made me google things for weeks.”

“This secret has caused a lot of problems,” Ilya points out. 

Shane tries to laugh half-heartedly about it because yes, it really has, but the way Ilya mentions it as a problem makes it difficult to ignore the sudden turn in his stomach. “For you as well?” Shane tries.

Ilya shrugs again, giving himself time to come up with an answer. “Is hard sometimes to not do what I want,” he whispers. His face is scrunched though like the words are not coming out how he’d like. 

Shane takes a breath as if that will ease the pain of his heart ripping in half. “You never mentioned any of this before,” he starts, equally quiet to Rozanov. “I wouldn’t have kept this up if you’d have said anything unless you were just avoiding what you actually wanted to spare my feelings.”

“Hollander,” Ilya says tiredly, “when have I ever willingly done something kind.”

Shane scoffs. He blinks hard, feeling his eyes and throat start to burn. He can’t break down crying right now. He needs to hear all this from Ilya and figure out how they’re going to resolve this mess amicably. “With me,” he chokes out. “You do it all the time with me even when the rest of the world thinks we fucking hate each other. I should have done you a kindness by letting you do or be with whoever you like. I’m sorry I never made that clear.”

Ilya has stopped moving. His hands are still crossed over his chest, only slipping away when he was shouting earlier. But they tighten around him now as he says, “I never did anything I did not want to do. I never saw other people because that is not what I wanted.”

“You didn’t…” Shane tries to make sense of what Ilya’s saying as it contradicts what he thought was actually happening. “What about the people in dark clubs where nobody knows you,” he recalls suddenly. Their conversation from the night before they first had sex comes back to him abruptly. “You said you’ll occasionally kiss people–”

“I lied,” Ilya interrupts.

Shane rears back a bit. “Why would you lie about that?” He asks in disbelief.

Ilya blows out a hard breath with his arms dropping simultaneously. He shakes out his hands, head tilting back as if to collect himself before he finally says, “Because if I told you the truth so soon after everything between us had changed, it would have become this thing that we would have to sort out when all I had wanted at the time was to not ruin a night I know you had spent too much time planning.”

Shane tries desperately to remember what he was thinking and doing that night. If they had even brought up divorce or had an argument afterward. His mind can only grasp onto wisps, remembering only the awkward secret that would weave itself between their trajectory of the occasional hookup until another anniversary would come to pass. He can’t remember the marriage even being something that turned into an issue that night, leaving Shane to say, “Nothing had changed.”

Ilya scoffs before practically shouting, “Everything did, Shane! Fuck! You come into my life and change everything and it terrifies me that this ridiculous Canadian hockey player can make me go against everything I know, so I lied to you.”

Emotion bleeds through his words. Shane feels frozen among them, watching as new information slots itself into his timeline of events, only confusing him further. “You were never with anyone else?”

Ilya glares at him but does say, “Not since I found out about the marriage, no.”

“So each time we met afterward…”

“I was only seeing you,” Ilya says.

And for Shane, who thought Ilya had never taken any of this seriously, who didn’t actually care about a marriage that could be undone with the signing of a few papers, he can’t quite bring himself to understand that Ilya has been doing the exact opposite. “Why?” He forces out. “You don’t…” You don’t love me the way I love you. “We aren’t together like that.”

Ilya stared at him briefly, eyes wide, mouth parted. It’s as if Shane has slapped him. “You have made yourself perfectly clear about that, Hollander,” he says, mask slipping back into place as he goes to leave. 

Shane is in the way though, newly panicked and trying to backtrack and adjust his words to stop this from falling apart. “Wait, Ilya, hang on,” he tries, managing to get ahold of his wrist with Ilya looking down at the touch before pulling his hand away.

“This is a mistake, Hollander,” he says slowly though he doesn’t look at Shane when he says it. “I do not make them often, and I should have taken less time to fix this.”

Shane’s panic continues, making him desperate enough to push his way towards the door to stand still before it. “Don’t do that,” he says breathlessly. “Don’t fucking do that.”

To his credit, Ilya doesn’t shove him out of the way. “Do what?” He entertains.

“Run. Avoid me. You said we’re going to talk tonight so let’s fucking talk.”

“What else is there to talk about?” Ilya snaps, sounding exasperated. “So you and Rose were never together. I was never with anyone. Good. We are even. I am sorry I made a big deal out of it. You don’t want things to change from how they are but the secret is still bad for us both.”

“It doesn’t have to be bad,” Shane suggests. He risks a step away from the door, seeing if Ilya will move back into the room. It takes everything in him to not smother the hope in his chest when Ilya steps back. 

“It has always been bad,” Ilya says irritably. “You cannot think about the marriage without getting upset. I have to make up little challenges to remind you it is a joke.”

“That’s all the bets were then? You were just placating me until you decide one year you’ve had enough?” Shane presses. 

“If you want divorce so badly, Hollander, I will do it. I always said I would. Even if it went against the bets, I would have done it if you asked,” Ilya starts to taunt, voice rising again.

Shane holds his ground. “None of it is a joke to me,” he says.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Ah, because jokes are funny and you hate fun.”

“You don’t even remember us getting married!” Shane shouts.

“I remember being happy!” Ilya says, equally as loud.

“Ilya, we were both wasted. How could you possibly remember–”

“I just know!” Ilya insists. “I do not have to remember a ceremony to remember that night as something good.”

Shane’s breathing is heightened. He tries to trust himself and listen to Ilya’s words and believe they were heading somewhere for once. That he doesn’t regret this nor does he regret Shane. Please, please, please.

“What about everything that came after?” Shane asks. “You stopped seeing people and settled for one night stands in hotel rooms with someone you may have not ever chosen to be married to if you had been able to decide.”

“None of that was settling. If I was unhappy with the arrangement, I would have done something about that,” Ilya says in disbelief at the mere suggestion of disdain in Shane’s voice when he flattened the last four years to something so bland.

“Did you ever actually want to get divorced?” Shane asks, pulse jumping in his throat. 

“If you had asked–”

“No, Ilya, what do you want?” Shane interrupts. He needs to hear him say it. 

For the first time tonight, Ilya is at a loss for words. His throat bobs as Shane waits. He’s always been the more patient of the two, and he finds that as of now, he can wait forever just to hear what’s actually going on in Ilya’s head. 

It takes him a moment to do that. In fact, Ilya backs away entirely until he finds the bed, sitting down awkwardly with his eyes cast toward the floor as if looking through it. Shane takes only a few steps forward, standing in the non-existent hallway of the hotel room.

When Ilya finally opens his mouth, Shane can’t help but hold his breath. 

“When I am with you,” he starts slowly, quietly, like he’s trying out the words in his mouth, “I can pretend I have the life I want. Someone to care for who also cares for me.”

He looks up at Shane, blinking rapidly as a sad smile crosses his face. “Someone who challenges me and frustrates me, but someone I always look forward to seeing even when it is difficult for me to want to get up in the morning. And this is the worst thing in the world…”

He laughs wetly as he takes in a breath and releases it; his whole body collapsing with the action. “...because if I get that, I lose everything. My career I spent my whole life working toward could just disappear. I could never return home to Russia. I would be isolated in a foreign country that does not always like me.”

His voice hitches on the last bit, and Shane nearly closes the distance just to hold him. He thinks of those isolated moments where he gets to see Ilya without his guard up. It’s so hard to see all of him when he’s in his own head, somewhere not even Shane can follow. 

“But when I think of the alternative as losing you, none of it compares in how much it would ruin me,” Ilya insists with so much feeling that Shane wholeheartedly believes him. “So I held onto an accidental marriage because it means I could have a life I always wanted even in glimpses that do not make a perfect whole. Even that smallest amount, I am terrified to lose. I keep pushing it off because everyone goes, and I keep waiting for when you will too.”

Ilya looks at Shane with tears in his eyes and his hand upturned in his lap as if asking—no, begging for Shane to take it. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Shane is able to say as the burning in his throat increases. They’re so close.

Ilya tilts his head slightly like he doesn’t want to let Shane down. “How can you be so sure?”

Shane’s lips wobble as he smiles at the man who has invaded and changed his life in so many ways, someone he never wants to leave. Shane plans to stay for as long as Ilya will let him. It’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. 

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Ilya doesn’t react at first aside from leaning back slightly as if feeling the words themselves. He stares at Shane who stands still, breathless and equally teary eyed. Then at last, Ilya breaks the silence.

“Say it again.”

Shane starts to smile. He bites down hard on his lower lip to cover it but it slips out anyway as he repeats, “I’m in love with you, Ilya. I have been for a while I think.”

At some point, he’s drifted closer. Ilya looks up at him from the bed as if Shane were the one to have hung his stars and moon. He shakes his head like he can’t quite believe that he’s here, that Shane is here too. That this is something within reach. 

His hand stretches out, grabbing the front of Shane’s shirt and pulling him down into a bone crushing kiss. 

Shane goes willingly, laughing against Ilya’s lips that are murmuring something over and over in Russian. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says like a prayer. And then, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And finally, things start to make sense again. Shane’s ribs slot against Ilya’s, a perfect match that has found its way back to each other. Their kissing gets hasty, needy. They pretend they have all the time in the world. And for once, they don’t rush things. They pretend they don’t have to be up early for ridiculous media and fan events. They’re not in some random hotel in New York, but rather just the embrace of one another.

In the early hours of the morning with little sleep and bodies exhausted not because of hockey, Ilya has his head resting on Shane’s chest as Shane runs fingers through his messy curls, listening to the quiet sound of his breathing. Ilya shifts so he can look at Shane. His chin sits right above Shane’s heart.

“I wanted to push you away,” he says quietly.

Shane doesn’t stop his gentle carding of his fingers that Ilya continues to lean into. He furrows his brows, unsure of what Ilya is saying. “What do you mean?”

“I tried to push you away because I figured if you learned to hate me, then maybe divorce would not be so bad. It would make sense that way if we no longer liked each other,” Ilya says. “But then I saw you yesterday on the ice, not even really there and it scared me. You weren’t really yourself and I knew that I caused that. That I hurt you.”

Shane leans forward, sweetly capturing Ilya’s lips in a gentle way that he feels able to now. “I was scared too,” he tells Ilya. “Since I found out about the marriage, I was so scared, but…” He takes a deep breath as Ilya sneaks a hand up to touch the ring settled on his sternum. The ring on his pink skates close to it, a matching pair. “I want to try. We can figure this out. Maybe we can, I don’t know, try dating first and revisit the whole marriage thing later.”

Ilya flicks his eyes from the ring on his chest to Shane’s face. He seems open to that idea, but there’s still complicated thoughts tangling behind that expression. “I cannot give you everything,” Ilya says slowly. “Is not safe for me in Russia to be open and known like this, marriage or not.”

“I’m not saying we have to be out,” Shane clarifies. “I mean that if you would like, I want to try being together. It can be private. It probably should be given we’re still professional hockey players last I checked, and I don’t want anything to happen to you in Russia that messes with your ability to be here, but we can do this for just us. I want to know that we have each other and not just because of the marriage.”

Ilya shifts closer, kissing the ring on Shane’s chest before kissing him. “You would wait,” he whispers against Shane’s lips, “until I can marry you again. Correctly this time.”

Shane laughs, nodding. Ilya pulls back as he props himself above Shane. His crucifix swings close to Shane’s lips. He looks up at the man he loves and sees glimpses of a future they could have. “I want it too much,” he whispers.

Ilya smiles at him, breathing steadily for the first time in a while. “It will work out,” he says, sounding so, so sure as if this were just another competition for them to best. And weren’t they the best in the world? There is nothing they can’t win. “We can do this. I want to do this with you.”

Any worries their teammates had for the All-Star game is dashed the moment they get on the ice. Shane barely has to lift his head to know where Ilya will be. The puck skids between them in perfect precision. Ilya is grinning, navigating through the defense and sending the puck back to where he just knows Shane will arrive. The buzzer blares when Shane slides the puck home. 

Ilya skids to a stop beside him, ice misting them as he wraps his arms around Shane with a grin he cannot contain. 

“Nice goal,” he whispers.

Shane smirks, pushing him away. “Nice assist.”

Ilya briefly thinks of how nice it would be to do this together for once in their lives. They’d be unstoppable.

He glances at the chain beneath Shane’s jersey and brings his gloved hand up to his mouth. He kisses his covered fist in a place that only Shane will understand before skating away. Their little secret, for once, doesn’t hurt to acknowledge.

Chapter End Notes

oh my god they confesseddddd! took them long enough!
also Carter Vaughan my clueless ally king love youuu
thank you so much for reading!!!

Chapter 10: To Keep Living

Chapter Notes

Everyone rejoicing about the communication last chapter.... I'm sorry to say here is Ilya Rozanov happy moments totaling to maybe 500 words, if that. Welcome to torture town again!

CW: mentions of suicidal ideation, grief, minor character death

March 2016

As the season comes to a close, fans have their eyes on which teams are set for the upcoming playoffs. And what an exciting playoffs it looks like it will be! If the cards are played just right, it seems like we could have a rivalry that’s notorious here in the league play out right before our eyes. That’s right, folks! If Boston and Montreal make it past their current first round opponents, we could see the two best teams of this season battle against each other for a shot at this year’s Stanley Cup finals. Of course that would only be the second round, meaning they would still have to play through the third and then the rest of the playoffs, but I think fans can agree this possible matchup could prove to be more exciting than any other final we could see.

Ilya claps his hands together as his team stands to get out on the ice. It’s one of the last few games in the regular season. Boston is playing at home and the stadium shakes like it knows so. They don’t really need the win, but every spare number of points is good for them to build confidence as they work their way toward playoff contention. Ilya has been set on ignoring the speculation and the constant buzz of media that likes to pretend that the playoffs are already here. 

What is Boston’s mindset for the first round? Do you think you can lead your team the way you did in 2014 to another win? Are you worried about Montreal’s chances of repeating? As captain, what are you telling your team?

“If anyone scores a goal tonight, I will buy them as many drinks as they want. My treat!” Ilya says. A chuckle goes through the locker room. They’re going on the road tomorrow, meaning that if they do win tonight, the celebrations will be kept to a minimum. “But if I score, you each owe me one thousand dollars.”

“That’s not a fair trade off, Roz,” Connors chuckles. 

Ilya shrugs. “Is not my fault you have not scored in last five games.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Connors says with little heat. The rest of their team is laughing, used to Ilya’s antics by now. 

“Let’s come together and get Connors his miracle goal tonight, yes!” Ilya shouts. He’s received with a smattering of cheers and the team feeling loose and focused on finishing this season strong. Ilya gets a few claps on the back as he waits to be the last one out of the locker room.

Cliff comes up beside him to pat his shoulder and say, “Good to have you back, cap.”

Ilya scoffs at him. “I did not go anywhere, Marley.”

“I know man,” Cliff reassures. “But it’s nice to see you like yourself again.”

He pats Ilya’s shoulder again before scooping up his gear and following the team out. Ilya lingers in the same spot for a moment, trying not to be bothered that his personal difficulties at the start of the year were noticeable by others. It’s fine now. More than fine actually.

He walks back to his cubby quickly, pulling out his phone from his bag to find two messages waiting for him. He ignores the one from Alexei and smiles down at Jane.

Jane: Good luck tonight. Try not to show off. I’m still beating you in goals scored this season. Call after but I might be a few minutes behind you because of a later start time. I love you.

Ilya already knows Shane’s team plays thirty minutes later than his. He’s had Shane’s schedule memorized for years now. They are probably starting warm-ups if Ilya had to guess. 

He types back a quick response before shoving his phone away and joining his team.

Lily: I only show off for you. I will wait for when you are done scraping past Buffalo. Do not work too hard. I love you too.

He kisses the ring on his finger now right after the crucifix around his neck before he steps out onto the ice. Ilya thinks it adds to his good luck if their performance this season was any proof of that. He feels luckier than ever these days, but it shouldn’t surprise him that the luck is not infinite. 

He ends up owing Connors a drink by the time third period rolls around. Their coach is relaxed as he explains the line-ups they’ll continue to use as everyone points out what they could improve on to keep their 2-0 lead, if not extend it by the time the final seconds tick down. 

Ilya is at his cubby, drinking water and wiping the sweat from his eyes when he hears the telltale sound of his phone buzzing overhead. His smile falls a bit. His coach glances at him, but doesn’t stop talking as Ilya slowly reaches for his phone. He has told his coach and the general management of Boston little about what has been going on back home. Even his vague description had them assuring that they would stick by his side for whatever happened, insisting that personal leave was nothing to be worried about even if the playoffs were in the next few weeks. 

No one says anything as Ilya stands, letting his phone continue to ring as he exits the locker room to find an empty hallway. Eyes linger on the doorway as he slips out of view, heart beating hard in his chest. 

Ilya presses his back against the wall and answers the call. “What do you want?”

-

“You’re on fire lately, Hollzy!” 

Shane smirks, shaking his head as he ducks away from his teammates after a rather successful night against Buffalo where Shane earned himself a hattrick. He couldn’t wait to rub it in Ilya’s face later. 

First, he needed to shower though. Shane is in enough of a good mood to consider letting Hayden drag him out for team celebrations, though he desperately wants to head home to call Ilya with complete privacy.

The last month has been good. Unbelievably so even with the constant traveling that has made it near impossible to see Ilya consistently, but they were still figuring things out. The first time Ilya had called him unprompted, Shane’s body had been immediately riddled with anxiety only for him to pick up the phone to Ilya saying he just missed him. There is something gentler between them now without the rush of worrying about the marriage and what it could mean. They have decided to stick to a plan of figuring out what it means to be together before addressing the whole marriage. They’ve gotten away with it this long—coming up on five years this June. 

Shane knows they still have to be careful with Ilya mentioning they probably couldn’t do anything public until they were both retired. That could take years with both planning on playing until their legs came off; or at least that is Shane’s plan. But he also doesn’t intend on doing things alone now. They’ll decide together when the time comes. Besides, Shane won’t deny it’s nice to hear Ilya jokingly still call him his husband. It makes him feel wanted and entirely Ilya’s just as Ilya is his. 

He heads back to his locker after showering, towel wrapped around his waist as he first reaches for the chain with his ring, tugging it overhead before searching for his clothes and then his phone.

Ilya’s text is there, letting him know to call after they’re done playing with his usual charm bleeding through. Shane can’t wait until they’re in the same city again. He purposely ignores the knowledge that the next time they see each other will probably be during the playoffs, meaning one of them will have to lose and go home at the hands of the other. 

Jane: Just finished. Only scored a hattrick :( Let me know when you’re free

Shane puts his phone away and goes to finish dress while his teammates chatter around him, stripping gear and continuing the endless cycle of going in and out of the showers. Shane is towel drying his hair when he catches onto one of the conversations.

“Yeah, it’s not saying anything else,” Miitka says. 

“Weird. He just didn’t come back for the third period? Anyone catch if the fucker got injured?”

Shane has his back to them, but his movements all but stop. He carelessly drops his towel and reaches for his phone again. It didn't take long after googling Ilya to get multiple updates that came in very recently that Ilya went back with his team following the second period but didn’t return to the ice or bench for the third. The announcers weren’t informed of anything changing. The fans were confused with no one having seen Ilya get injured the entire game. In fact he was somewhat on a tear with two assists to his name that had his team up 2-0, which ended up being the final score in the end. 

Shane immediately switches to his messages.

Jane: Everything okay? Just heard you didn’t play the entire third. Did you get injured?

He hits send and tries not to stare at his screen and will Ilya to answer. They’ve each been injured before. Minor things that always come from the wear and tear of the endless season that can be easily nursed over the summer before they hit the ground running again. 

“You hear about, Rozanov?” 

Shane jumps and turns to see Hayden packing up his things. “Uh, yeah. Weird.”

Hayden chuckles at Shane’s awkward reply. “Definitely weird. If he isn’t injured, I wonder if it’s something with management.”

“I don’t think so,” Shane hears himself say, looking back at his phone and knowing that Ilya has said nothing but exceptionally good things about the Boston organization from the GMs down to his teammates. Something about this feels off.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up, but if he stays out into playoff contention, I won’t complain,” Hayden grins. Shane tries to smile back but his body continues to hum with anxiety. He immediately jumps to the worst case scenario, knowing that Ilya will be absolutely shattered if he’s injured for playoffs. He hadn’t admitted it to Shane but Boston was looking a lot like the team they were when Ilya got his first cup with them. 

Shane waits another minute for Ilya to text back, but nothing ever comes. The silence is enough for him to skip going out with his team and head home immediately after instead. 

He busies himself by making dinner, checking his phone occasionally and forcing himself to not text again. When he finishes dinner, Shane cleans his already clean apartment. It’s well into the night and he should be going to bed soon, but his mind can’t stop racing. 

He leaves his apartment, gets in his car, and drives to the Montreal place. It helps slightly, but Ilya still isn't here nor has he texted Shane back. Shane climbs into their bed and leaves his phone open to his messages as he tries to focus on a book he’s been crawling through for over a month at this point. Ilya makes fun of him every time he picks it up before immediately going to distract him with better ideas of how to use their time. He’s the reason why Shane hasn’t finished the damn thing yet. 

Or maybe it’s just boring because Shane ends up falling asleep with it open on his chest and his phone dead after he forgets to plug it in for the night. 

This makes his morning frantic as Shane luckily wakes up at the time he needed to naturally but he’s panicked as he drives back to his apartment to grab his things for practice with his phone barely having enough time to charge. What if Ilya had tried calling last night and Shane had been asleep? What if he’d texted but his phone is dead and he’d missed it?

None of that has happened. He’s rushing to practice with zero notifications on his phone and enough anxiety to crush his chest. The practice is easy with them on the road soon and simply cleaning up a few things as the season dwindles to single digits in terms of games left. Shane is entirely distracted despite this. 

He misses an easy pass and gets a mouthful from his coach for it. Shane murmurs an apology and says it won’t happen again. They reset the drill. He does manage the pass this time, but only just. 

There are still no messages on his phone when he gets back to the locker room. Shane keeps his head ducked with half his gear still on as his thumbs hover over the screen unsure of what to do. 

“Guess it was something serious.”

Shane latches onto the words immediately. J.J. is bent over a phone Drapeau is holding. Shane goes near, pretending to be just as curious as the rest of his nosy teammates. 

J.J does them the courtesy of reading aloud, “Rozanov will reportedly not travel with the team despite this being the last road trip of the season, citing personal reasons. Boston has put out an additional statement saying they fully support him and will give him as much time as he needs before returning.”

“Jesus,” Hayden mutters. “You almost feel bad for the guy.”

Drapeau scoffs. “It’ll be less work for us if he’s out for the rest of the season,” he says, earning a few less than subtle remarks of approval.

Shane feels his blood rush into his ears. He doesn’t have to guess at what the personal reason is. Ilya had mentioned his father being sick while he occasionally opened up that his brother had been pestering him about it more recently. Personal meant going home and Ilya reserved a set number of days for his time back home during the summer. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Shane doesn’t end up showering as he instead changes back into his clothes and leaves. As he walks back to his car alone, Shane texts, trying not to overthink about whether this was overstepping or assuming things that weren’t exactly confirmed yet.

Jane: Just saw it was cited as personal. Whatever happened, I’m here for you. Always. Call or text whenever you can. 

Shane forces himself to put his phone away after that. He shouldn’t be bothering Ilya who is probably on a plane right now anyway, unable to see his constant spam of messages that will likely annoy him the moment he lands.  

The personal effects of Ilya’s life were still sort of kept from Shane, which he had come to accept because he knew Ilya was trying to change that. It wouldn’t be something that switched overnight after they’d tearfully expressed their feelings. Ilya had even muttered once that he didn’t want Shane to be worried about his ‘mess’.

Even if Shane didn’t care if it was a mess and he wanted to carry as much as he could for Ilya, he remains patient. This leads to him being rewarded two days later when he’s wasting time in a hotel room and his phone dings. Shane nearly shoots off his bed, earning a startled laugh from Hayden who waves him off as Shane says some poor excuse to get privacy and leaves the room. 

Shane jogs down the hallway of the hotel, thumbs dancing quickly across his phone in time with his heart that steadily beats in his chest as if remembering it’s alive. 

Lily: Call me?

Jane: Calling.

The hotel stairwell is quiet and isolated with Shane going down a few flights as he listens for Ilya’s voice the moment the call connects. 

“Hi,” Ilya murmurs like a sigh of relief. 

“Hi,” Shane says, smiling despite the context. “Are you all right?”

Ilya hums, not quite answering. “I’m sorry for not responding earlier it’s been–”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, “it’s okay. Really. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Okay,” Ilya mutters without argument. 

“Is it your father?” Shane tests. He’ll back off if Ilya doesn’t want to talk about it, but Ilya sounds tired as he relents. 

“He has died, yes.”

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ilya says. “It has been long time since he was healthy. I’m more surprised it took this long.”

“Still…”

“Is fine,” Ilya insists. 

“How is the rest of your family doing?” Shane asks.

“Good,” Ilya says too quickly. And then, “Actually bad. Probably very bad. I don’t know. I have been avoiding them.”

Shane knows that Ilya has less than positive opinions about his older brother and his step-mother is sort of a fixture Ilya only remembers every now and then as she had limited interactions in his upbringing in the ways that mattered. And his mother…Shane doesn’t know much about her really. He knows the crucifix Ilya wears is hers and that he protects conversation about her like that’s his one true devotion in life. Shane considers the topic of Ilya’s mother to be something that is actually off limits unless Ilya brings it up himself. 

“What do you need from me?” Shane continues.

Ilya thinks for a moment before shuffling on the other end of the line as if he were going to sit or lay down. “Talk to me about anything else,” he says. “Tell me Pike snores and it has ruined your sleep schedule so you will only score one goal tonight instead of three.”

Shane laughs. It’s a wonder that Ilya is still capable of bringing him so much joy even when he’s at his lowest. That is something that Shane has picked up over the years; how Ilya isn’t quite as rough around the edges as everyone assumes. Shane seems to be the only person who recognizes that. 

He does not tell Ilya about how Hayden is a perfectly calm sleeper. Instead, he describes his view from the stairwell where a grimy window offers him a glimpse of the city. Shane has been to Toronto plenty of times, as has Ilya, but he describes it now as something new for both of them. Like perhaps neither have seen this isolated view from a window in a random hotel in the soft sun of the midday hours before a hockey game Shane could care less about. For the first time in his life, Shane does not care about hockey. He cares about the joy it brings him when he hears Ilya laugh and how he’ll do everything he can to hear it forever. 

They’ve been speaking for a while with Shane cutting it close to when he needs to head out when he gets a particular idea. Now that they were trying the relationship thing, that meant areas of firsts they could do now that they’d initially avoided when they thought the marriage would complicate things. And maybe Shane is being too forward about all of this, but he tries to show he means well as he says, “This summer, after the season is over, we should get away from everything. Go somewhere private for just the two of us.”

He’s sitting on one of the steps of the stairwell, running a hand down the outer seam of his sweats, suddenly nervous Ilya is going to immediately turn down the idea. It shouldn’t feel so surprising when Ilya instead says, “Where do you have in mind?”

Shane smiles, phone pressed close to his ear. “Anywhere you want,” he says. “I want to try relaxing with you for once. We can skip the NHL awards and do something nice.”

Ilya makes a noise of agreement. “You are trying to avoid divorcing me again?”

Shane smirks at the subtle joke, but he plays right back. “Remember? Whoever wins the cup this year gets to decide,” he says. “Divorce or a nice vacation where we can do something better.”

“Oh, Hollander, it will be so sad when I get to lift the cup and then take you away somewhere nice. You will be so disappointed,” Ilya mumbles sarcastically with none of their plans ever making sense in the grand scheme of things. It’s worked out for them this long though. 

“Asshole. I’ll be lifting the cup,” Shane says. “But if you do, I’ll only be disappointed if the place you choose is Vegas.” 

“Then we will both be pleased,” Ilya agrees. 

The conversation dwindles to a natural end then with Shane murmuring I love you and to call him whenever Ilya needs anything. Ilya says he will and then the call finishes. Shane goes back to his hotel room, ignoring the knowing look from Hayden about all the wrong things. He brushes them off as they get ready to head to the arena while Ilya pulls himself up from his bed with as much difficulty as someone with cinder blocks chained to their ankles.

He leaves his phone behind on the bed, bare feet shuffling across the worn carpet of his silent apartment in Moscow he has yet to give up. It proves useful now though as it gives him the privacy he would not have if he had to stay in the house he grew up in with the rest of the family mourning the loss of his great father. 

Ilya shuffles around some more until he can find something strong enough to dull his senses. He takes a glass and bottle and pack of cigarettes with a lighter out onto his balcony and arranges everything just so as the chill of March cuts through the thin shirt he has pulled on. His feet go numb against the concrete with Ilya feeling none of it as he gazes out across the view of his apartment and lets himself dip back into the tangle of his thoughts.

Ilya Rozanov imagines flinging himself from the balcony of his disused apartment in Moscow. There is a line of shrubs down below that were trying to prepare for the oncoming spring. His body would land there, crushing their efforts, and that thought alone makes him sad enough to back away from the railing, though he firmly holds onto his cigarette and sucks hard just to feel it burn down his throat. He follows it with vodka and contemplates how he is going to make it through this week.

Svetlana will arrive early tomorrow. Just in time for the funeral before whisking herself back to Boston like she can’t stand being here any more than he can. But Ilya will stay because there are things to settle and resolve because his father certainly did not predict leaving this life, meaning his will was outdated and the wolves were already snapping at the miniscule fortune leftover. Ilya has no use for the money. He doesn’t want any of it—the house, the useless items within it, the reminders of his father’s awards for being an outstanding officer. 

He wishes he were anywhere else but here. 

The funeral is a stuffy affair with a line of stoic faces making up the audience for the morose event. Ilya’s father is buried next to his mother which pains him so greatly that he drinks himself into unconsciousness later that day. Svetlana has to pull him up from the couch, cleaning the bottles and forcing him into the shower to wake up for a dinner that’s just for those closest to Ilya’s family. 

“You’re too good to me,” he silently weeps as Svetlana helps him dress. She pauses her smoothing out of the black turtleneck she helped pull over his head. Her hand shifts to caress his face, looking at him with a world of concern.

“I am good to you as much as you deserve, Ilyushka,” she whispers before pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

The dinner is worse than the actual funeral. Conversation is stifled and Ilya is unable to sit next to Svetlana who takes her place beside her father at a different end of the table. Instead, Ilya is sat across from his brother and his wife and Ilya’s niece. He tries to keep his focus on just his niece, noticing how tall she has become in his time away in America. Her hair is soft and blonde like his but without the curls. She has bright eyes that keep glancing around the room, almost afraid of anyone speaking directly to her though she always smiles whenever she looks back at her Uncle Ilya to find him smiling right at her. 

Alexei clears his throat and for the first time in the last few days, Ilya looks directly at his brother. What he finds is the stern glare of their father, the same sloped nose, downturned mouth, hostile posture, and simmering resentment for Ilya as if their mother had no part in the making of Alexei with all her efforts being reserved for just Ilya who often felt entirely a product of her with the same curls and perpetual inclination for kindness even when it wasn’t suited for the situation. Ilya’s relationship with his brother has always reminded him of a sinking house. It began as a simple crack in the foundation you could ignore despite the slow collapse causing enough pressure to make that single crack spread, widening until it was all too much. The final ruin is here though.

Ilya can only do his best to crawl out of the wreckage as his brother gestures for him to follow to a more private room. 

His dinner is untouched with his stomach a mess from his afternoon of ‘mourning’ for all the wrong reasons. He moves to one side of the room while Alexei haunts the other. The distance is barely tolerable with Ilya never wanting to share a space alone with his brother again if he can help it.

“So?” Alexei prompts.

“So what?” Ilya says dully. 

Alexei narrows his eyes in a manner that reminds Ilya once more of their father. “So what do you plan to do, hm? The deed to the house is given to no one. The leftover funds are dry–”

“I don’t care,” Ilya interrupts. “You can have all of it. We only just buried him, Alexei. Surely this can wait.”

“No it cannot because if I don’t force you to deal with it now, you never will,” Alexei snaps, voice rising in volume. 

Ilya stays incredibly still, arms crossed over his chest protectively despite being taller and more physically capable than his brother for quite some time. “There is no use in me giving my opinion when you know it would not matter to him,” Ilya seethes. “We never came to an agreement. We hardly spoke in the last years unless I was wiping drool from his chin and he thought I was someone else. We never understood each other. I’m sure even in death he would resent the idea of me having any possession of everything he leaves behind.”

“So you plan to just leave, forget where you came from and who got you there,” Alexei infers. 

“I did not say that.”

“But you have been unintentionally saying that since you got your golden ticket to another country, leaving me here to deal with everything!”

Ilya’s jaw clenches. “Who pays for everything, Alexei?” He starts to shout. “Who pays your fucking bills, and father’s as well? Who lets you take and take and take to party while I fund your daughter’s education?”

Alexei takes multiple threatening steps forward. His finger presses hard into Ilya’s chest, eyes ablaze with hatred. “Do not speak about her. Do not pretend you care about this family.”

“How can I when it makes me sick to be in the same room as you,” Ilya bites back. He pushes Alexei back before shaking out his hands. 

Alexei chuckles. “So you will go back to America to play a ridiculous sport and whore yourself out to anyone who shows interest while you waste your money on meaningless things. My poor, poor brother. How this world has deprived you,” he spits.

“You are a cancer, Alexei,” Ilya breathes out. “I have done nothing but encourage the worst parts of you.”

“Then go!” Alexei shouts. “This is a celebration for family which you are no part of.”

The cold truth washes over Ilya. He squares his shoulders, trying to work through why he feels the calmest he has since returning to Moscow. The door to the room cracks on the opposite end of where Alexei and Ilya were glaring at each other. Svetlana casually slips inside, closing the door behind her. 

Her eyes shoot daggers at Alexei as she says, “People can hear you in the other room. You are making a scene.”

Alexei scoffs. “Ah, here comes your slut to the rescue, Ilya. You’ve always been too sensitive to deal with things on your own.”

Ilya’s fist is flying before he can think better of it. The impact of Alexei’s cheek against Ilya’s hand is a bright burst of pain that he ignores as he scrambles for the lapels of Alexei’s suit he probably paid for. Ilya breathes hard as he forces Alexei to look him in the eyes as he shares his piece. 

“Do not look at her, look at me,” he snaps. Alexei’s pale eyes flick to Ilya with the redness of his face heightened just below his right eye. “You will never call me again. I don’t want to hear from you unless I am the one to ask for your opinion on anything, which will never happen. You are so upset about the deed to father’s house, I will fix that by giving you my apartment. The paperwork is already done. I will mail it to you when I am away from this place. There is a trust for my niece. If you even try to access it, if you even think about touching any of that money, I will drag your name through all the filth I helped you bury before putting it on display for the world to see. I play ridiculous sport, sure, but people have eyes on me and they will not take kindly to the leech that you have always been.”

He shoves Alexei away, watching him stumble back as his hand aches. Both of their chests are heaving, but Alexei doesn’t move at first. Ilya needs to get away from him, from this place, this country. He wants desperately to go home; to the apartment in Montreal where he can curl into Shane’s arms and pretend he isn’t irreparably ruined by the roots of his life. 

“We’re done here,” Ilya says, hating how much emotion bleeds into his voice. Alexei offers him one more blank look, one that Ilya will probably remember for too long. 

Then at last, he leaves, ignoring Svetlana who stays close to the exit until the door slams shut behind her and then she’s moving closer to Ilya. She gathers his hand in hers, examining the red splotches across his knuckles. 

“You are known for fighting in the league,” she murmurs. “I thought you knew how to throw a punch.”

Ilya can’t help but laugh as tears spring to his eyes. His emotions catch up while Svetlana drops his hand to swipe away the tears that escape as she quietly hushes him. “It will be all right,” she insists. “You will be all right.”

“I know,” Ilya whispers even if he doesn’t quite believe it. All he does is try to survive and there are moments like this where it becomes difficult to consider whether staying afloat is worth it. 

As if reading his thoughts, Svetlana directs his attention back to her, fingers firmly on his chin like they were children and she was pushing him around at school again. “You are more than them,” she whispers, pointing to the door that separates him from the rest of his volatile family. “You always have been. Do not think that they have enough of a hold of you to suggest otherwise.”

“I am so tired, Sveta,” he murmurs. 

“I know,” she hums, having put up with his moods since they were children. But even so, no one has been able to figure out how to get a handle on them despite her years of effort. “It will not always feel like this,” she adds. “There are still good things in this life to stay for.”

Ilya hums. “Like you,” he tries, thinking of a list of things to remind himself that not all is horrible with the world.

“Like me,” she agrees. “Maybe someone else as well. Jane.”

She drags out the name slightly, still holding onto him as he tries to look away. He drops his hands around her only for her to capture one of them. She brings up his hand, nail tapping on the silver ring adorning his pinky. 

“You can be happy,” she tells him. “I have seen it when you are with him.”

“Sveta,” he tries, a lie already forming on his tongue that she shuts down with a short shake of her head. Svetlana smiles at him sweetly.

“Your complicated situation is not so complicated now,” she whispers. Svetlana shifts his hand to press it close to his chest. “I’m here to make sure you realize that.”

The tears continue to pour out as Ilya moves to pull her close, wrapping his arms around her and crying softly as he presses a kiss into her hair. “I love you,” he tells her.

She holds him back just as tightly. “Hm, you must prove that by introducing me to him,” she jokes. Ilya laughs wetly and pulls back to show her he’s nodding. “I love you too,” she adds. “I will go let them know you are leaving for the night. Text me when you are home.”

Ilya murmurs a thank you, kissing her once more on the temple before setting her free. He gathers himself in the empty room before slipping out of the door and only returning to the dining area to grab his coat. Ilya avoids the stern glares of the table and departs without looking back. 

Snow sprinkles the night sky as Ilya decides to walk home instead of taking a car. He needs to clear his head before he does something incredibly stupid with the walk doing just enough clearing for him to feel slightly better when he returns to his apartment. He drops his keys atop a folder he left on a table beside the front door. It’s the agreement to hand the lease over to his brother; something he had been considering for years only to now have the excuse to do it. 

He cleans up here and there with this apartment barren of anything meaningful to him. It does what it needs to, acting as a place for him to rest and eat and nothing more. He manages to find one remaining bottle that Svetlana did her best to hide when she found him passed out on his couch earlier this afternoon and takes it back out to his balcony. 

It’s a quiet night with the storm overhead casting shadows across a brightly lit moon. Occasionally, Ilya can see a sprinkling of stars that could also just be planes or satellites. He doesn’t really care. He pretends they are stars anyway as he speaks to his mother. 

“Today feels like the longest day of my life,” he says. “Maybe not as long as the day you left, but it feels similar for different reasons. I hope you are not mad at me for what I said to Alexei. He is still upset with you as he has always been with me. You don’t deserve it, but I am sorry for what I said to him.”

Ilya leans hard on the railing that digs into his forearms as he continues talking to himself. “I hope you can forgive me for not wanting to come back here where you are. The stars might be the same in a different country, but I feel closest to you here. I left flowers for you so people could be reminded that you are still loved and cared for, but who will leave flowers when I am gone?”

Fresh tears spring to his eyes and Ilya’s chest aches and aches as if it will never stop. “You always called me brave, but I am not brave enough to stay here,” he chokes. “I will not survive it, but I miss you so much like I would miss a lung. I do not know how to fix this.”

His head drops as he curls his hands in on themselves, feeling the slight strain on his pinky finger with his thumb gliding to the band to calm himself down. “I won’t be alone,” he starts quietly. “You remember Sveta. You used to call her a bad influence but she is one of the steadiest things in my life so you must forgive her when it is actually me that makes all the bad decisions. Except for this one other thing…”

He unfurls his hands as if to let the skies see the ring still on his finger, after all this time. “Mama,” he says, “He is so boring.”

Ilya laughs suddenly to himself as an image of Shane appears in his head, lifting his mood momentarily. “But perhaps you would have liked that for me. You would have wanted someone who is orderly but not uncaring. He is Canadian, which is his only sin, but at the very least, he is incredibly kind to me. I never know what I am doing with him. We sort of did everything backwards and are trying to reorder everything so it makes sense. He seems so sure everything will work but sometimes I am not sure. I wish you were here to give me answers. I would have done anything you’d tell me to because I would know you only have my best interest in mind. Tell me this isn’t a mistake. Tell me it will be worth it. I wish you could meet him. I wish for so many things.”

Ilya doesn’t sleep well that night. Not that he expected to given everything. He wakes the next morning with remnants of a dream that entangle memories of his mother and the outline of Shane. A lighthouse and a ship that never finds its destination. 

It takes him a long time to get out of bed that morning. It takes him even longer to accept the reality he’s about to shape for himself. He can’t imagine what his decision would have been if things were different. If he’d had a better relationship with his father and that of his brother. If his mother had never left this life and he wasn’t so scared to leave her here. If he had never met Shane and fallen in love despite all his efforts to refuse it as a possibility.

But he can only face what he knows now. Ilya is alone in this place but he is so in love that he still has to remind himself to differentiate the feeling from the pain of loss. He isn’t losing anyone now. He has enough grief for a lifetime. His love for Shane, it seems, had changed the situation. 

Ilya chooses to go on with his day. He chooses to keep living.

Chapter End Notes

Hollanov finally got together officially so I killed of Ilya's father early OOPS
Thank you so much for all your kind comments and your predictions for how everything is going to turn out are delightful to read as well. See you at the next one!

Chapter 11: Summer Before

Chapter Notes

Hollanov... do not make unnecessary journeys! don't take risks on treacherous roads! Don't play against each other!!!

CW: description of injury, a little bit of a trauma response, accidental outing

For all of y'all that have been waiting to see when that injury tag was going to be put to use... come get your juice

May 2016

Well, just as we had hoped, or maybe some fans had dreaded, it looks like our second round matchup between Boston and Montreal for this year’s NHL playoffs is happening! Montreal finished the season with a perfect ten game run both at home and away and will start the series on home ice against their longtime rival, Boston, who had a bit of a rocky finish to their season in the absence of their captain, Ilya Rozanov. We express our greatest condolences to the captain who will be back on the ice tonight for the first time since taking personal leave after the passing of his father at the end of March. Should be an interesting matchup with the teams both nearly equal in stats, and of course, everyone will be talking about what it could mean for Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov to compete against each other once again at the highest level.

“Hollander.”

Shane leans forward for the face-off. “Rozanov.”

He feels Ilya tap his stick against his, earning a warning from the ref that they’ll reset if he doesn’t knock it off. Shane grins as Ilya makes a face like get a load of this guy.

He looks good after having only been back for a week. Shane had tried not to hover with Ilya taking to putting himself back together in his own way, leaning on Shane when he needed to. They called often with Shane anxiously waiting for Ilya to get back from Russia if only to make sure he was all right. Ilya had only played one game since returning. The fourth game of a series Boston swept to make it through the first round. 

And now here they were, staring down at one another, forgetting briefly that there is a sold out crowd watching them; their teams and staff and coaches; the general managers; all those watching on their televisions. 

Shane only has eyes on Ilya. 

“Best man wins?” Ilya suggests. His attention flicks to the chain around Shane’s neck. Their running bet is still on, though with the stakes feeling minimal this time around. It’s merely something to keep to themselves.

“Have fun losing then,” Shane says.

He wins the face-off, carrying it through neutral ice as the force of Montreal pushes forward. Shane makes the pass, nearly missing Marleau decking him on a committed hit. Comeau’s shot goes wide and Boston’s defense takes advantage of it. 

Skates carve against the ice as the puck slams against the boards and the pounding of feet echoes throughout the arena. Shane shouts out calls, managing a few shots of his own that Vetrov bats away. Shane can feel himself getting frustrated but as the first period concludes with both teams scoreless, he tries to gather his frustration and put it somewhere useful. Theriault is not too happy with their performance though he’s hardly happy if they aren’t winning early. He calls their defense sloppy despite also holding off Boston who’s normally a high scoring team. No one mentions that Rozanov has yet to make that big of an impact, meaning the next two periods were going to have a man possessed if they didn’t clean up their unforced errors. 

Shane repeats much of what Theriault said with clearer direction and far less yelling just before they hit the ice again. 

His words didn’t help much, however, when Ilya manages to slide one home. The Boston fans sprinkled throughout the stands go wild amidst the drowning boos that Ilya soaks up. He even has the audacity to skate in front of Montreal’s bench, gloved hand held to his ear and that perfect smirk of his flashing for everyone to see. Shane has to look away so no one can see him smiling in return.

Montreal plays harder when the third period starts with them still down by one. Boston doesn’t let up either but as their bodies tired, the game gets a bit sloppy. Shane takes a few checks into the boards, adding a collection of bruises that he was still gathering since the season started. The chirps start to increase, leading to a litany of power plays that has Theriault screaming at them all. 

Boston uses it to their advantage as they moved the puck forward. Connors sends a pass toward Ilya that’s a bit of a stretch, but he reaches for it anyway with his stick extended toward the racing puck. Shane tracks back and sees it coming, unable to stop it. 

J.J. goes in hard with his shoulder connecting and sandwiching Ilya’s outstretched arm between him and the boards. Shane can hear Ilya curse as he goes down, immediately getting to his feet and reaching for the shoulder that’s always given him problems. He watches Ilya skate toward the bench, knowing the hit jarred him. Shane is distracted from the funny feeling in his chest at seeing Ilya down that he misses when Marleau throws the first punch. 

Gloves are tossed and sticks discarded as Montreal and Boston swarm at each other. Vitriol is tossed around and the refs intervene the moment Marleau drags J.J. to the ground.

Shane doesn’t even engage. He keeps glancing to the Boston bench to see if Ilya returns. The crowd can’t stop cheering as players are dragged off of each other. 

Marleau spits at J.J. as he’s pulled away. J.J. shouts something back. As captain, Shane should probably intervene. 

Montreal loses that night off of Ilya’s one goal for Boston. The locker room is a rush of anger that Shane suspects will explode the following game. All he can think of though is getting out of here. They’ll win the next one. There’s a weakness on the left side of Boston’s defense that they haven’t quite resolved when they complete their shifts. Shane can exploit that. He plans to do so when they head to Boston the next day. 

But for now, he quietly bows out of the locker room and goes to his messages.

Jane: Heading home. Please tell me the shoulder isn’t bad.

Ilya doesn’t text back until Shane is in his car. 

Lily: Is fine. Your friend is a piece of work.

Shane knows Ilya is probably lying about his shoulder but he quickly texts back.

Jane: Your friend defended your honor. See you soon?

Lily: They are looking over me one more time. Wait up for me.

Jane: Always.

Ilya shows up at the Montreal apartment with his arm in a sling. Shane sucks in his breath when Ilya waltzes into the kitchen where Shane is waiting. Ilya outstretches his free arm with a tired smile. 

“Is tiny strain,” he explains. “I think I convinced our trainer to let me play tomorrow.”

“Ilya,” Shane whines, coming close and letting his fingers drag across the sling. “You can’t play with an injured shoulder.”

“I have before,” he points out. “It was good practice.”

Shane glares at him. “It could get worse though.”

“I will not let Montreal’s sixth best defender be the one to pull me out of playoffs,” Ilya corrects. “I am still looking forward to playing against you.”

He moves his uninjured arm to run a hand down the side of Shane’s face. Shane opens his mouth to tell him more facts about how dangerous it is to play on an injury, but he gets cut off when Ilya kisses him. Shane has no more complaints after that. 

He smiles, leaning into the kiss while being mindful of Ilya’s shoulder. He lets himself be backed into the kitchen island with Ilya making a pleased sound as he makes up for not being near one another for over a month. 

“Missed this,” he says against Shane’s lips. “Missed you.”

“I missed you so much,” Shane breathes out. “Your goal was beautiful. I should hate you for it.”

Ilya grins. “You never hate me,” he points out.

Shane rolls his eyes but goes back to kissing Ilya slowly. He knows Ilya cannot stay too long tonight. Their teams will be either traveling late or early in the morning, making their absence questionable if they don’t show up to places on time. But for just a few hours, Shane has Ilya all to himself. 

They don’t do anything besides kiss and hold each other given Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya did try to initiate something and then whatever painkillers they’d given him were wearing off and he’d winced despite his best efforts. 

But when Shane drives him back to his hotel, parking a block away as Ilya gets out, Ilya pauses at the open door, leaning close to kiss Shane one last time. “These windows aren’t tinted,” Shane murmurs even as he leans in for the kiss still. 

“Is dark, Hollander,” he murmurs before reaching for one of Shane’s hands on the wheel. Ilya presses something into them before slipping away. He’s smiling to himself as he walks back to his hotel and Shane uncurls his hand to find a set of keys. 

His head hits the back of his seat as he smiles to himself. 

He uses the keys a few days later, entering Ilya’s house in Boston and toeing off his shoes at the door to find Ilya standing naked in his living room, frowning at him. Shane smirks, dropping his set of keys in the dish by the door. He strips his jacket next, folding it to leave on the kitchen counter though he can barely bother with taking in all the intricacies of Ilya’s home that he’s never been to given Ilya is standing there, looking like that.

“Are you going to congratulate me for the win tonight?” Shane asks.

Ilya turns and heads to a different room. “Take off your clothes,” is all he adds. Shane obliges and loses himself for a little while.

“Is your shoulder still acting up?” Shane asks a few nights later after Montreal takes the lead in the series two to Boston’s one. His head is laying on Ilya’s chest when he asks so he can’t look at Ilya’s face to see if he is lying. 

“Is fine,” he repeats just as he had said when Shane asked about it when it first happened. “I am more annoyed that Pike has the same number of goals as me in playoffs right now.”

Shane laughs, adjusting slightly to grin at him. “Maybe if you weren’t playing on an injured shoulder,” he teases.

Ilya rolls his eyes, shifting so he can curl his healthy arm around Shane and turning them both so he can prop himself above him. “My shoulder is fine,” he insists. “I can show you my full range of motion again if you have suddenly forgotten.”

Shane answers by pulling him down. 

“Head in your phone again,” Hayden murmurs with a smirk as they head to the arena ahead of game four in Boston. “Don’t think no one notices you sneaking out of the hotel whenever we’re here.”

Shane pockets his phone after responding to quite the text from Ilya. He hopes his face isn’t burning red as he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh,” Hayden jokes. “Is Boston Lily going to be watching tonight so I can finally meet her?”

Shane tries not to laugh at the irony of everything. “No,” he says.
“That’s a damn shame, Hollander,” Hayden laments. “One day. Maybe in this stupid series she’ll grace us with her presence.”

“Sure, Hayds,” Shane says, putting his headphones back in place. 

He goes back to Ilya’s later that night in a worse off mood. Ilya shows him all the ways his shoulder is perfectly fine despite the obvious bruising and just how much he can put up with after managing a hattrick in the middle of playoffs. 

“Tied,” Rozanov says as he gazes across at Shane; a ref between them and a whole new game beginning. 

“You have a lot at risk?” Shane questions.

Ilya shrugs. “Nothing at risk. I have to start planning for an anniversary soon.”

Boston leads the series once more. Montreal is throwing a fit over it. 

Shane is trying to pretend he’s also not falling victim to the pressure, but Ilya notices it right away. The Montreal apartment embraces them as Shane sits between Ilya's legs, lounging on the couch as one of the other playoff games drones on in the background. Shane is half-watching, noticing distantly that Scott Hunter has made the Admirals look unrecognizable this season. He almost feels bad for Pittsburgh.

“You are overthinking,” Ilya says, sitting up slightly to breathe in the presence of Shane. Shane leans back, eyes fluttering close. His body aches. This series in particular was like pressing on one giant bruise with the only relief being these quiet moments that were now being ruined by the loudness of Shane’s thoughts. 

“Game six,” Shane murmurs. “We have to win or that’s it.”

“There is always next season,” Ilya tells him.

Shane sighs. “I don’t want it to be next season though,” he says.

He shifts so he can look at Ilya head on. Ilya moves to run a hand through his hair, brows furrowed. Shane takes a thumb and smooths out the divot between them. “Why did it have to be Boston?” Shane mumbles. 

“Because everyone conspired together to make sure Shane Hollander never won again,” Ilya teases, smirking when Shane groans in annoyance. “Moya lyubov, you play beautifully each night. The failures of your team are not that of yours.”

“They are when I’m the captain. You should also know that,” Shane says. 

“You cannot lead horse to pond if it is about to be put down,” Ilya says sagely. 

Shane squints at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Your defense is disjointed. All of them, their heads are too big and ears too small to take your direction. You cannot win a game alone.”

“I know that,” Shane complains. “But I want this.”

“You are a miracle when you are determined,” Ilya sighs, pushing them both up so he can capture Shane’s lips.

That miracle barely gets them the win. No one is excited for game seven. The locker rooms are stuffy with tired muscles and grudges both old and new that have existed for seasons now or re-started somewhere between game two and four. Shane methodically laces his skates with his headphones on, trying to drown out the anxiety that always seems to capture in him in these neck breaking moments. But even as things change: lineups, coaches, the stretches of a playoff series; hockey remains the same for Shane. He can envision every play he will try and accomplish tonight. He feels good. Ready. 

This game will be theirs.

Shane gets a perfect slapshot in early. The Montreal crowd roars in approval. Shane earns screams of encouragement from his teammates. Theriault even gives him a nod of approval when the shift changes. Shane’s eyes track Ilya as he streams across the ice before burying his shoulder in the back Comeau to get the puck back. 

The dots of Boston fans yell loud enough you would think they were playing in their city. But Shane can’t be distracted by any of that when he notices the grimace lance across Ilya’s face as he turns. 

“Knock it off,” Shane says under his breath. 

He wishes Boston’s coach would pull Ilya, having dragged him through way too much time on the ice just to keep Boston steady in this playoff run. Ilya missing out of their lineup would be detrimental, but that shoulder is going to come back to haunt them later if they don’t put an end to this. 

It’s the top of the third and Boston has evened the score. Drapeau can be heard cursing as they reset. Shane readies himself for the face-off, feeling breathless with sweat dripping into his eyes. Ilya lowers himself slowly, smiling sweetly at Shane. 

“Shoulder holding up?” Shane grits out.

Ilya keeps smiling, totally unphased. “Team still playing like shit?”

Ilya wins the face-off. Shane dashes after him, body screaming at him to take the longest break of his life after this. He ignores that it’s only the second round of the playoffs. Everything feels fated to be the end after tonight. 

Berkes sweeps in, and Ilya sees him coming. He passes, but it’s behind where his teammate can get to it, allowing for Comeau to intervene and bring it up through neutral ice to Shane. He’s going to take the puck up on the left, finding that perfect gap, but that focus is momentarily interrupted when he hears the impact of a late check and the perfect sound of cursing in Russian that has Shane looking back.

Ilya is rotating his shoulder before pushing Berkes away with angry words. The exchange is brief. Shane shouldn’t have even looked back. But he did because it involved Ilya. 

Because of this, he doesn’t notice a misplaced stick trying to swipe at the puck as he turns back around to shoot. What Shane does feel is the twist of his skates and the speed of ice rushing at him fast. And then the impact of his side hitting that ice before slamming into the goalpost with enough force to take it off its pegs. And then the swing of his useless body still moving fast and hitting the boards. His head snaps back unwillingly, the whiplash angling everything perfectly.

Shane feels nothing after that.

-

He hears it before he sees it. Ilya is distracted by his contempt against the Montreal defender who came in late, knowing a delayed penalty in his favor should be on the way, but then gasps ring out throughout the arena and then, for a terrifying moment, everything is silent. 

And then it explodes into panic.

Hayden swings first, finding the culprit of the incident which happened to be Marleau who looks merely shellshocked at Shane lying still on the ice, too still. Montreal players skate around to join the developing fight while Ilya finds himself frozen among the havoc. Gloves are tossed, sticks abandoned, Ilya’s heart is on the other end of the rink not moving. 

“Shane,” works its way out of his lungs. His head feels underwater. Ilya feels a familiar panic rise in him that he hasn’t felt since he was twelve years old and about to experience the first great loss in his life. But that was back home and this is a hockey rink in Montreal. Yet, his body cannot recognize the difference.

He wills himself to skate forward with the refs distracted and the medical staff and their ridiculous sneakers not fast enough on the ice. Ilya makes it to him first.

“Shane,” he hears himself say again. Ilya takes a knee, leaning close as he tosses his glove aside. His hand hovers though, unsure of what to do, of what could make this worse. 

“Shane,” he insists again. The trainers and medical staff are closing in. “Hollander, wake up.”

Ilya manages to get a hand on Shane’s shoulder, letting it limply stay there until his heart seizes in his chest when they try to pull him back.

“Wait, wait,” he says.

“Rozanov, we need you to give him space,” someone tells him. 

Ilya barely moves. He watches as they get Shane on his back. Someone is holding his head steady as they remove his helmet. There are too many people around and Ilya knows he’s too close for comfort. He knows Shane would shy away with how many people are watching this. Hell, there are fans’ faces pressed close to the glass, breathing down everyone’s necks. 

Ilya doesn’t back away though, not when he notices Shane’s eyes start to flutter open, face contorted in a world of pain the moment he comes to. 

“I need you to not move, Shane,” someone says. 

Shane’s lips disobey that order. Ilya can’t hear what he’s saying so he pushes forward a bit.

“I’m not going to tell you again Roz–”

“Can’t breathe,” Shane manages again. 

“We have an ambulance waiting, Shane, but we need to get you off the ice first. Can you tell me where you are?”

A flashlight is out and so is a neckbrace. Ilya practically gets shoved out the way when the backboard comes in. All the while, he stays as close as he can manage.

“Hurts to breathe,” Shane tries once more, ignoring the question the trainer had asked him.

“Can someone fucking help him?” Ilya shouts. 

“Rozanov, get back to your bench.”

A ref has shown up now, which is just Ilya’s fucking luck. 

“Ilya?”

He pointedly ignores the glance from one of the trainers because Shane’s awake and talking and knows he’s near. 

“It’s okay,” Shane continues, clearly delirious because nothing is okay right now. They move him onto the backboard and he winces before adding, “Tell him I’m okay.”

“Shane,” Ilya skates alongside the medical staff even as the ref continues to shout at him to leave them be. “I’m here.”

Shane’s eyes are barely open, but Ilya can see the faintest of smiles. “Okay,” Shane whispers like that alone will be enough. Only they finally reach the benches and Ilya feels a hand press to his chest.

The Montreal coach is staring down at him with a mix of confusion and a bit of resentment. “What the hell do you think you’re doing Rozanov?”

Ilya barely addresses him. He can only watch Shane being taken down the tunnel. His heart is missing again. 

“Hey, Roz!”

His attention gets pulled toward his own bench. In a daze, he finds his own coach with his hands outstretched in a manner of asking the same thing as Montreal’s coach. What the hell is he doing?

“I need you back out there!”

Ilya glances back at the tunnel just past the seething Montreal coach. If he steps off the ice in this moment, everything will be ruined. It makes zero sense for him to go with Shane to the hospital. Not when there’s ten minutes left of the final game in the series that’s currently tied in both games and the score. He thinks of how careful Shane is when it comes to them. How the marriage still makes him panicky even if he can laugh about it easier now. People would speculate. Those vague articles Ilya had found in his search of the Rose and Shane thing had mentioned pieces of a rumored marriage that could float back to the surface. They’d just managed to get the press off of them rather recently when it came to personal matters. He wonders if his teammates are confused about why he’s hovering by Montreal’s bench. His coach definitely is, as are the players sitting there, faces furrowed as they try to unravel some mystery their concussed brains can’t figure out.

“Roz!”

Ilya closes his eyes, breath settling. Shane will never forgive him if he ruins this. 

It feels like he’s dragging weights behind him as he skates back, hating himself just a little more as the ice is fixed, the goal is secured, and the clock resumes. Ilya doesn’t really feel like he ever returns to the ice. Those ten minutes with added time for every penalty, every angry word thrown out between teams that definitely hated each other now with one captain in an ambulance and the other completely out of it, feel like the longest ten minutes of Ilya’s life. He can only bring himself to wrap arms around his team when one of their rookies scores a last minute screamer. They’re all beside themselves and their fans can’t believe it. Montreal certainly can’t with multiple players hunched over or fully sitting on the ice in defeat. 

Ilya is the first to leave, ignoring the concerned looks from his coach as he goes to the tunnel without a word. He’ll deal with the consequences later if there are any. Ilya feels grateful to be with Boston. It is perhaps one of the luckier cards he was dealt in this life. They embraced him with open arms and seemed to understand everything he needed to take the reins when he was named captain. He’s given them a cup. He should probably be working to get them a second, but he’s too busy stripping off his gear and immediately changing into his suit from earlier. 

Sweat starts to dry on his skin, making everything uncomfortable and stiff, but Ilya focuses on calling a car. Anything else can wait. 

He shoots off a text to Marleau to bring his stuff onto the bus when the team eventually leaves. He also apologizes for leaving everything on the floor. 

The car arrives quickly though Ilya thinks not quite fast enough. It’s just some guy in an Uber whose eyes widen when he recognizes Ilya almost immediately. 

“Uh, Montreal General, right?” The driver asks him.

Ilya only nods once, closing the door and pressing his back into the seat to calm his nerves. 

This is equally as stupid as following Shane off the ice. Sure, it’s common for captains to check in on injured players, especially if it’s another captain, but immediately after having won probably the most important game in the playoffs aside from the damn final? It’s reckless. 

He presses his hands into his eyes for the entire duration of the drive, uncaring if the driver finds his behavior odd. Ilya tries to think of what he’s going to tell his teammates or coach when they figure out where he escaped to. 

Hey, you know that guy you think I hate because everyone says we hate each other? We’re currently dating. He’s also my husband. Sort of. Long story that one. But I love him and seeing him laid out on the ice was maybe the scariest thing I have ever seen. Please forgive me for abandoning a night of celebrations in our playoff run as I tend to him.

Yeah, I’m fucked, Ilya thinks. He doesn’t get much further than that as the car pulls up to the visitor entrance. He offers a short thanks and gets out, smoothing down the front of his suit like that will distract from the mess of him that’s still leftover after having played an entire game. 

Ilya walks in through the doors to a waiting room that’s more full than he had hoped it would be. He does his best to keep his head down and push forward even as people start to wonder who the guy in the suit is that’s rushing toward the front desk. 

“Hi,” he says when the nurse looks up at him. Her expression shifts and he knows he’s been recognized if the straightening in her seat and rapid blinking is anything to go by. Ilya tries to put on a smile and tucks his hands into his pockets where he can fidget with his ring as he says, “I was wondering if I could see someone? A patient. He should have been checked in recently.”

“Um, sure!” The nurse says, trying to pretend that she has no clue who he is. Ilya wants to thank her for the effort. “If I could just get a name.”

“Shane,” Ilya answers with his voice breaking only slightly. He tries again. “Shane Hollander.”

The nurse’s fingers don’t fly across the keyboard she was getting ready to type at. She looks back up at him again like maybe she wasn’t actually so sure who she thought was standing in front of her now. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hollander is only being allowed visitors that are family right now.”

“I know him,” Ilya says awkwardly. The nurse tries to smile at him but it comes off as pity. She starts to type on the computer probably to appease him, but Ilya can tell she’s ready to deny him again.

“I understand, sir, but unless you can prove you are family, Mr. Hollander is not being allowed other visitors right now.”

“I am sort of family,” Ilya blurts. The nurse stops typing, staring up at him. Ilya starts to feel panic rise up in his chest. The hospital is busy today as it probably is any other day. He feels momentarily selfish for assuming it wouldn’t be just because Shane Hollander is being kept in one of their rooms.

Trying to subdue his nerves, Ilya leans close and at a near whisper, he says, “You cannot tell anyone this.”

He waits for some sort of acknowledgement from the nurse. He sort of wants her to tell him to knock it off; that he clearly isn’t thinking straight, but they have to respect privacy in hospitals here right? This is perhaps the safest person to have their secret. 

“I am his husband,” Ilya says slowly.

The nurse blinks at him. She doesn’t say anything at first and Ilya worries that maybe his English is failing him during one of the worst moments of his life. Or maybe he’s in hell and everyone is going to start laughing and pointing at him soon. He braces for either option only for the nurse to crack that steady smile again.

“That’s very funny, Mr. Rozanov,” she says, dropping her act of pretending that she didn’t know who he is, “but as I said–”

“Yes, yes, family only. I am trying to explain that I am.”

He’s reaching for his phone before he can think better of it. “You need proof,” he’s muttering while the nurse just sighs, probably having seen weirder shit in her life. It doesn’t take Ilya long to find the photos. He has an album hidden away labeled ‘boring’ with a nondescript cover photo that he quickly opens and scrolls to the top of. Their wedding photos are there. The perfect three with Ilya choosing the first one where they’re simply looking at each other in their fancy suits and the stupid fucking hats and sunglasses. He zooms in a bit, cutting out the dead musician that’s off in the corner in every single one of the photos and turns the screen to the nurse. 

She studies it momentarily with that smile falling slightly as she looks back up at Ilya and then to the phone again. “From, uh, the wedding,” Ilya says awkwardly before pulling his phone away, suddenly feeling protective. 

The nurse still looks unsure. Ilya is contemplating injuring himself in front of everyone right now just to get behind the doors that lead to where the patients are. “Please,” he says, feeling more panicked now when no one immediately directs him to where Shane is. The nurse who now holds their secret chews on the inside of her cheek and frowns like she doesn’t want to disappoint him. She glances back at her computer like it will have an answer with her finger using the mouse to scroll and give her some time to decide on how to get Ilya out of here. 

He notices a security guard watching him carefully from the nearby corner. When Ilya looks at him, the man nods back. Why is everyone so weird here, Ilya thinks.

“Oh.”

Ilya turns back to the nurse. Her eyes are newly wide before they abruptly squint as she reads something over again. “What?” Ilya asks impatiently.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rozanov. They must have missed this when he was admitted. You’re listed as an emergency contact in Mr. Hollander’s file. You’ve been labeled as his spouse. Right after his parents. I’m terribly sorry for the delay. Someone should have called you,” the nurse is saying all of this as Ilya processes it on the other side of the desk.

“I can take you to him,” she’s still saying. Ilya numbly follows, suddenly feeling his eyes burn when it hits him.

Shane incorporated him into a personal part of his life. Ilya has no clue when he did it, but he could kiss Shane for it now. 

He shakes his head with a small smile as he follows after the nurse. This ridiculous, over-prepared man, Ilya thinks. He’s going to be the end of him. 

“He’s going to be a little out of it from the mild concussion. He was pretty coherent when he got here though, but they’ve given him pretty heavy pain management to help with the broken ribs. The doctors insist he stay here for a day just for monitoring, but should be good to go tomorrow with a whole long-term recovery plan in place.”

Ilya nods at this, though his mind sort of drifts to the blaring fact that he is not going to be the one taking Shane home tonight to be cared for. His team leaves early tomorrow morning to get back to Boston to prepare for the next round of playoffs. Ilya hasn’t checked his phone to see if they’re worried about his sudden absence. There’s also the sudden realization as they pull up to what appears to be Shane’s room that Ilya is about to meet Shane’s parents.

Huh, he really did not think this through.

“Hello, Mr. Hollander and family! I brought another guest for you–”

“Sorry,” Yuna Hollander is suddenly standing. “It’s supposed to be only– Rozanov?” 

Ilya stands frozen in the doorway. The nurse simply pats his arm and slips back out, assuming a big happy family reunion is about to take place in a damn hospital room. Shane Hollander’s mother is staring at him like he’s grown a second head, however. The reunion will have to be postponed.

No one moves at first. Then David Hollander stands slowly to join his wife. Their confusion is a matching pair as Ilya tries to get his mouth to work to make this not seem like he’s come in to secretly smother Shane in his sleep. 

Yuna is the first to break the silence. “How did you get in here?”

Ilya squares his shoulders, trying to be respectable to the two people he has yet to officially meet but has heard so much about. They’re good people. He knows that given Shane turned out to be perfect so they must have done something right in this life. They’re also fiercely supportive of Shane with him somewhat knowing that Yuna does a lot of the managing when it comes to Shane’s career off the ice. Ilya doesn’t know how far that support extends though. He doesn’t know if he’s about to shatter something delicate all because he couldn’t get it out of his head that Shane wasn’t okay. 

“I, um–”

He gets barely a stutter out before someone else interrupts.

“Ilya?” 

Three pairs of eyes turn to the fourth in the room like they all forgot he’s the reason they’re there to begin with. Shane blinks blearily from a medication induced nap. The smile that flashes though when his eyes focus on him is one Ilya will remember for a lifetime.

“Ilyaaaa,” Shane drags out, lifting a hand out to him. 

Ilya doesn’t move at first though, caught between the startled staring of Shane’s parents and his need to just hold onto Shane to make sure he’s real. 

“I came to check on you,” Ilya manages to say. His voice sounds timid in his ears, like when he was first trying out English after it seemed apparent the team he would be drafted to would be in the states. 

“Come here and check,” Shane insists, hand still outstretched, words a little slurred. 

Ilya risks one more glance at Shane’s parents before he’s shuffling forward. His hand naturally reaches for Shane’s even though the initiated contact while other people are watching sets his skin on fire. Shane, none the wiser, sighs. “Better,” he murmurs.

“What is happening right now?” Yuna interrupts. 

Ilya tries to tug his hand away, but Shane is surprisingly strong despite the injuries and the medication. 

Shane lazily turns his head to his parents, eyes squinting at them like he only just remembered they were there. Then he looks at Ilya. Then down at their hands. Back at his parents. 

“Oh,” is all he says before he’s trying to sit up in bed. 

Multiple people move forward to make him stop with Ilya stepping aside a second later, feeling like he’s taking up too much space. 

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” Shane says, though he does wince as he gets readjusted on the hospital bed. He’s searching for Ilya’s hand again, which Ilya offers. Yuna watches it carefully while David leans back, brows scrunched slightly.

“Marley did not mean to hurt you,” Ilya says suddenly, hoping he can clear the air. “He feels bad about what happened.”

Ilya does not know if Cliff feels bad at all. Cliff is probably celebrating with his team while grumbling about hauling Ilya’s shit back onto the bus. 

“So you came here to apologize?” Yuna starts slowly. 

“Sort of, yes,” Ilya answers.

Shane holds his hand a little tighter. David won’t stop looking at it.

“That still doesn’t explain how you managed to come in as a visitor. This is a private room and though I appreciate the sportsmanship, you can’t–”

“Mom,” Shane interrupts. Ilya looks down at him, feeling briefly shocked out of the state of fear in receiving a lecture from Yuna Hollander, but he notices Shane blinking like he’s trying to clear his head and focus. “It’s fine,” he continues. “He can stay. I want him to stay.”

Yuna stares at her son. “I don’t understand.”

David has managed to bring the two chairs they were sitting on closer, willing his wife to take a seat as he gestures to the spare one for Ilya who refuses. He wants to stay standing in case he needs to make a run for it.

“This is my, um,” Shane looks at Ilya. His confusion would be adorable in any other instance, but Ilya is focusing on the fact that he has taken something special from Shane. He didn’t think about whether Shane was ever planning on coming out to his parents or even introducing Ilya to them. He’s taken that choice in this moment and the guilt makes him want the floor to swallow him whole. 

“This is my Ilya,” Shane finishes. “Ilya Rozanov, which you should know, I suppose.”

He sounds a little breathless as he finishes that simple sentence and Ilya worries briefly, but Yuna clearly has questions.

“Yes, we know who Rozanov is. Have known for a while,” she says. Her gaze turns back toward Ilya, and he does his best not to shrink under it. “But this is new. I actually don’t know what this is. Shane, honey, you two hate each other.”

Shane chuckles at that, humorous through the haze of drugs as Ilya’s hand unconsciously tightens around his. “We don’t hate each other,” Shane says. “I actually love him. A lot. Which is a good thing considering we’re also married. It’s not good to be married to someone you don’t love.”

“Okay, that is enough Shane–”

“You’re what?!” Yuna gapes at both of them. Even David who has been rather calm through all of this is taken aback.

“Yup,” Shane says happily. “Didn’t mean to get married but we’re figuring it out, I think.”

He looks at Ilya for reassurance and Ilya’s heart nearly gives out. His apparent in-laws are going to hate him forever based on the worst first impression one could possibly have. He smiles as gently as he can manage at Shane before answering with, “Yes. Figuring it out.”

“So, you’re like together?” David asks. He looks at their hands again. 

Shane opens his mouth to answer, but Ilya is honestly afraid of what’s going to come out so he smoothly cuts in with, “Yes. We are together. In a relationship, however you want to phrase it. The, uh, marriage thing is complicated. I take responsibility, but please know I did not force your son into anything. I wouldn’t do that. I also love him. Today scared me, and I did not think any of this through. This is not how I wanted to meet you both and when Shane is less out of it, I know he will probably be upset about this as well. I ask for your forgiveness the same way I will ask for his.”

Yuna sits back slowly in her chair. David has a reassuring hand massaging one of her shoulders. Shane’s hand tightens around Ilya’s as if he’s coming toward the surface bit by bit and realizing how terrible this situation is.

“How long?” Yuna asks, voice quiet and reserved. 

Ilya doesn’t know if she’s referring to the marriage or their relationship, so he goes to answer with a happy medium, only Shane’s feeling talkative again so they’re both giving a timeline that doesn’t really make sense.

“A few months,” Ilya says, referring to their actual commitment to be together.

“Since our rookie year,” Shane says, referring to something else entirely. 

Ilya’s attention snaps to him.

“You’ve been married since your rookie year?” Yuna gasps. Ilya can’t even blame her for being scandalized.

“No, sorry. He’s confused. We got married in 2011 during the summer,” Ilya corrects. “We have been in a relationship officially for a few months.”

Shane’s parents look at him like he’s cleared up nothing. 

“We were seeing each other before the marriage though,” Shane points out unhelpfully.

Ilya clicks his teeth in embarrassment while Yuna presses on with more questions. “Let me get this straight, you two, my son and the guy he’s hated for years, have been seeing each other, whatever that means, since your rookie season–”

“Summer before if we want to get specific,” Ilya decides to add because he does not value his life. “Sorry,” he mutters when Yuna’s face crumples even further at more information.

“Since the summer before your rookie,” she amends with a huff, “and then went and got married the summer after your rookie season? And now you’re in an actual relationship.”

Ilya looks at Shane who nods along. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” Shane says. 

Yuna sucks in a breath. She keeps looking at Shane who deliriously keeps his eyes on Ilya who is convinced he’s going to pay for all of this in some next life. Yuna stands slowly and Ilya’s walls click into place.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I’m going to step out for some coffee.”

David looks like he wants to tell her to stay. Ilya keeps his eyes firmly on the edge of the hospital bed as Yuna skirts around, giving Shane’s leg a small squeeze like she knows if he weren’t on several pain medications right now, he’d be freaking out. 

“Rozanov,” Yuna says, stopping at the door. Ilya slowly turns to her. “You just played a whole game. Do you want anything from the cafeteria?”

Ilya blinks at Yuna Hollander, stunned at the offer despite the difficulty of having made it clearly showing in her face. He shakes his head subtly, adding, “No thank you.” 

His stomach is such a wreck from the day, he’s not even sure he could manage eating if he were actually hungry. Yuna nods once and then leaves. The door clicking close behind her almost makes Ilya flinch.

“Rozanov, you should take a seat,” David suddenly suggests.

“Ilya,” Ilya whispers.

David is halfway to standing to point out the chair behind him again. Something gentle comes over his face though at the correction. “Ilya,” he amends. “It seems like you’ll be here for a while. Take a seat. You look nervous.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya mutters, freeing his hand from Shane’s to do as he’s told.

“No need to apologize,” David assures. He takes his seat again as well, looking between Shane and Ilya before sighing with a shake of his head. Shane is starting to doze again, his mouth happily tilted in the ghost of a smile when Ilya moves forward just to hold onto him in some way. He lets himself run a thumb across Shane’s freckled cheek, ignoring the hesitancy he feels as David witnesses the brief motion. His hand drops back into his lap like dead weight.

“Hell of a game today,” David eventually says, so they're not all just sitting there in silence, waiting for Yuna to return. “I thought we almost had it in the second period, but I guess not.”

Ilya’s smile is pained. 

“It’s okay, we’ll go on to win the cup,” Shane mutters, head pressing into the hospital pillow. 

“Next season,” Ilya corrects gently. 

“No, no,” Shane insists. “Remember our deal? I win the cup so we don’t get divorced.”

Ilya nervously flicks his eyes toward David who has an eyebrow raised. He wonders if there’s any way to put Shane back to sleep right now. “You did not win anything, sweetheart,” Ilya says slowly. “I am sorry to say Boston won tonight.”

Shane squints at him before blowing out a breath. “Well, shit.”

It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Ilya can’t help but let out an abrupt laugh. Even David smiles, shaking his head. Ilya brings their joint hands to his lips as he continues to try and settle his nerves. “No divorce though. I think we are out of surprises for today.”

Shane relaxes a bit. “That’s nice.”

Ilya runs a thumb across the back of Shane’s hand, focus distant as he nods. They’re quiet for a moment with nothing but the sound of Shane’s heart monitor beeping steadily if not calmer as the minutes tick by. It’s almost a relief when Yuna returns with a cup of coffee in her hand. Ilya’s face almost collapses in tears though when she leaves a water bottle in his lap. David gets tea. 

No one points out that Yuna’s eyes are slightly glassy as she clears her throat, takes her seat, and gets back to business. “So,” she says, “this is serious then.”

Ilya forces himself to stay present. If he’s going to drag Shane into this mess, he has to stay present; answer their questions and hope for the best. “Yes,” he says. “I am committed to him.”

Yuna hums. “Shane,” she turns, gently quelling him out of the nap he was descending back into. “I know you’re tired, honey, but I’m just trying to understand all of this.”

Shane huffs but blinks hard, nodding as he tries to sit up again. Ilya moves to shift the pillow behind his neck. Yuna watches all of this carefully. 

“I thought,” she goes on to say, “that maybe you were seeing someone.”

Shane nods at his mother. “Yeah, Ilya.”

He raises their conjoint hands. 

Yuna shakes her head slightly before putting a hand on the edge of the bed as if to steady herself. “I didn’t know about that,” she reminds. “I thought though, with how upset you were when things were leaked about you and that actress that maybe that was what you were hiding all this time.”

Shane chuckles. “Rose? Yeah, no. We’re friends. I made that clear the first day we met actually. Told her I’m married. Forgot to tell her I’m gay. I’ll get around to it. I’ve just been busy.”

He waves his free hand around while Yuna takes in more information, settling with certain facts that she now knows to be true. “I thought so,” she whispers almost to herself.

David clears his throat to join in on the conversation. “Your mother means we’ve considered it in the past,” he offers. “That you might be gay, but we didn’t want to assume. I think not asking about it though may have scared you off from feeling like you could have told us.”

Shane shrugs, but his face does something funny like he’s actually listening to what his parents are saying and maybe the pain medication isn’t as useful anymore to dull his senses. “I wasn’t scared,” he lies. “I was figuring things out, I guess. It didn’t help that I was doing that while being married. This is all still a bit new for me.”

“Oh, honey,” Yuna sighs. Her eyes are welling up with tears now as she moves closer to take ahold of Shane’s other hand. Ilya thinks about slipping his own out of Shane’s grasp, but Shane has an iron grip on him so he can’t offer that courtesy. There are small tears hanging onto Shane’s lashes as his mother says, “I’m sorry you felt like you had to figure everything out alone. And I’m sorry that no matter if we thought we were doing the right thing by not talking about any of it, you felt like we couldn’t be people you could tell. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Shane whispers. His watery eyes look at Ilya who is doing his best not to burst into tears in a random hospital room in the middle of Montreal. 

He doesn’t correct Shane in telling him that for most of the year, they were separate from each other. That there were so many walls put up that even though they were married, the loneliness was there. Ilya felt it, so Shane must have as well. He doesn’t apologize for making Shane feel that way. He’s added it to the list of things he has to tell Shane he’s sorry for when they have more time to speak. 

“I’m glad you had him,” Yuna whispers. She’s looking at Ilya when she says it. Ilya bites hard on the inside of his cheek, but the pain hardly grounds him as a few tears slip out. 

“Does anyone else know?” David asks.

Ilya shakes his head. “I think Shane told Rose Landry about the marriage,” he reminds, just to give them an answer.

“I didn’t tell her how it happened,” Shane clarifies.

“How did that happen?” Yuna asks curiously.

“Uh,” Ilya nervously glances at Shane. He already looks like the worst person in the world, storming into this hospital room to reveal to Shane’s parents that they’re not only together but they have so much other baggage that comes with that. He knows that their marriage is certainly not traditional. His own parents would have scoffed at the casualness of it all with his father probably calling it an embarrassment and something worse and his mother likely being more concerned about whether Ilya had jumped into a marriage without knowing if there was any love to hold it together. Their opinions are unable to be heard though, leaving Ilya to try and piece together something that feels valuable to present to Shane’s parents. He makes a silent promise to do this all over again the correct way. To ask Shane’s parents for permission and to get down on one knee to do some ridiculous proposal where there are a lot of candles and maybe some light music to distract Shane from the way Ilya’s heart is rapidly beating. They’d probably get married in the summer, when their close friends and family could attend; Shane’s crowd would be far bigger than Ilya’s, but Ilya wants to consider the schedules of those he suspects Shane would invite. It would still be a private affair, probably long after they’ve retired and slipped into the distant memories of their fans who will remain stuck on the ‘good old days’ when two of the best hockey players of this generation used to create history before their very eyes. 

Ilya would do all of this for Shane. He’d force himself through years of secrecy as long as he knew he had this. They could face the rest of the world when they’re ready and by then, Ilya hopes to have corrected everything he screwed up in the first place: the backwards marriage and everything unsaid now that the ropes tying him back to his home and his family have been cut free. He just wants this all to be better. That starts with owning up to Shane’s parents.

Ilya slowly gets out his phone, unlocking it to the album that he’d already had open for the nurse. He scrolls two more times until he finds the one of them kissing, zooming in still so it’s obvious that they’re at a wedding ceremony, but not that it’s at that dinky chapel in Vegas. He presents the phone across Shane’s bed with his parents taking it into their hands.

Shane leans forward a bit, grimacing at the shifting of his ribs, but he can see the photo on Ilya’s phone. “You kept those?” He blurts.

Ilya nods. “Of course,” he says. Yuna and David give him back his phone. He looks at the photo once more before pocketing it. He takes in a breath before he tries to explain everything. “We got married after the NHL awards in 2011. To say we were both aware of what we were doing is a lie. Shane found out the next morning. There were things going on with my family so we could not get it resolved that summer or the next. Somewhere down the line, we stopped trying to resolve it at all. If Shane wanted something better, I would have given it to him. Whether it was being married to me or someone else, I knew that the marriage was accidental. He worked very hard to keep this from those who did not need to know. After we decided to officially be together, we also decided to continue keeping it to ourselves.” 

“Since 2011,” Yuna breathes out. There’s something in her expression that tells Ilya she’s thinking. She has the same features of concentration as Shane that he finds rather endearing. 

“And you plan to just keep hiding it?” David tests out.

Shane and Ilya nod. 

“The NHL is…” Ilya shrugs. “Not ready for something like that.”

Yuna makes a noise of resentment that turns a bit sad as she realizes what Ilya is saying. “So you plan to just stay hidden until what? Retirement?”

Again, Ilya looks to Shane. They haven’t talked about this really. Everything still felt so fresh and new that they hadn’t talked about the future that comes with it. They should have had this conversation before this moment, but Ilya supposes they weren’t really the poster children for doing things in order. “Yes,” he answers for them. “Will be better received when we are not still playing.”

“That’s an incredibly sad outlook,” Yuna says bluntly.

“Is only option we have,” Ilya resides. 

Yuna looks like she wants to argue, but Ilya can tell she knows hockey; knows it well. This means she knows what the league is like behind the big declarations of progress that are simply attached brand deals and meaningless statements that don’t mean much behind closed doors. Ilya knows Shane has received weird comments about his race from press and even his own team management like he were some prize they won in the pursuit of a better image. Yuna can probably guess with having a son who’s played hockey his whole life that locker rooms can be a nightmare with words thrown out carelessly and even more so when things become heated on the ice. It doesn’t matter how many times the league insists they are welcoming. They won’t be for something like this. Especially not with their carefully orchestrated rivalry between Ilya and Shane that brings in millions each time they play each other. All of that would be ruined in an instant. 

Ilya loves hockey; adores the freedom and escape it has given him. But he could do without it. He knows that at some point, this all comes to end when his body can no longer keep up with the fresher legs they keep drafting every year. And this is fine. He’s ready for whenever that day comes where he hangs up the skates and if it comes sooner than he expected, that is fine too. But Shane… hockey is all he knows. His life is carefully constructed around this central purpose and to be without it, Ilya knows it would ruin him. Ilya has taken so much from Shane. He will not take this from him too.

“I have to say, Ilya,” David begins, pulling Ilya from his thoughts and shifting the room away from doomed silence, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but to hear you so committed to all of this is a little surprising for us. Your reputation describes someone completely different.”

“I have history, yes,” Ilya agrees. “I am bisexual so I assume you are thinking of women I have been with, but I have only been with Shane since the marriage. Even before we agreed to establish actual relationship, there has only been him for last five years. The history of my teenage years is nothing when I have only loved one person.”

Shane’s parents have begun to look at him differently. With layers slowly being peeled away, this new Ilya Rozanov has planted seeds in their mind. There’s still a lot of confusion. That much is evident. But seeds can grow into something beautiful if they are properly cared for. Ilya and Shane now have two more people who can tend to all the finer details they may have overlooked. It’s not a perfect start, but it’s something.

“So we keep this a secret,” Yuna sighs. “Until you’re both ready.”

Shane and Ilya nod again. 

“It will take some getting used to,” Yuna admits, looking at David who nods, but there’s less tension surrounding them now. “But we do love and support you, Shane. And if Ilya is going to be the person for you, we support him too.”

Shane smiles wobbly at his parents. “He’s it,” is all he offers.

Yuna smiles back. “Then it’s settled.”

Ilya’s phone rings then, breaking them out of the fragile delicacy of their time together. He apologizes and stands. Shane makes a soft noise when he has to retract his hand before stepping out of the room to answer the call.

He closes the door behind him, hearing whispers immediately pop up on the other end. Ilya tries to reassure himself that everything is fine and that he has not ruined things with Shane’s parents. He can’t focus too much on it though as he answers the phone to yelling.

“Roz! Rozy! Where the hell are you? Coach is about to put a missing persons notice!”

Cliff is shouting in Ilya’s ear, causing him to wince and pull his phone away so he doesn’t lose his hearing. “I am out,” he says. “But I will be returning to hotel soon. Tell coach to stop worrying. It ruins his reputation of being stern.”

Cliff snorts on the other end. The distant sound of celebrations are clearly happening in the background. He’s practically forgotten that his team had won today. It feels like such a small thing compared to everything else.

“If you’re out, we could join you? Ain’t that right boys?”

Cliff must angle the phone to the rest of Ilya’s team who shout in agreement. He feels a sense of fondness overcome him for his band of idiots. “No need,” Ilya insists. “Leave enough of celebrations for me to join later.”

“You heard the captain!” Cliff shouts. 

Ilya shakes his head with a smile and murmurs that he has to go before ending the call. He will probably not celebrate much tonight. His body hangs with exhaustion not just from the game but from the last few hours. The adrenaline rush has died down as well, making the dull pulsing in his shoulder all the more prominent. 

Ilya breathes out before entering the hospital room again. He smiles apologetically when whatever conversation the Hollanders were having stops. “I may have to go soon,” he tells them, hands folded in front of him.

“No worries at all, Ilya,” Yuna insists, going to stand alongside David. “You probably have a busy next few days.”

Ilya only nods, but feels momentarily startled when they both move forward. Their steps slow, showing that his fear is probably evident on his face. He tries to dampen it, but it’s David who adjusts first, offering a hand to him.

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Ilya,” he says. Ilya takes his hand, appreciating the strong grip David has. 

Yuna offers him a hand as well, but she eventually tugs and brings him into a hug. It’s awkward at first, but Ilya feels himself relax into it. The last time he’s been hugged by a mother was when he was twelve. Now, at almost twenty-five, he feels himself hold onto Yuna Hollander like he were a child all over again, trying to soak up the decade of lost love that he may have a chance to receive now. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into Ilya’s ear. For what is she thankful for? Ilya can’t quite be sure, but as they pull back, he nods in appreciation, hoping he can hold onto his tears for when he’s alone and can feel everything he’s felt today in full. 

“We’ll be watching you for the rest of your playoff run,” Yuna tells him. “Not rooting for you of course because loyalty is important.”

Ilya laughs while Shane breaks out of his daze of watching them all hug and cry as if this were some dream. “Mom,” he complains.

“What? His team injured you and put your team out of playoff contention,” Yuna defends. “It’s hardly reasonable to ask me to cheer them on.”

“You can cheer Ilya on,” Shane says before looking directly at him. “My mom cares a lot about hockey.”

Ilya steps forward, leaning down to press a small kiss to Shane’s temple. “I see where you get it from now,” he murmurs. “I will see you in the off-season?” 

Shane nods, having that look about him as if Ilya were a wonder. “Maybe you could come spend some time with all of us in Ottawa,” he suddenly offers. “I have a cottage there near my parent’s place. It’s private.”

Ilya thinks about Shane’s musings of a private getaway for just the two of them where they could hide away from the world and pretend that things were good until they were reshaped into what everyone expected when the season inevitably resumed. Ilya also knows about the cottage, but never brought it up. It would be pretty embarrassing to admit that he’d watched the ESPN coverage of Shane’s private getaway because he simply missed him. Then the whole Rose thing happened and Ilya thought he would be missing Shane Hollander for the rest of his life. But now, he has a chance here. There is no one waiting for him to return home to Russia. His team will not be confused by his absence in the summer with this being a common thing since he was their rookie. There is just Shane’s genuine offer and the idea of a family considering Ilya to be one of their own now.

“I would like that,” he says.

The answer brings a smile to Shane’s face. Ilya kisses him before he can think of the eyes behind them. 

“Since their rookie year,” Yuna whispers, marveling.

“Summer before,” David corrects.

Ilya leaves the hospital with well-wishes hanging off of him. He heads down the hall, head low aside from nodding gratefully at the nurse still behind the front desk. She gives him a little wave as he goes to leave. Ilya hasn’t called a car to take him back to the hotel. He keeps walking, making it as far as a few rows into the massive parking lot before he’s breaking down into sudden tears. 

They’re terribly happy tears. One of intense relief and years of secrecy bursting open like a dam. It’s late in the night and Montreal’s city blots out the stars overhead, but Ilya turns his tear-streaked face up above and smiles at his mother. 

“Everything is going to be all right,” he whispers to her in Russian. And for once, he allows himself to believe it.

Chapter End Notes

on a mission to make the Yuna and David relationship with Ilya the best thing on this planet.

Thank you so much for reading! actually can't believe how many people have loved this fic. See you at the next one! it's a bumpy road ahead!

Chapter 12: Perfect Timing

Chapter Notes

Now... some of y'all are going to be upset. But please know I had this drafted out when I first started the fic. This was always the plan so it was going to happen regardless, but I tried to make up for it by adding something ridiculously comforting at the end.

Enjoy!

June 2016

Boston doesn’t make it out of the third round, which isn’t the biggest disappointment to Ilya considering he can rest his shoulder and finally see Shane. They’ve only been able to talk on the phone since Ilya had left the hospital in Montreal to join his team for their next series that went to six games and left Ilya feeling more battered than he had in a long time.

He spent their first phone call after the hospital profusely apologizing. His English was choppy as he rapidly tried to explain everything and reassure Shane that the nurse who helped him is under some medical oath where she is sworn to secrecy and that Shane should be glad for this considering Ilya is apparently one of his emergency contacts. Shane had to settle him down and told him he wasn’t mad a few times before Ilya believed him.

“It’s not exactly how I pictured it happening,” Shane had said, “But I’m happy, Ilya. Incredibly happy.”

Ilya still planned to apologize in person, which was enough of an anxiety hazard as he boarded a plane to Montreal to waste the days away before they were set to show up for the NHL awards at the end of June like clockwork. Only, Ilya feels more nervous after he had received a call from Shane following Boston’s final match of the season, and he could tell something was slightly off in his tone. 

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Shane assured. “Nothing, really. It’s nothing.”

“Does not sound like nothing,” Ilya said as he’d been folding up clothes to shove in a suitcase for his visit to Montreal. They were planning to stay in the secret apartment as far as Ilya knew. He was probably going to be stuck inside for most of the time given anyone with eyes in Montreal would recognize him and the suspicion would be dangerous. Ilya was just excited to see Shane. He missed him terribly, but this phone call was grating his nerves. 

“It’s just…” Shane cuts himself off. It had only been a mere few weeks since the hospital room. Shane had peppered in good luck supposedly offered from his parents as well before Ilya’s last few stretch of games even though Yuna Hollander remained committed to cheering against Boston, which Ilya completely understands given the circumstances. Shane is still healing from the broken ribs and the concussion symptoms were still lingering there for a moment before he was even allowed to use facetime after he’d practically pleaded his case for screen use again. 

Ilya stops folding his clothes. He wishes they were facetiming right about now so he could see Shane’s face. He’s terrible at guessing what Shane is thinking when he can only hear his voice. “You do not want me to come,” he says.

“What? No,” Shane says abruptly. “No you better be on a flight later today. Jesus, it’s definitely not that. I was just talking with my parents earlier. We went out to breakfast.”

“Okay,” Ilya says slowly. He sits on the edge of his bed, cradling his phone in his lap. “They do not like me.”

“Ilya, stop assuming things and let me finish,” Shane breathes out. Only to add a ridiculous request right after. “Actually, I’d rather talk about this in-person. I know you get in around dinner time. I could invite my parents over and we can all talk.”

“Shane,” Ilya practically whines. 

“It’s nothing bad,” Shane tries to amend, but there’s still something to his voice that makes Ilya feel on edge. But he tries to listen to Shane’s persistent words even after the call ends and he finishes packing only to waste an hour scrolling through the internet to see if anything had been leaked about them. Nothing comes up. It doesn’t do much for Ilya’s panic.

He fidgets relentlessly on the flight. He’s donned sunglasses and a hat pulled low over his face to hide from the other passengers and crew. The entire flight is spent mulling over every possibility of what the rest of the day could bring. Ilya could be flying out to Montreal right now to get broken up with. That is certainly the worst case scenario. Maybe it’s just to have dinner with Shane’s parents who will try to let him down easy when they say that they want someone better for their son. It will feel like a blow to his chest either way. 

Ilya feels frayed by the time he gets off the plane and wanders toward passenger pickup. He can’t even enjoy the fact that he’s about to see Shane again after weeks apart and his big reveal at the hospital that is now proving to be more of a problem than he had considered.

Hit suitcase rolls noisily along the pavement as he searches for Shane’s ridiculously old and functional car. Normally, Ilya would have the urge to make fun of him for it, but he feels removed of any typical sarcasm as he carefully puts his things in the trunk, noticing Shane fidget in the driver’s seat with sunglasses on as well. 

Ilya closes the trunk and sighs to himself. Let’s get this over with, he thinks.

He slides into the passenger seat with Shane immediately signaling to get out of the waiting area before Ilya even has his seatbelt buckled. “You get in okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya presses his head back into the seat. “Yes.”

“Anyone notice you?”

“No.”

“Good,” Shane says a little breathily as they merge. “That’s good.”

Ilya has closed his eyes at this point to relieve the pressure behind them. He flinches when he feels Shane suddenly reach for his hand, holding it tightly and bringing him out of his head. Ilya pulls off his sunglasses and hat to look at Shane. 

“I missed you,” Shane tells him.

“I’m here,” Ilya says in return. 

Shane nods, bringing their hands to his lips and managing to get on the highway all at once. Ilya is mildly impressed, but that lingering thought of what’s to come later tonight continues to render him silent. Shane picks up on it immediately.

“I’m sorry about earlier today,” he says, glancing at Ilya from the side. 

Ilya keeps his eyes on the road. “Whatever it is, we will figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. 

“How is your head?” Ilya asks to change the subject.

“Better,” Shane answers immediately. He’s speeding a bit, which worries Ilya.

“And your ribs?”

“Still sore, but also better,” Shane answers in the same flat tone. Ilya is suffocating in this glorified SUV.

“Good,” Ilya whispers. 

“Ilya,” Shane starts, but Ilya needs more space if they’re going to have a serious conversation.

“Focus on the road, Hollander,” he says.

And Shane does for the rest of their too long drive. When he pulls into the parking garage of the Montreal apartment, Ilya resents the lack of excitement he feels. Shane turns off the car, sitting there for a moment before turning toward Ilya.

“We’re going to be okay,” he repeats. 

Ilya closes his eyes again and sighs. “I do not know what to prepare for to make it okay,” he mutters.

“It’s nothing bad,” Shane tries again.

“Do not keep saying that if you don’t mean it,” Ilya warns. 

Shane chews on his bottom lip. “My mom will explain everything,” he says before going to unbuckle his seat. Ilya sighs and unbuckles his as well considering Shane looks intent on doing something stupid like carrying his bag inside with still healing ribs.  

He bats Shane’s hand away as he grabs his things and then silently follows him toward the door of their shared apartment in Montreal. It should feel like coming home, but when Ilya steps inside, toeing off his shoes beside Shane’s, he can hear people talking in the kitchen. He meanders by the door while Shane cautiously enters the space.

“Hey, we’re here,” he announces. 

Ilya takes his time removing his coat and hanging it. He leaves his bags there as well in case he needs to leave again so soon. It takes him even longer to peek his head around the corner to find Yuna and David in the kitchen with dinner already cooked and smelling lovely. If only Ilya had an appetite right now.

“Ilya,” Yuna beams, setting her wine glass down to come and hug him. 

He had planned to remain stoic, but he can hardly say no to a hug from her. It feels just as good as it did back at the hospital and he tries to hold onto it as evidence that he is not hated here. Yuna pulls back and studies his face, suddenly frowning. 

“You look tired,” she points out before she turns to her son. “Shane, did you explain everything to him?”

Shane freezes by the kitchen counter he was pretending to clean. “I thought it would be best to do that in person,” he says quietly.

Yuna groans. “Shane, he looks like a nervous wreck. What did you tell him?”

Shane blinks and looks at Ilya, face wrinkling in realization that he went about this—whatever that is—very poorly. “Shit, um, just that we needed to talk with you guys and that it would be better to do it together.”

David chuckles as he goes about plating dinner. “A bit too vague, Shane,” he says gently. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, “I’m so sorry. I swear this isn’t like some intervention or anything.”

“You are not going to break up with me tonight,” Ilya clarifies slowly.

Shane balks. “What? Absolutely not. Unless you break up with me.”

“Why would I do that?” Ilya retorts.

“No one is breaking up,” Yuna interrupts. “Let’s just sit down and have dinner. I’m sure Ilya is tired after traveling so let’s get this going.”

They all gather around the dining table with Yuna getting Ilya something to drink and Ilya being surprised at the selection of vodka. “David picked it up on our way here,” Yuna tells him.

Ilya glances at Shane, wondering why he never told him that his dad is a decent man. 

“So, Ilya,” Yuna begins as she takes her seat. “How’d you get in?”

“Fine,” Ilya answers, twirling a fork through some pasta and chicken. He takes a bite. It’s so good he nearly sighs. 

“And your shoulder?” Yuna continues. 

“Is better,” Ilya says honestly. The rest will help tremendously and if he follows his trainer’s plan, he should be good to go by next season. It will just be something to casually monitor in the long run.

“That’s good,” Yuna says. David nods in agreement. Shane continues staring at his meal. 

Ilya wipes his mouth and places both hands on the table. He itches to grab Shane’s hand, but he needs whatever it is the Hollanders are talking around to actually be said so he doesn’t make a fool of himself. 

“I still do not know why we are being so secret,” Ilya tells them all. Yuna straightens and gives him a sympathetic smile.

“I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m sure this is incredibly stressful. You know what? Dinner manners can wait, let me go get my laptop and then we can all talk.”

Seeing Yuna get up from the table sends a new wave of anxiety through Ilya. There’s something steady about her presence he immediately misses as she goes to the other room. Shane grabs his hand and simultaneously, Ilya’s attention. 

Ilya forces his shoulders to relax under the touch. “This is scary,” he tells Shane.

“It won’t be when we figure everything out,” David cuts in, noticing Shane’s panic rendering him too frantic to say anything coherent right now. “Whatever you both decide, you have our full support.”

Now Ilya is very confused.

Thankfully, Yuna returns then, opening her laptop and typing almost immediately. She pulls up whatever she needs to and then looks at both Shane and Ilya. She reaches out and places a hand on Shane’s shoulder, coming closer to gently say, “Would you like to explain things to Ilya?”

Shane doesn’t respond at first. He stares at the table for a moment longer before squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a haggard breath. 

“We got married in 2011,” he starts.

Ilya squints at him. “Yes,” he agrees. He lifts his hand to show the ring he never takes off these days. 

Shane shoots him a sad smile. “We got married, or at least we thought we did and that’s what matters,” Shane goes on.

Ilya is still so confused. “I do not understand.”

“Just tell him, honey,” Yuna encourages quietly. 

Shane focuses on Ilya and speaks slowly and though his face is a complicated tangle of emotions, his tone is flat, factual, insistent that this is something not within their control, that they didn’t know, that it isn’t anyone’s fault. Yuna just happened to have a bit more sense than them and a quick google search following the hospital visit sort of dismantled their longstanding misconception. 

“It wasn’t legal in the state of Nevada for same sex couples to be married in 2011,” Shane says. “Our accident wasn’t even really an accident to begin with because it was never legal.”

Ilya looks at Shane, at his husband for the last five years. Their anniversary is coming up soon. He was going to do something nice for him. 

“That is strange,” Ilya mutters, finding his voice, "because we definitely gay married.”

Shane laughs, breaking the morose mood that had come over the room. A year or two, hell maybe even several months prior, Ilya would have maybe found some relief in this. They could go on with their lives without worrying about some contract that was never legally binding in the first place. Ilya supposes it was rather unusual that they never saw or had a physical contract declaring their marriage in the first place, but he thought the marriage was unusual to begin with. A few years ago, Ilya would have considered them free from this mess. He would have been ready to set Shane free, but now, the abrupt delusion of it all has shattered and he feels far too unsteady. 

“Is it legal now?” Ilya prompts. 

“Well, the state recognized it in 2014,” Yuna explains. “What you two did or managed is called a commitment ceremony that they offer for same sex couples even though they couldn’t be legally married at the time. The country went on to recognize gay marriage across all states in 2015. So if you two were to get married there again, it would be considered legal. Of course Canada has recognized same sex marriage since 2005 so honestly, the only fault your two have in any of this is that you decided to get married in the states of all places.”

“We weren’t exactly thinking when it happened, mom,” Shane sighs. He’s still holding onto Ilya’s hand, rubbing a thumb along the back of it as he cautiously asks, “Are you upset?”

Ilya thinks about it. He thinks about the immense stress of the secrecy surrounding their supposed marriage and it being something that has just suddenly disappeared into thin air on a random night in Montreal. He thinks about all their bets to keep their secret going, giving him enough time to fall in love with Shane even though he knew pretty early on that he was gone on him the moment Ilya was let in through the door. He tries to imagine a timeline where things were different. How long they would have dragged this out and if Shane would have allowed him to stay in his life, have bits of this apartment they were now sitting in, open up to his parents in this way. It may have still worked out because Ilya is a stubborn bastard who gets what he wants most of the time, but he can’t fault their idiotic oversight of what is legal in a state neither of them live in. 

“No,” he answers Shane honestly. “How could I be upset? Is this the best news? No. But I consider myself still married to you. Almost five years now and I don’t care if it is not official, we can do it again. I wanted to anyway. Make it official maybe in Canada. Canadian citizenship, I heard, is a nice thing to have. I am not upset, moya lyubov,” he repeats so Shane can hear the words again. “I can’t be when I believe that night in Vegas gave me a chance to start a lifetime with you. Now we can have more sense about it. Plan a little better. I would have worn a different suit. No ugly hat or sunglasses. I want to see all of you when it is official.”

Shane has tears pooling in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” Ilya promises. 

“Okay,” Shane breathes out like a prayer. “Okay. We have time then. To do it properly. I liked the hats though.”

Ilya muses at his fake husband turned just boyfriend, soon to be fiancé if Ilya could keep it together for a few more hours. “You did?”

“Yes,” Shane insists with a small smile. “I kept mine. It’s displayed next to my Rookie of the Year award. That night was pretty special for me.”

Ilya’s eyes widen. “I must see this.”

Shane laughs as do his parents. Everything feels a bit easier to manage now that it’s all cleared up. As Shane tugs on Ilya’s hand to show him the separate office he decorated recently in the apartment, Ilya manages a glance at Yuna’s computer, finding a tab open for a Canadian marriage license application. Smart woman, he thinks. 

Ilya gets to see that damn Rookie of the Year trophy again, but it’s sitting in the center of a shelving unit with all of Shane’s accolades he’s earned since the start of his professional career. The hat and sunglasses look misplaced, but Ilya knows Shane does everything with purpose. Nothing is ever out of place with him.  

“Is nice,” Ilya says quietly, pressing a kiss into Shane’s hair as they both stare at the shelves. 

“One day we have to add all your stuff here too,” Shane comments, already planning.

“We will need a bigger room if we are to share trophy space,” Ilya says, earning a sharp elbow to his side. He cannot retaliate given Shane’s ribs are still a bit wonky, but he pushes Shane forward back to his parents lingering in the doorway. 

They go back to dinner, talking about other things and their plans for the rest of the summer after the NHL awards. 

“Honeymoon,” Ilya hums. 

“Technically not going to be an anniversary,” Shane says. “And I’m not getting married in Vegas again.”

“You are no fun,” Ilya complains, but he doesn’t want Vegas either even if that place will always be sentimental for him. “Still an anniversary. I do not care about American laws.”

“I’ve seen the way you drive, and I can confirm that,” Shane murmurs, earning a swift kick beneath the table to his shins which are perfectly uninjured. 

Dinner is a light-hearted affair. Ilya answers questions about himself as Yuna and David still do their best to get to know him. They ask without preemptive judgement and it’s a strange thing for him to navigate a conversation with someone new and not recognize his guards up or a sense of fear. They insist Shane drag him over for family dinners when they head out to Ottawa after the awards and give restaurant recommendations and other places to visit when Ilya is in town. He doesn’t mention that Shane and him will likely stay in for the entirety of their stay at Shane’s cottage given that marriage or not, their relationship still had to be kept under wraps. Ilya doesn’t want to spoil a good night.

He helps clear the dishes with Shane wandering to the living room to put on the Stanley Cup finals for them, apparently intent on ruining everything good Ilya was trying to maintain here. He’s helping David dry off dishes while Yuna lingers around them when he subtly clears his throat. 

The Hollanders stop what they’re doing and look at him. Ilya makes sure Shane is still distracted in the other room before looking at these two wonderful people who made and raised the most important person in his life. Ilya has a plan. He makes sure he wastes no time completing it. 

“I want to thank you,” he starts.

Yuna smiles at him. “For what?”

“For everything,” Ilya says. “For being so kind to me at the hospital when I changed many things in your lives by coming into existence. I want to thank you for being good parents to Shane. For continuing to be good to me even though we barely know each other. And after learning about the marriage tonight, I want you both to know that I have every intention of marrying your son correctly. I was raised to be respectful, so I wanted to ask you before I do something reckless again with my relationship if I could have your approval to propose to Shane. Properly. I’d like to get married in Canada, I think. I want you both to be part of that experience, and I know Shane would want that too.”

Yuna starts to cry. Ilya feels a shock of panic, but David laughs wetly and comes close and hesitant, arms outstretched in a way that Ilya realizes is an offer to hug. Ilya hugs his future in-laws tightly. 

“Yes,” Yuna whispers. “You have our permission, Ilya.”

Ilya feels his eyes burn then. Everything comes into actuality a bit more suddenly. 

“Um, did I miss something?”

They all turn with tearful expressions to find Shane hovering at the other end of the kitchen. Yuna scrambles to try and come up with a decent lie, but Ilya already has it covered. 

“Was just upset we would have to watch Scott Hunter play in finals. Very hard experience for us, I hope you can understand,” Ilya says. 

Shane searches Ilya’s face first before studying his parents. He can’t quite figure out though what’s occurred while he was away for literally five minutes, so he shakes it off for now with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t be such an asshole. He’s not that bad of a player.”

“For his age, it is a miracle he manages to make it to the ice each day,” Ilya sighs dramatically as if Scott Hunter already has one foot in the grave, as if he’s prepared the monologue for the funeral where he will cite how the dinosaurs will miss his presence. 

Shane laughs and tells them to finish up given the first period just started. Ilya goes back to helping Shane’s parents with the cleaning up though they get distracted occasionally, laughing at this new journey they were about to begin. 

They all gather on the couch, wondering how the hell the Admirals had become so good right under their noses. Ilya won’t admit that he’s hoping they win though considering San Francisco was the team that knocked Boston out of their playoff contention. This will be a secret he takes to his grave.

It becomes pretty clear that New York is going to win it by the time the third period is halfway through. Ilya is at the corner of the couch with his legs propped in Shane’s lap while Shane has a hand outstretched toward him that occasionally finds the end of a curl. Yuna and David are sitting politely at the other end, a glass of wine each with Yuna commenting every now and then when she notices a flaw from San Francisco that New York capitalizes on. 

There is no murmur of relief when the clock hits zero and they all watch New York’s bench rush toward the ice; gloves and sticks and helmets tossed with little care. The announcers seem astounded, having witnessed one of those comeback stories Ilya knows are a dime a dozen. They leave the tv on even as the night gets late. Shane insists that the guest bedroom is already done up for Yuna and David to stay over, which he’d done as a precaution whether or not Ilya took the lack of a real marriage well. But it feels nice, casual; how easily they continue existing as a family with him now included. 

Yuna wants to clear out the remaining glasses when the families start to head toward the ice for the passing of the Stanley Cup, but Ilya notices something strange that has him leaning forward on the couch. 

Scott Hunter stands off to the side of his team without a single person surrounding him despite the cup firmly gripped in his hands. He seems to be looking somewhere in the massive stadium, face furrowed before he turns and passes off the cup to Carter Vaughan. And then he’s making long strides towards the stands, motioning for someone to come down toward the ice. 

“What’s he doing?” Shane asks. 

“I don’t know,” Yuna answers for all of them, pausing her cleaning to sit back down. 

Ilya senses something. He can tell when there’s a shift in the room and he realizes what Scott Hunter is doing. He’s reached for Shane’s hand without thinking when a man awkwardly steps out onto the ice and right into the welcoming embrace of the Admiral’s captain. A camera comes close while the announcers blab on in their own confusion. The microphones aren’t able to pick up whatever Scott is telling this man he picked from the stands, but Ilya notices how familiar they are with each other and how in love Scott Hunter looks. 

“Oh my god,” Yuna whispers right before Scott Hunter leans in for a kiss. 

The room feels silent despite the eruption of cheers both confused and maybe a little surprised that are heard from the stadium and audibly on the tv. Scott holds who Ilya now assumes is his boyfriend close, whispering things only for them to hear as relief is apparent for the whole world to see. 

“Did you know?” Shane is asking him.

He looks from Ilya back to the television where Scott is slowly bringing his boyfriend toward the rest of his team and their families. Carter Vaughan is smiling like a madman, having abandoned the cup to another teammate to embrace his longtime friend. 

“No,” Ilya says honestly, almost a little mad at himself for not suspecting anything. He knew Scott Hunter couldn’t be that perfect. Only now he’s just done something that’s changed Ilya’s life. He owes Scott Hunter something now, whatever that may be. Damn him.

“You two should reach out to him,” Yuna is saying next. “This is… I mean wow.”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly, eyes still glued to the television like he can’t quite believe it. “Wow.”

It takes them a long time to settle down for the night after witnessing that. Ilya is getting ready for bed after Yuna and David both said goodnight an hour ago to find Shane sitting on the edge of their bed and scrolling through news sites. 

Ilya comes close and plucks Shane’s phone out of his hand. “Hey, I was reading that,” he complains. Ilya tosses it on a nearby bench they have at the end of their bed. 

“I do not like you being this obsessed with Scott Hunter,” he says before leaning down and kissing Shane. 

“I’m not obsessed,” Shane says, leaning back and taking Ilya with him. “Just a little surprised he did that. Do you know how important this could be? For the league and for us? Most of the news out right now is in full support. The fans were obviously shocked, but they seem to be taking this well for the most part.”

Ilya props himself above Shane on one of his elbows. “You want to kiss me in front of a Stanley Cup crowd, Shane Hollander?” He guesses.

Shane rolls his eyes but his cheeks go a bit pink. “Maybe not something to that level, but I think the idea of us one day being out seems like a possibility. Not by much of course. I don’t think one kiss changes everything, but it seems possible.”

“Give me percentage,” Ilya says. 

“Like ten percent more possible than before,” Shane answers. Ilya knows they were operating at zero percent prior so this hardly feels like a win, but he looks down at Shane and feels that same thread of love hum through him and he can't bring himself to ruin the excitement Shane must feel. 

“One day,” he says to Shane, leaning forward to kiss him again. He leaves the rest of his thoughts unsaid. The idea of coming out does terrify him, and Ilya wonders if it scares Shane just as bad. It must because Shane doesn’t argue with the sentiment of some unknown date where they can be happy and exist in their world together. 

They finish getting ready for bed with Shane curled close against Ilya’s chest as Ilya pretends to sleep. He listens to Shane’s even breathing, carding a lazy hand through his soft hair as he works out what one day could be. 

An actual day later? Weeks? Months? Ilya isn’t sure if he can wait years. Maybe for them to safely be out, but for everything else? Ilya realizes he doesn’t want to wait even a few more hours.

He slips out of Shane’s sleeping embrace, pressing a kiss to his forehead as an apology and leaves their bedroom. 

It’s been awhile since he’s been back at the Montreal place. As the series between their teams had dragged on, Ilya thought it best to remain separate to focus on what they could do for their teams. The added secrecy to uphold was also stressing Shane out, so Ilya removed the conflict for him entirely. Still, he pads around the massive apartment, looking for things in particular as his mind is set on doing something and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to rest until he does. 

He realizes after about thirty minutes of snooping that they really needed to fill out the place more. There were bits and pieces that had slowly come together with every room finally being furnished, but the drawers were empty for the most part. Ilya thought of putting up framed pictures in certain places. Maybe another lamp or two if Shane could tolerate a little more lighting. 

He’s opening another kitchen drawer sort of as his last resort with a frustrated sigh as he takes out a box of birthday candles. Why Shane even has these but barely more than one set of pots and pans is beyond him, but they’ll have to do considering he checked every other room and there were no spare candles laying around. Not even the scented stuff that Ilya suspects Shane is probably so particular about he doesn’t even bother. 

Ilya goes to close the drawer as quietly as possible only for someone behind him to whisper, “What are you doing?”

He jumps, cursing in Russian under his breath. It’s a ridiculous sight, enough to make Shane laugh through a yawn as he lingers on the other end of the kitchen island. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Shane asks.

“Uh, needed to do something,” Ilya answers, heart beating fast and not just from being scared by Shane’s sudden appearance. This is better actually. He needs Shane for the rest of this. 

“Can I help?” Shane offers. “Or can it at least wait until morning?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Well, yes, I need you for it, but… I do not want to wait until morning.”

Shane blinks, suddenly a little more awake. “Should I get my parents?” 

Ilya smiles, pocketing the birthday candles. “Later, moya lyubov.”

He takes Shane’s hand and brings them back toward the main living area. It’s a clear night. Ilya can tell from the massive windows. He imagines all of Montreal may be able to witness this if they were quiet enough. The stars are not that visible, but his mother is there as well. Ilya hopes she’s smiling.

He sits Shane down on the edge of their couch and goes to search for a lighter and a shirt. Ilya wants a bit more decorum. He may not be the best at planning things when it comes to his relationship with Shane, but he’s had about a few hours to think everything over so he should be set. 

When Ilya returns, shirt on, lighter in hand with a box of birthday candles, he finds Shane wide eyed and sitting straight on the edge of their couch. Ilya smiles at him. He knows Shane probably suspects something now. Maybe even more so when he lights a single candle, unsure of where to set it down considering one would normally have a cake for these sorts of things.

“You know my birthday was a month ago,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya hums. “And mine is a few days away. Hush, Hollander, I am trying to do something.”

He ends up leaving for the kitchen again to get a plate. Ilya ignores Shane’s fussing when he warms the bottom of the candle to get the wax to flatten out a bit so it can stick to the plate. Soon, they have a little wildfire beside them as the only light in the room beside the moon that flashes blue against the yellow warmth between them. Ilya is crouched near the coffee table they were huddling by with Shane on the couch. It isn’t that hard of an adjustment as he takes a deep breath and shifts to one knee. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, like a warning. 

“Shhh,” Ilya says. “Wait until I am finished.”

He pauses to allow Shane to list all his grievances, only to see Shane’s eyes begin to water. Shane gives him a small nod, face bursting into a smile as Ilya slips his ring from his pinky finger and presents it to Shane.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya Rozanov starts. “I did not get to do this the first time around, but luck is on our side and I have been granted another chance. You are the miracle of my life. My guiding lighthouse I want to sail toward until my last breath. You push me to do ridiculous things. You make me a better player, better person, better husband now that we get to try this for real if you will allow it. You are my greatest gift and pleasure. I would accidentally marry you over and over again if I had the chance only to make you mine in every life and the next. I choose you through everything, and I love you too much to ever let you go. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Shane is silently crying though his smile remains. “Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He keeps saying it even as Ilya grins and swoops in to kiss him fiercely. Ilya forgets to mind the ribs as he practically tackles Shane into the couch, but they’re so disgustingly happy that the pain is worthwhile. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya tells him with their foreheads pressed together in the safety of this secret place they’ve built. He shifts to lay on his side as he grabs Shane’s left hand and slips the ring on. Funnily enough, it fits perfectly.

Shane entangles his hand back with Ilya, kissing them again before kissing Ilya once more. “Wait, wait,” he says suddenly, sitting up fully. 

Ilya stays lounging on the couch as he watches Shane unclip the chain he always wears now, sliding off the ring Ilya gave him two years ago off of an impulsive anniversary purchase. 

“Right hand,” Ilya whispers to him, feeling like a teenager desperately in love as he smiles at Shane who complies, finding Ilya’s right hand and slipping it over his ring finger. Ilya marvels at the gold there, letting the minimal light they’ve created show the faint etchings of ‘24’ on its face. “Now we wear each other’s numbers,” Ilya whispers. 

Shane grins and falls back into him. “I love you so much,” he says. “We’re going to get married.”

Ilya smiles into another kiss. “Already did that, Hollander. Keep up. But we are so good, so perfect, we will do it again. No one else is better at being married than us.”

Shane rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away when Ilya goes to kiss him again. He’s drunk off of the simple act of making Shane happy. Ilya could find himself happy as well, living a long life of doing only this one thing. 

“What was with all the candles,” Shane eventually asks.

“I was trying to be romantic,” Ilya complains. “There is not enough lighting here.”

Shane laughs. “It’s perfect,” he says even as Ilya counts down the seconds before he adds, “We should definitely put those out though. They’re a fire hazard.”

Ilya huffs. “You are fire hazard,” he says though he dutifully blows out each candle like a wish and cleans up before joining Shane in bed where they do their best to quietly commemorate the night their marriage was seemingly dissolved on a technicality while simultaneously celebrating their engagement. 

As always, Ilya thinks their timing for things is perfect.

Chapter End Notes

For everyone who was worried about how they would file taxes, I have solved this problem now! Only a few people guessed early on in the comments about this twist but I hope this was a fun surprise nonetheless. Also, in the prior chapter, Yuna sort of hints at being confused about the timeline when she learns they got married in 2011. You know she immediately went to google and then sighed at her idiot sons.
I hope this isn't too much of a plot ruiner because the secret marriage and such is sort of the whole au, but there is still a lot to sort out and I have just finished writing the whole fic as of today :) thank you for staying with it and for all your kind comments. See you at the next one!

Chapter 13: Three Weeks

Chapter Notes

before you all start to worry, I swear this chapter is supposed to be funny because the next chapter will NOT be a good time

Still June 2016

They take separate flights to Nevada even though Ilya complains. Shane insists, however, that the flights come in at different times. Despite being engaged, and enjoying a week away in Montreal, in the quiet of each other’s company, taking their time enjoying the bliss of being engaged in private, the final stretch of the season presents itself as a single night in Vegas. They were to set off to Ottawa immediately afterward. Still on separate flights. Ilya can’t wait to get away again. 

The hotel is familiar to them. Shane arrives there first with Ilya lingering in the small queue forming at the front desk to check in, pretending to be preoccupied on his phone as he overhears Shane subtly get another room. He smiles to himself as Shane goes to the elevators, not even glancing Ilya’s way.

Ilya gets a text moments later. He glances down at it as he gets his room card from the front desk. He doesn’t go to his room though. Ilya goes three floors up. He presses a hand to his chain hidden beneath his clothes where his engagement ring will reside until they’re away from Vegas. Shane has his on his chain as well. Another thing for just the two of them.

He leisurely heads to the door of the extra room that Shane got for them. Ilya decides he’ll repay him later for the cost. 

A short knock echoes across the otherwise empty hallway. Ilya tucks his hands behind his back, patient as ever. It’s seconds later that the door opens with Shane going to casually lean against the doorframe. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” he starts, “You must have the wrong room.”

Ilya rolls his eyes as he pushes Shane back, dragging his bags behind him. The door shuts when they’re both inside with Shane leaning into Ilya’s mouth as they stumble toward the elaborate couch set in the center of the first part of the massive room. Ilya’s hands drag underneath Shane’s shirt, drinking in the soft groan that escapes from Shane’s lips right before they collapse onto the furniture.

“We should skip the awards,” Ilya murmurs, trailing his mouth across Shane’s jaw, the column of his throat. 

“Can’t,” Shane says in a strained voice. “We’re both presenting.”

This is true. Ilya should have known the NHL couldn’t have parted with their golden boys when it comes to their public events. “They can do it without us,” Ilya argues, hiking up Shane’s shirt as his mouth continues to find all the sensitive spots he knows religiously. 

“Pretty sure,” Shane huffs, “they can’t.”

Ilya hums. “NHL awards told you this themselves?” He teases, hands now shifting and tightening at the perfect noises Shane is making. “I should speak to them,” Ilya continues. “They cannot take my husband away when he is like this.”

He glances up to find Shane slipping into a smile. “Five years,” he whispers as if he still couldn’t believe it. 

Ilya presses the side of his face into Shane’s inner thigh, hand still trailing along Shane’s chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to get married here again?”

Shane props his head up with an arm tucked behind his head. “I thought you wanted to get married in Canada,” Shane says, waiting for Ilya to give him a subtle nod. “Besides, my parents will be pissed if we get married again without them.”

Ilya sighs dramatically. “All smart reasons. I knew I married the right person.”

Shane smirks. “Not yet,” he reminds. Ilya likes that he’s so intent on doing a proper wedding. He could probably spend hours watching Shane stress over a guestlist and seating arrangements. 

“I still want to celebrate anniversary,” Ilya insists. “Fake or not, Vegas will be unhappy they were not the ones to officially have us wed.”

Shane’s breath catches as Ilya goes back to work. He blinks slowly, hand moving to run through the mess of Ilya’s curls. “We can celebrate once we’ve had a few drinks with the rest of the players after the awards,” he says. “We can’t be seen together though.”

Shane knows that free drinks isn’t what Ilya is referring to when it comes to celebrations. “After that,” Ilya whispers, mouth pressed to the line of Shane’s stomach. “We celebrate correctly after that.”

“Okay,” Shane relents. “Yes. After.”

His words are becoming less coherent now. “Think you can make it through the night while thinking of everything I’m going to do to you later?” Ilya asks.

Shane visibly swallows. “I’ll be fine.”

Ilya’s lips glide over the fabric straining over Shane’s cock. “I’m not so sure.”

“Ilya–” Shane begs.

Ilya pauses, watching Shane grow restless, smirking to himself as he pulls away entirely. Shane’s eyes snap open as he bolts up. “What the fuck?”

Ilya goes over to his suitcase, ready to haul it to wherever the bedroom is in this massive place. “Get dressed,” Ilya says amidst Shane’s panic. “We have to look presentable soon. I assume you will want to arrive at different times.”

Shane has managed to get up from the couch, following Ilya like a madman on a mission. “You’re such a–”

“Wonderful husband, yes,” Ilya grins, turning as he leans between the doorframe of the attached bathroom. “We both know this. Hurry up, Hollander.”

They do not hurry. In fact, by the time that Ilya arrives, he’s likely running late. The suit he has for the night is hazardous. The dress shirt is black silk, carefully unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a glimpse of where his mother’s crucifix will be alongside his engagement ring. The rest of the ensemble is a dusty grey that makes his eyes and hair brighter in comparison. He made sure to wait until Shane had left the room before he changed into it, wanting to see the look on his face when they first saw each other across a crowded room. 

Shane’s suit is classic black and white. White dress shirt, also slightly unbuttoned on the collar but just one button as opposed to the three Ilya is risking. The suitjacket is double breasted and beautifully fitting. Ilya can’t wait to tear it off of him. 

He manages to catch Shane as he’s finding his seat. It’s easy to locate him, already sitting among his teammates and their plus ones. Shane turns his head as if recognizing that Ilya has entered the room. He’s in the middle of saying something to Hayden only for his words to falter entirely as Ilya glides through the aisles with purposeful steps, eyes trained on Shane despite the rows of people between them. 

Shane’s lips are slightly parted, and Ilya reminds him that there are people watching as he taps two fingers beneath his own chin. Unhinge your jaw, Hollander, he can imagine saying. Shane blinks and turns away harshly. Hayden looks entirely confused, poor thing, and looks around to see what Shane saw. Fortunately, Ilya has already found his seat. 

He can still see Shane from here, though Ilya does have to turn his head to look behind him. 

“You clean up nicely as always, Roz,” Cliff tells him. 

Ilya smirks. “And you do your best.”

His teammate chuckles and nudges him before going back to chatting with the rest of their team until the lights go down. Ilya always found award shows boring. Unless he was winning something, these things could send him on his way to a nap. What’s worse is that after he’s presented, he doesn’t even have the opportunity to look forward to much else considering he’s not even nominated for anything this time around and Scott Hunter just won MVP. 

Ilya joins in with the clapping though his hands are slower as he blows out a long sigh. He had yet to follow up on Yuna’s insistence of talking with Scott Hunter after the Stanley Cup final kiss that changed the world. Ilya knows that any conversation with Scott could essentially be construed as him coming out. And though Ilya doesn’t want to ever shy away from who he is, when it comes to being that person in front of Scott Hunter, he hesitates. Shane hasn’t said anything to Hunter either. Maybe they were both waiting for some of the heat to die down. Maybe after their brief weeks in Ottawa when the season starts up again and they have to go back to pretending they barely know each other or rather that they hate each other, things will change. 

Ilya will make a decision on the matter then, when he’s at his loneliest. 

“... when you have a secret that you work as hard as I did to protect, it's exhausting. It’s a non-stop effort and it is very lonely. Thankfully, I found the person who changes everything for me. He gave me the confidence and strength to be honest with myself about who I am and who I could be.”

Ilya can’t help but turn his head, smiling when he notices Shane is already looking at him. 

Scott continues speaking on the main stage while they stare at each other for a breath longer. “I share this honor with my teammates and my coaches, but also with you Kip. You have made me better in every conceivable way and I love you.”

The crowd applauds. Ilya notices a few scant players' hands still in their laps. He tries not to think about it too much. 

Scott lifts his award, smiling despite the glassiness to his eyes before exiting the stage. Ilya was really going to hate the day he had to thank Scott Hunter. 

The boring bit finally ends after what feels like hours of the same recycled speech and congratulations over and over. Ilya gravitates with the rest of his team to the open convention space everyone has decided to crowd in before splitting off as the night gets hectic. There’s an open bar they all start with as Ilya orders with little care and waits for the bartender to put it together as he turns to try and find Shane.

He spots him easily, nursing a beer beside Hayden and a few of his other teammates that had a vendetta against Ilya and his shoulder barely a month ago. Ilya tries to believe Shane when he says that the Voyageurs are filled with decent people who appreciate Shane not just for his talents on the ice. Ilya wouldn’t have such a hard time believing him though if Shane didn’t hesitate every time Ilya asked how his teammates would take to finding out about them.

“They’d be like the rest of the league,” Shane would say. “Shocked, probably a little angry. I get it. We’re rivals afterall.”

Ilya takes his drink and finishes half of it before spreading out to mingle, all the while keeping an eye on Shane and only catching him glancing his way a few times. Ilya keeps to his one drink, sipping it slowly to drag it out. He wants to be alert, present, and entirely Shane’s in the next hour or so. Sooner if Shane will allow it. 

The rest of the crowd has progressively become drunker. It really was something to allow a bunch of hockey players the night off without a worry of having important team or game responsibilities the next day. Ilya understands the importance of enjoying the time off however as he watches his own team with a small smile on his face toss their goaltender into the air just to see if they could do it. The idiots were going to injure each other if this continued. Ilya should probably step in, but his focus keeps drifting elsewhere. 

He’s leaning against the bar with an empty glass, elbows perched behind him when a familiar figure comes to his side. Shane lingers there, elbow brushing against Ilya’s though he doesn’t go to order another drink. 

Ilya leans back slightly, head lolling to the side. “Your team annoys me.”

Shane smirks. “Yours are fucking loud.”

“Pike is drunker than anyone on my team. Lightweight,” Ilya corrects. 

“He’s having a nice night with Jackie and no kids,” Shane excuses even though they both knew that whatever Hayden was probably posting to his Instagram would be deeply regretted in the morning. Ilya turns when he notices Hayden pulling out that damn phone again so it’s just the backs of him and Shane showing in the poorly lit background. 

“Want to get out of here?” Ilya asks.

Shane smirks at him. “Miss me that much?”

Ilya pushes away from the bar before letting his hand glide along Shane’s lower back. “No,” he says.

Ilya cuts through the crowd not even bothering to look back to where he knows Shane is following him. He bites down on his inside cheek to stop himself from smiling, but he barely makes it to the hallway before he feels a hand grab the back of his suit and drag him another direction.

Ilya goes willingly, laughing as Shane pushes open a nearby door to the bathroom before glancing beneath all the stall doors to find the area entirely empty. Then he’s using the same hand he had dragging Ilya to push him against a wall before kissing him fiercely. 

“I see you missed me,” Ilya murmurs.

“Shut up,” Shane breathes out. 

Their movements are heated and quick with Ilya wanting to take this back to their room so he won’t have to kneel on a public bathroom floor. He’d do it for Shane, but he would have to ask nicely first. Shane’s hand slides around the slippery fabric of Ilya’s dress shirt, angling his face to find the center of Ilya’s throat. Ilya lets his head fall back against the tiled walls, swallowing down his appreciation with a hazy smile.

Then the door opens suddenly, shattering any intention of taking this further.

“Oh! Sorry!”

Hayden Pike honest to god puts a hand to his eyes before dipping out of the bathroom. The door swings shut with Shane having essentially jumped back to the other end of the bathroom. Ilya’s back is still pressed to the wall with both their breathing still quick and needy. The silence is unbearable with Shane’s eyes wide and focused only on the door. 

Ilya tries to gather himself and suggests, “Maybe he did not see anything.”

The door slams open again, causing both of them to jump. Hayden has one hand on the door and stares at them both before his face goes slack in realization. “Holy shit,” he breathes out.

Shane breaks out of his panic. “Hayden–”

“Holy shit,” Pike repeats, rushing into the bathroom and letting the door swing close behind him. He presses his hands to his eyes and starts mumbling incoherently. “I’m too drunk for this right now. Like so drunk that I’m seeing things. I think I need to sit down. Actually, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Ilya looks at Shane. “Your best friend is homophobic.”

Shane gives him a look. “Not helping, Ilya,” he grits out before going to steady Hayden, placing both of his hands on his arms to move him away from the door. “Hayden?” He tries, sounding desperate and frenzied. “Hey, Hayds…”

Shane pauses when he looks at the door again. “This thing has a fucking lock?” He blurts like he can’t believe this. Shane directs this shock to Ilya who merely shrugs at him as if to say how was I supposed to know?

Hayden is leaning against the sink counter. “What is happening?” He gasps, watching the two of them through the mirror. He keeps blinking like one of them will disappear if he tries hard enough. Shane subtly locks the bathroom door. “I didn’t just see–” 

Hayden turns full to them. “This isn’t–” He tries again only for his eyes to find Shane, his best friend. “Wait, you’re not–”

“Hayden, breathe,” Shane begs.

Ilya narrows his eyes, wondering if it would be an appropriate time to step in. If Pike does something stupid right now, Ilya is not beneath resorting to ending this conversation right now with a less mannered solution. 

“I am fucking breathing,” Hayden snaps. Ilya grits his teeth. “Just give me a moment.”

Shane clamps his mouth shut. Ilya watches him clench and unclench his hands at his side, waiting anxiously for Hayden to say something that won’t have Ilya putting his head through a wall. 

“Are you–” Hayden sighs, almost sounding frustrated with himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and blows out another breath. “Just give it to me straight. Or not that. Jesus. I mean just tell me what’s happening.”

“Um,” Shane nervously glances at Ilya who has yet to move. He pushes off the wall slowly then, arms crossed over his chest as he goes to stand beside Shane. “I’m gay, Hayden,” Shane says quietly. 

Hayden nods, taking long gulps of air as he scrubs the back of his head. “Okay, okay, yeah,” he says. “That’s fine. Totally cool, man. What about him though?”

Hayden points an accusing finger at Ilya. “You have eyes, Pike,” Ilya says flatly. 

Hayden glares at him. “Eyes that definitely weren’t supposed to see my best friend making out with the most hated guy in the fucking league!” He shouts.

“Most hated,” Ilya scoffs. “Big announcement everyone! Fifteenth best player on Montreal claims he knows things!”

“Shane, I’m going to punch him,” Hayden grits out.

“No you’re not,” Shane warns, but he seems more panicked at the idea. 

“I’m going to if he doesn’t shut his fucking mouth,” Hayden snaps. 

Ilya raises his hands in mocking fear. “Your punch is as weak as your shot.”

“Fucking–” Hayden cuts himself off, glare thrown at Ilya practically murderous. “Him Shane? What could be so great about him? Are you fucking serious right now?”

Before Shane can say anything, Ilya interrupts with, “You’re starting to sound jealous, Pike.”

Hayden reels back. “I’m literally married,” he blurts, reminding Shane himself sitting at a certain dark bar across from an actress who took this information a lot better than–

“So are we,” Ilya says with a shrug.

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exacerbation. 

“I’m sorry,” Hayden says before shrieking, “You’re fucking what?”

“Engaged!” Shane corrects. “We’re engaged.”

Hayden lets out a low laugh. “No, no. Rozanov said married.”

Shane frowns at Ilya before sighing again. “Okay, we sort of got married a while ago, but it’s not legal or anything. We’re officially getting married–” He suddenly looks back to Ilya. “I don’t know? Next year?”

Ilya shrugs, fine with the idea. “Summertime,” he adds helpfully.

“Huh,” Shane pauses, forgetting that his best friend is still freaking out in the public bathroom with them. “That was easier to decide than I expected.”

“Back up,” Hayden says, unfortunately reminding them both of his lingering presence. “Oh god, my head is fucking pounding right now. You’re saying you’ve been ‘sort of’ married, whatever the hell that means, for a while. How long is that actually?”

Shane squares his shoulders and says, “Five years.”

“As of today,” Ilya smirks. 

Hayden gapes at them. “Five– Shane that’s nearly as long as I’ve fucking known you.”

“I know,” Shane says, sounding less and less dazzled by this conversation.

“And you didn’t say a word when I suggested you go out on dates, or that thing with Rose, or–”

“I do not like him,” Ilya makes known.

“Or Boston Lily–”

“Boston Lily?” Ilya interrupts before suddenly laughing.

Hayden comes up short. “Why is he laughing? I don’t like that. Shane, make him stop.”

Shane’s patience wanes. “Use your fucking brain Hayden,” he begs. 

Hayden squints at him and though it takes a minute for his brain to start working through however many free drinks he’s downed since the night started, he gets there eventually. “Boston–” He mutters first before his eyes snap back to Ilya. “Oh,” he says flatly. “Well, there goes another thing I can never think about again. Jesus Christ, Shane, when I said I wanted to be invited to your wedding, I thought it would be with some random girl from Boston you were always hung up on. Not him.”

Ilya turns to Shane. “You were hung up on me?”

Shane blows out air. “Again, not helping, Ilya,” he says subtly before moving closer to Hayden. 

“Hayden, I just–” He tries to start fixing all of this as it continues to spin out of his grasp faster than he can manage. “Look, I was going to tell you,” Shane insists. “I swear. I had this whole plan to sort of ease you in. I was going to tell you that first of all, I’m gay. Like very much so. All those dates with random girls you tried to set me up with were never going to work out. Second, Rose and I are just friends. Genuine friends and have been since we met. Third, I need you to accept that the person I’m with, the person I’m going to be spending the rest of my life with, is Ilya. And if you can’t accept that then… That’s fine. It’ll be fine. I can learn to deal with it. But under no circumstances can you tell anyone. Not a single fucking soul.”

“Shane, slow down,” Hayden cuts in, moving to place hands on both of Shane’s shoulders. He’s settled down a bit with his tone less frantic and not as loud. “It’s good. I’m good.”

Shane dips his head with an are you being serious right now look.

Hayden winces. “Okay, I know I freaked out at first, but you can’t really blame me.”

“I always knew you would not take it well, Pike,” Ilya provides from behind them.

Hayden’s face wrinkles. “This fucking– Okay, so that,” he stops to point at Ilya, “I will have to get used to but everything else? You’re still my best friend, man. I don’t care that you’re gay. Truly. I’m happy for you. I mean, fuck, marriage? Right on, man. I might pretend you’re not going to be married to Rozanov for a while but if you need help with wedding planning, I’m there. One hundred percent.”

Shane relaxes a bit, trying to smile though it still feels cautious. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I should have told you sooner. There were so many times when I wanted to.”

Hayden squeezes one of Shane’s shoulders. “You definitely should have told me, but I guess I understand why you didn’t.”

Ilya lingers by the door to the bathroom, meeting Hayden’s look of apprehension. They have a bit of a stare off momentarily before Ilya sighs. “I will leave you two to discuss,” he says and then specifically to Shane, “You know where to find me afterward.”

Shane only nods, watching as Ilya unlocks the bathroom door and gives him one last look and a nod of support before slipping outside. And though it would have been incredibly nice to have Ilya here for the rest of this conversation, Shane knows that having Hayden and Ilya in the same room will just lead to more arguing right now. 

“There was really no one else in all of Montreal? Have you tried searching the rest of Canada?” Hayden mutters when the door closes.

“Nope,” Shane answers immediately. “And we actually did meet for the first time in Canada.” 

He doesn’t explain that they’ve technically been dancing around each other since before their rookie season. But ever since that first accidental night in Vegas, Shane’s life had begun to revolve more firmly around Ilya. He’s been in his orbit ever since. 

Hayden sighs, having given up on the possibility that Shane could be with anyone else. “The team won’t like this,” he suddenly says. 

Shane’s ailing mood continues to plummet. “No one will,” he agrees. “That’s why it’s a secret.”

He’s avoided Ilya’s curiosity about how Shane’s team would react if he were to ever tell them. Ilya seems fully confident that his teammates would be fine with him being bisexual and though a little shocked about his relationship with Shane, they’d cool off quickly and almost find it amusing. Shane could never be quite sure about his team though, and he’d always get too anxious if he thought about it long enough. 

“Are you going to tell J.J.?” Hayden asks.

Shane laughs shortly. “He hates Ilya,” he mutters with a frown. 

“Lots of people do,” Hayden agrees. 

Shane continues frowning. “I’m aware.”

Hayden clicks his teeth and looks at his best friend. “Maybe do your plan of easing me into all of this with J.J.. I think he’d come around to it. He’ll probably be a little pissed at first, but he’d lighten up eventually.”

“You think so?” Shane asks. Hayden can recognize the nerves coming off of Shane at the small question. He briefly feels bad for how he reacted, but the gravity of the situation really made it difficult to behave any other way. 

“Yeah, man,” Hayden reassures. “And if he’s weird about it, then you should know you always have my support.”

Shane shoots him a smile before bringing him into a hug. Hayden hugs him back hard, muttering, “I’m really proud of you.”

They pull back with Shane offering a small, “Thanks.”

“No like, I’m seriously impressed. Rozanov? Do you have some secret death wish I don’t know about?”

Shane shoves Hayden away, but he finds himself laughing. “No more secrets,” he says. “I promise.”

“Good,” Hayden adds with a smile of his own. “Can I be your best man?”

Shane laughs again. “Sure. It’ll be fun to see Ilya stress about something.”

Hayden shakes his head as they head out of the bathroom. He mutters once more, “Death wish,” before they’re back near the open crowd of the NHL awards. They don’t immediately go to rejoin, however, with Hayden looking back at Shane. “You going to go find him?”

Shane nods once.

“All right,” Hayden sighs. “This last hour stays between us.”

“Thanks, Hayds,” Shane says, sounding like he really means it.

Hayden offers him one more half-smile before turning to rejoin the celebrations. Shane turns the other way, heading toward where he knows the entrance to the rest of the hotel and elevators will be. His skin buzzes with the remnants of adrenaline. Shane recites Hayden’s words of reassurance in his head, wondering how they could get so careless when they’d been doing this for years at this point. 

He’s still scolding himself when he goes back to the alternate room he’d gotten them. He finds Ilya in his dress shirt, unbuttoned even more than before, nursing a drink and perched on the back of the couch having been waiting for Shane to return.

“How did it go?” Ilya asks. 

Shane sighs. “Fine. I think he’ll get over it. It’s fine.”

Ilya narrows his eyes, but doesn’t comment at first. He finishes his drink, leaning slightly to set the empty glass aside. “How are you?”

Shane steps closer, letting Ilya’s hands slide easily around his waist. “Also fine,” he insists. 

Ilya hums, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You worry too much,” he says. 

Shane leans into Ilya, pressing the temple of their foreheads together. “He’s my best friend, Ilya,” he says. “I should have told him.”

Ilya shrugs under Shane’s touch. “He should snoop less and maybe you would have been given the chance.”

Shane feels the corner of his lips twitch, but he suddenly feels exhausted by everything to do with Hayden. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Ilya entertains. 

Shane pulls back, looking at his fiancé’s face briefly before saying, “I don’t want to talk at all really.”

Something lights up in Ilya’s eyes. “Hm, happy anniversary to me.”

Shane grins and whispers, “Come here.”

Ilya moves even closer if that were possible, hands shifting to pick Shane up by his thighs as they kiss hard and go to finish what they had started before the awards began. Ilya works out all the stress Shane had built up in the last few hours, taking pleasure in the release he gets to pour into Shane. His chain drags along Shane’s back as he kisses up his shoulder blades. Their skin is hot and sweaty and Ilya could stay here forever if time would allow. 

That same skin, after being showered and cleaned, lay pressed against one another as Ilya drifts to sleep with Shane held tightly in his arms. He dreams of summer, of the cottage they would be staying at in Ottawa, of Shane basking in the sun, looking the same as the day Ilya had first met him, the same as he was now. Ilya’s brain has all of this bleeding together: his past and future all wrapped in one. He’s never felt so sure of something in his life. 

He doesn’t complain about the separate flights to Ottawa, which means Shane is in an easier mood. They waste away the morning, taking things slow, taking in each other even slower. Shane checks out of the hotel first. Ilya second to return the cards for a room he didn’t even use. Separate cars, different times of arrival off set just so. It gives Shane enough time to loop around the airport twice before Ilya steps outside, hat pulled low and sunglasses back in place. 

The weather is marvelous, but Ilya has a jacket thrown on just to add to the mystery of him being in a place like Ottawa. As he waits for Shane’s car to pull up, Ilya unclasps his necklace, slipping his ring off and putting it back in its rightful place. He stretches his hand a bit, looks up, sees Shane’s ridiculous car, smiles, and sets off to meet him. 

The first thing Shane says to him as Ilya gets in the passenger seat is, “Anyone recognize you?”

Ilya rolls his eyes and risks leaning forward to kiss the question out of Shane’s mouth. Shane hums happily into the contact, his worry forgotten. Ilya’s talented like that.

The only thing they have planned for their two week stay at Shane’s cottage is dinner twice over, both on a Friday, at Shane’s parents place. Ilya finds the consistency and scheduling a bit endearing. The rest of the time is up to them. 

When they pull up to the place, Ilya marvels at it as if it’s the first time he’s seen it and not like he’s memorized its outline from the ESPN special Shane did. Ilya grabs all of their bags, batting Shane’s hands away and pointing out that his ribs were still a mess. He sets everything by the door so they can take off their shoes and tiptoe around. Shane awkwardly hovers, mumbling something about having it built and that he put a lot of time into it. All things Ilya has heard before in their perfectly rehearsed manner. 

Ilya turns to him, back resting against one of the floor to ceiling windows. “Show me how you would use every room,” he interrupts Shane.

Shane looks momentarily confused. “I mean I’ll give you the tour obviously–”

“No, Shane,” Ilya says, letting a hand stretch out for him, “Tell me what we would do. How it would happen. Where I would have you.”

Shane’s face heats, but he goes to Ilya, hand clasped in his with their rings sliding against one another. “Okay,” Shane says, and gives Ilya the longest house tour of his life. 

Later, when they’re lounging in the backyard with a firepit to stave off the chill that still descends in the night despite it being summer, Ilya looks out at the nearby lake and considers how long this year has been and how these moments of peace are so rare for him. He doesn’t realize he’s leaned back against Shane until Shane is pressing a kiss into his hair before wrapping an arm around him. 

“Happy?” Shane asks him quietly.

Nature chatters around them. Dinner was easy, perfect. The silence is calming. There is no one there but them. There is some random fucking bird Ilya is wary of, but other than that, he’s incredibly happy. 

He brings Shane’s hand to his lips as an answer and settles in a little further. 

Ilya starts planning out how they have to do every summer here. He’s never thought much of Ottawa when he’s come to play against their NHL team. He found the city boring and the team less than exciting as they were always stuck in a perpetual ‘rebuilding’ year that had limited any post-season success. But in the walls of the place Shane built, his opinion has started to shift little by little. Ottawa isn’t too bad. How could it be when this is where Shane grew up? Where Yuna and David settled down. Where Ilya could kiss his fiancé over and over and pretend their two weeks weren’t flying by. 

Boston is an unwelcome lover he eventually returns to but his body screams for that place hidden behind rows of trees before being sandwiched between open waters. It takes him a minute to shake off its remnants. That starts with his ring going back to his chain with a tan line the only reminder he’d had it on his hand. He greets his teammates for pre-season with the same appreciation as always. Chants of this being their year begin. 

Ilya looks at their calendar and starts to count down the days until he can see Shane again. 

He’s always loved coming back to Boston, but Ilya is beginning to wonder if all those summers of jetting back to this place that’s turned into somewhere he now considers home was just a side effect of losing his connection to where he’s actually from. In between practices and grueling hours at the gym, Ilya takes long walks around the familiar corners and buildings that feel clearer in his memory than that of the street his old apartment in Moscow remains. Here, he has a bakery where the owner knows him well ever since he stumbled in the first year he had been living in Boston and his English was still shaky. An immigrant as well, the older woman is soft on him and always sneaks in a treat like she knows Ilya needs things like this to brighten his day. There are the docks for when he’s feeling particularly morose and needs the sea to remind himself that the world is impossibly bigger than he can ever make his problems. The broken cobbled sidewalks and the long stretch of road that leads to Boston’s stadium where he can pour all his frustration and love into for as long as he’s able to do this job. Boston is unequivocally his home now, but ever since he’s latched onto Shane and made it official that he has no intention of cutting himself free, the city has lost some of its color.

And that thought almost makes him feel worse; like he’s ungrateful for everything this place has given him. His father had always considered him ungrateful. He thought of Ilya as lazy and always expecting things to be handed to him only to never kiss the rings of the hand that passed this generosity off. Ilya’s brother also thought of him as a waste of space, taking up resources when Ilya had quietly worked to make sure there were resources to squander. He thinks of the remainders of his family and then the stark softness when it comes to his time with the Hollanders.

Ilya feels guilty all over again. 

Shane picks up after one ring. Ilya smiles at his promptness.

“Everything okay?” Shane answers.

Ilya is stretched out on his couch, vaguely watching a football game he put on because he thought the team names were funny. His own team will be starting pre-season games soon—as will Shane’s.

“Everything is good,” Ilya says. “Just wanted to hear you.”

He holds the phone close to his ear and shuts his eyes so he can conjure an image of Shane in his head. Maybe Shane is answering the phone in the kitchen where he is making some sort of meal that requires little effort because there is so little to it. When they get married again, Ilya will suggest they find a common place to have together, to build together. Some halfway point between Montreal and Boston they can agree on. Ilya will make sure the kitchen is magnificent in this pretend house. He will not let Shane step a single foot inside of it unless it is for Ilya to bend him over the counters.

“You missed me?” Shane asks, bringing Ilya out of his real estate fantasy. He really did miss Shane. 

“Always,” Ilya answers easily. “Tell me three weeks is not a long time.”

Three weeks from now is the next time they would have the chance to see each other in person. That time will be spent finishing up pre-season games and preparation before the opening of the 2016 into 2017 season. Even then, they would still have another week into the season before they were able to see each other. Ilya is desperate for it as if Shane were a limb he’d lost and still feels the haunting pain of his absence.

“Three weeks isn’t a long time,” Shane says gently with no inflection in his voice.

Ilya sighs. “You are so bad at lying, Hollander.”

He can hear Shane laughing on the other end. With his eyes still closed, Ilya can imagine Shane’s face perfectly; teeth flashing and his head slightly thrown back in the carefree way in which he laughs when it comes to Ilya. “I don’t know,” Shane says after he’s settled a bit. “I got away with keeping us a secret for this long. I must be sort of good at it.”

Ilya doesn’t mention that there is a growing number of people who have accidentally found out about them because neither are that good at hiding this. Shane all but revealed their secret to a stranger who Ilya is still pretending he isn’t wary of even if Shane insists Rose Landry is a wonderful person. He will decide on whether he likes her whenever they meet, if that ever happens given Rose only knows of Shane’s marital status which also happens to be a farce. 

“You only got away with it because you did not know what was going on for four years,” Ilya points out.

“Hey, neither did you!” Shane insists.

“I have much more sense than you,” Ilya carries on. “I was aware of what was happening, but I refused to give it attention until the time was right. This is how they raise children in Russia to be strong. You refuse attention so they learn to do things on their own.”

“I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying,” Shane says, a smile heard in his voice. 

“I am not a liar, Hollander,” Ilya says with as much conviction as he can manage. This is something new they’ve been trying. Honesty in every capacity, like that was the key to a happy marriage.  

“Three weeks isn’t a long time,” Shane repeats quietly. “If anyone can last until then, it’s us. Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya.”

Ilya’s eyes fly open. He sits up so fast he almost falls off the couch with his head swimming from the movement as if he’s been underwater for the last month and he’s just gathering his first breath of real air. A laugh escapes, surprised and delighted. 

“Your pronunciation is shit,” he gasps, but then he’s laughing again and he can hear Shane’s quiet chuckle on the other end.

“Pronounce it for me then.”

Ilya says it slowly, melting into his first language with the same ease one would in tying a shoe; a familiar, practiced experience that you can never lose unless common things like age take away the skill. Shane says it once more. His pronunciation hardly improves, but Ilya relishes in the sound all the same.

“You still surprise me,” Ilya says. “All these years…”

“I thought I was boring,” Shane whispers sarcastically. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, “Still boring. Still beautiful. Still a surprise I will miss until we see each other again.”

“Three weeks,” Shane says in encouragement. 

“Three weeks,” Ilya echoes. Time was everything when you spent years wasting it. Everything is good now. Ilya can feel it like a blanket he wraps himself in to stay warm. He clutches the edges of it tightly to keep everything secure. He will have a future with Shane. They will remain unflinchingly happy if Ilya has anything to do with it. 

But nothing good in Ilya Rozanov’s life stays that way for long. He should have learned his lesson by now, but his father always did say he forgets to look at himself when it comes to finding the source of mistakes.

Chapter End Notes

Hayden Pike homophobic pass it on! (kidding, he will need to step up next chapter to prove himself)

Thank you all so much for reading!

Chapter 14: To Everyone Else

Chapter Notes

so... here's the big one...

CW: outing, homophobia, panic attack symptoms, dissociation

October 2016

Shane goes to the optional morning skate the day of their season opener because consistency is important to him. It’s breezy and relaxed as he laughs when Hayden tries to slip a puck in the line of his skates only for him to easily bypass the effort. The team looks decent this year. When Shane steps off the ice, he knows it’ll be a good game. 

His ribs have continued to feel better and there’s already a plan in place to cut some of his minutes to avoid any further risk. Shane hadn’t pushed back on the plan. He trusts his team to keep things together to pull off a win tonight. The team they’re playing against is just Toronto. They’re playing at home. There is nothing that could go wrong tonight. And there is only a week left until he can see Ilya. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Hayden says, nudging him as they head to the locker room to put away their gear before the media barrage arrives. 

“I feel good about this season,” Shane tells him. 

Hayden sort of beams at him when he says this. “Hollander showing signs of hope instead of being worried about jinxing anything? I’ve seen it all now,” Hayden grins. 

Shane pushes him away to his own locker. There is even a routine he keeps to as he gets down to his base layers. Left to right, head to toes. Shane reaches for his phone, thinking he has enough time to shoot off a quick text to Ilya about maybe calling before they both have to head back to their respective teams to play later in the day. He doesn’t get much further than simply glancing at his homescreen to see a litany of messages that gives him pause. Sure, it was the opening day of the season, but this feels excessive. 

Shane squints down at his phone, feeling the slight uptick of his heartbeat in his chest.

“Hollander?”

He blinks to find a group of reporters and the press already spread throughout the locker room. Hayden has moved off to a corner and is happily chatting about his expectations for the season, appreciating the new line combinations and where the team is at healthwise. 

Shane’s hand is still gripped firmly around his phone, but he carefully sets it aside and puts on that smile he knows they all appreciate. “Yeah, sorry.”

He takes a seat in front of his locker and the cameras shift closer. Mics and lights lean in with Shane holding his smile. He squares his shoulders a bit, eyes flicking toward the first reporter who asks a standard question. 

“Shane, I’m sure you’re very excited for the season to start. As Montreal’s captain yet again, how are you looking to lead your team this year given you’ve had very promising starts since your Stanley win in 2015.”

“I want us to stick to what we know,” Shane tells him. “We’re at our best when we trust each other. I hope that I’ve helped create an environment here where that trust is the standard.”

Shane glances past the small crowd gathered around him to see a few of his teammates still hanging around either to dress down or they’re doing their own media. He feels his usual appreciation toward this team he’s been with since the start of his professional career. They’ve grown to become a group that he sees as friends and often family given he spends so much time with them day in and out. These are people that have had him over for dinner; he’s watched over some of their kids; has been a guest at their weddings. He trusts them with almost everything. 

“You’re coming off a season ending injury,” a reporter starts, bringing his focus back, “how are you faring for tonight?”

“Good,” Shane answers honestly. “We’ve talked it through with the trainers, adjusted our lines as needed, but I’m good to play and looking forward to it.”

“That untimely trip came against Boston last season,” a different reporter points out.

Shane nods slowly. “Unintentional,” he amends. “The trip was unintentional. Most of the damage was actually done by goal and boards if I remember correctly.”

That earns a few chuckles, but this one reporter stays on this topic that Shane doesn’t have much interest in. It always sucks getting injured. To be sidelined, especially during such an important part of the season, is torture for Shane. This last injury was also a little scary if he was being entirely honest with himself. Losing consciousness in the middle of a game is never a good thing. That’s how season ending turns into career ending if Shane’s body begins to resist the persistent damage single season can deliver. At some point, he could just give out. 

“Is it true Boston’s captain, Ilya Rozanov, visited you in the hospital after the game?”

Shane hesitates. His brain hasn’t quite caught up with the sudden change, but his stomach twists like it knows something bad is coming. He tries to sit straighter, clearing his throat and thinking about if Ilya and him ever talked about what to say if someone saw him visiting Shane right after the injury. 

Come on, Shane. Think.

“Um, yeah. Later on. He wanted to apologize given it was a long series and an unfortunate ending for us,” he says.

Shane swears the reporters lean in closer if that were possible. He feels sweat break out onto his skin; fresh despite having come off the ice nearly half an hour ago.

“Anything you want to say about Rozanov visiting you because of your rumored relationship?”

A pin could have dropped and been heard throughout the entire stadium. The other interviews on the different sides of the locker room have quieted. Hayden’s standing suddenly. Shane is frozen in front of multiple cameras, panicking when he needs to be giving an answer. He needs to deny. He needs to get out of here. 

Shane doesn’t do any of that though. Words slip out before he can think of something better to say. “I’m sorry, what?”

The reporter clears their throat like Shane simply didn’t hear at first. “There is an article that was released this morning, detailing a rumored witness having heard Rozanov claimed he is in a relationship with you in order to visit you in the hospital. In fact, he claimed to be married to you.”

This couldn’t be happening. This isn’t happening. 

“Given the recent news surrounding Scott Hunter, we assumed that the article was released in a joint effort to encourage openness and acceptance in the league.”

This is happening. Shane can’t stop it from happening.

“Shane.”

He can only blink and turn toward Hayden who’s already gathering Shane’s things from his locker and tucking one hand under his arm to haul him to his feet. 

“You’re good,” Hayden whispers to Shane before looking directly at the press and saying, “We’re done here.”

Hayden moves Shane around like a ragdoll, pushing his shit into his arms and then finding his shoes and motioning for Shane to hurry up. The media team stands there slightly stunned, unsure of what to do, but the cameras slowly lower. A few of their teammates stand off to the side, standing too still. Shane can’t bring himself to look at them. 

Getting out of the locker room and subsequently the stadium is a mess with Hayden behaving like a frantic father as he guides Shane through the hallways, trying to hold onto a mixture of their things. “You’re going to be fine,” he keeps repeating. Shane thinks he nods. “We’re going to smooth this over, and it’ll be fine.”

Shane wants to say that Hayden doesn’t sound so sure, but it’s the thought that counts. They reach the parking area with Hayden giving Shane one glance and muttering under his breath. “Yeah, I’m not letting you drive right now.”

Shane doesn’t argue, mechanically climbing into the passenger seat of Hayden’s car as Hayden tosses their things in the back. He thinks he hears Hayden add, “Rozanov would kill me.”

Hayden throws himself into the driver’s seat, checking to make sure Shane has at least put on his seatbelt before he’s hightailing it out of there. He speeds a little bit, muttering all the way as he pulls onto the freeway to get back to Shane’s apartment. They make it another five minutes of driving before Hayden glances nervously at Shane.

He reaches out to grab his shoulder, the touch not enough to jostle Shane out of his dazed state. “Come on, buddy,” Hayden tries. “I need you to say something. Anything. Did you see the article they mentioned?”

Shane can only shake his head once. 

“Shit,” Hayden breathes out. “Well fuck them. I can’t believe they ambushed you like that. Has Rozanov said anything?”

Shane’s phone is gripped in his lap, but he can’t quite bring himself to look at it right now. He thinks about the article being passed around the internet, exposing everything sacred to him. All eyes are on them now and Shane can’t find anywhere to hide away. The thought is nauseating. Hayden’s driving isn’t helping. Everything is a speedrun of panic that starts to break through Shane’s frozen exterior. He thinks about Ilya finding out what’s happened. Five years of them carefully shifting around each other and after not even a year of officially being together, they’ve been found out. 

“Hayden, pull over,” Shane chokes out. 

“What?”

“Pull over,” Shane repeats, trying to find the buckle to his seat. The feeling of it across his chest is constricting. The car is moving too fast and there’s a ringing in his ears that Shane tries to shake away. “Hayden!”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Hayden says quickly, swerving suddenly and leaving a trail of horns behind them. “I’m on the fucking highway, just hang on. Shit, shi–”

The seatbelt releases and Shane practically collapses forward. He presses his forehead into the dashboard, trying to gather any miniscule amount of air. Hayden could probably still be driving hazardously, probably swearing and freaking out. Shane is trying to reach for the doorhandle to get out of this suffocating car. 

He hears the locks reactivate and lets out a pained whine. 

“You’re not throwing yourself out my fucking car!” Hayden says before taking a sharp turn and then coming to such an abrupt halt that he has to grab onto Shane so he doesn’t go flying face first into the dashboard. Hayden scrambles for his seatbelt and then unlocks the car. Shane tumbles out, tripping until his back hits the side of the door before he slides down, head in his hand, knees to his chest. 

Hayden is there in an instant, crouching in front of him. “We’re practically at your place, man,” he says encouragingly. “We’re behind the parking garage, but I– Shit, what do you need from me?”
Shane groans, fingers curling into his hair and tugging hard. “I don’t know,” he whispers, realizing that he’s crying. “I don’t fucking know.”

Hayden has his hands on top of each of Shane’s knees. The pressure is nice at first and then it’s abruptly gone. Shane can’t bring himself to lift his head to see where Hayden went. This is his worst nightmare. The lack of control sends him spiraling as the worst case scenario starts to build and build and build. In Shane’s mind, this is career ending. In the worst parts of his brain, the fallout of this leads to Ilya leaving him. Ilya’s career, his livelihood, has just been put at risk too. 

“Yeah, I’ve got him. He’s right here.”

Hayden returns, and he’s holding his phone. It’s on speaker.

“Shane?”

His fingers loosen from his scalp. 

“Shane?”
He lifts his head, the motion entirely tiring. His body slumps a bit with it. 

“Pike, if you don’t tell me what is happening right now, I will–”

“Ilya?”

“Shane,” Ilya breathes out in relief. Shane blinks, clearing the tears from his eyes to find Hayden crouched in front of him, holding his phone out with a nervous expression he’s trying to hide with a smile. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t–” His words start and stop. Everything is still jumbled and though he can somewhat manage a breath now, the tightness in his chest persists. “They know. Someone knows.”

“I heard,” Ilya says gently, additionally sounding a bit annoyed by that fact. “I have not seen the article they were talking about, but my management called and then I saw the interview you just had. Are you okay?”

Ilya repeats the question, needing an actual answer from Shane that he can’t give right now. “Fuck,” Shane sighs, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I should have just denied it. I panicked. I–”

“There is nothing to do about it now,” Ilya says. “Let Pike get you inside somewhere and we can video call to go over what happened. I am heading back to my place right now, but I will stay on the phone until I know you are safe and good.”

More of Shane’s head clears. He can hear now the background of Ilya’s car revving as it cuts through midday traffic. Normally, Shane would warn him to drive safely, but he’s thinking of too many other things at once right now to get the words out. He feels like a terrible fiancé for not telling Ilya to be safe. 

“Okay,” is all he says. 

Hayden takes that as his cue to help Shane stand up. He carefully holds his phone as he gets back into the driver’s seat with Shane following and sliding back into his seat. They don’t bother with their seatbelts, leading to the car dinging incessantly as Hayden quickly pulls into visitor parking. Hayden passes his phone off to Shane without saying anything and goes to the back to grab Shane’s things. 

They’re climbing the stairs to his floor when Ilya, who’s been quietly driving this entire time, asks, “Do you want your parents on the call?”

Shane slows his steps. Given that his mom is quite literally his management, she probably should be on the call. The thought of even seeing his parents' faces, hearing their supportive words, and maybe having two extra people who might know how to fix this feels comforting to Shane. And honestly, he sort of just needed his parents right now.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, passing Hayden back his phone to get his keys.

“Okay,” Ilya says, completely calm through all of this while Shane flounders. “I will text them.”

Shane reaches for the phone again. “After you get home,” he says. He’s reminded again of how Ilya drives. Texting while driving would absolutely not be allowed right now. 

Ilya hums and for a moment, Shane can imagine him smiling at the extension of care. “Pulling in now. Are you home?”

Shane finishes unlocking his front door. “Just got here.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, “give me five minutes to get inside. I will call back but with video and your parents.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes out, pretending he doesn’t feel unsteady again when the call ends. 

Hayden follows him inside, dropping Shane’s bags by the door. Shane wanders into his apartment and makes it about as far as the living room where he slowly sinks down onto the couch. His laptop is left on the coffee table which will be useful for the call later, but the lack of adrenaline and frenzied panic is starting to make him crash. Exhaustion leaks out of his skin, weighing heavily as his heart continues to beat a tad too fast. 

Blearily, he looks up at Hayden who’s leaning against a nearby wall and watches him carefully like he’s afraid Shane’s going to go from trying to jump out of a moving car to an open window. Shane needs to bring back some semblance of normal. He can’t have whatever comes next be derailed by everyone making sure he’s all right. He can be normal and rational about this. He needs to stop freaking his best friend out.

“You have Ilya’s number?” He asks, just to break up the tension.

Hayden hesitates at first before nodding. His shoulders hang a bit like he’s exhausted too. “After the whole NHL awards incident, I reached out to him over Instagram to ask for it during the summer. I thought of it like a sort of emergency contact thing I guess. He made an awful joke after I asked, but I’m glad I did.”

Shane smiles at him weakly. It does something to his heart to hear that Hayden did that. Shane still isn’t sure how they would get along, resulting in him avoiding bringing up the other in conversation whenever he was with either of them. It’s nice to know that Hayden decided to be preemptive for Shane’s sake. 

His phone starts ringing—Shane’s this time. He takes a breath, shifting so he can answer the call from his laptop. His phone still feels like a death trap in a way. He saw the barrage of messages with it all reminding him of when that story about him and Rose got pushed. Only this is significantly worse because it’s his real life and not some fantasy for less than reputable journalism.

Ilya’s face pops up on the screen, expression furrowed in worry when he sees Shane tiredly smile at him. “Oh lyubimaya,” Ilya sighs.

Shane runs a hand down his face and says, “We just need one of us to be coherent enough to handle this.”

Two more faces pop up on the screen. “Shane? Ilya?”

His parents are leaned in close, squinting as they tried to adjust the angle of whatever they were calling in on. The sight would be funny if their immediate concern wasn’t so heartbreaking for Shane. 

“We saw the interview and god, honey, I’m so sorry this happened to you both. I think we should look into whatever article they were talking about to see where we’re at. Have either of you two read it?” Yuna asks.

Shane shakes his head. Ilya offers a verbal answer of, “No.”

“I’ve just texted it to you both,” Yuna says with her fingers flying across the keyboard of her phone. “Take your time with this, but I really think we need to know exactly what was said.”

Shane agrees, but as he reaches for his phone, his chest tightens again. He doesn’t notice that Hayden has moved away from the wall until he takes a seat beside Shane, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze.

He can’t tell from the silence of the call that everyone else is already reading. Ilya’s eyes are flicking across his screen fast, frown deepening in a way that makes Shane even more nervous. But he can’t put this off much longer. His mom is right, Shane needs to know what they are up against.

Shane’s elbows dig into his thighs as he clicks on the link for the article. He blows out a long breath, and then starts to read.

Ahead of the upcoming NHL season, excitement is palpable among the league and its fans. Coming off a historic Stanley Cup final where New York Admirals’ team captain, Scott Hunter, revealed to his own team and the rest of the world that he is gay through a rather explosive kiss and follow-up speech at the NHL awards, fans have started to wonder if silence is the expectation in the league. And though the support for Hunter from players and teams alike have been relatively positive, it has been subtle and brief. But for others, subtlety has been the name of the game. 

During one of the most viewed games in NHL history, Montreal’s captain, Shane Hollander, took a hard fall that put him on a season ending injury list during a season that would conclude moments later for the Voyageurs at the hands of Boston. He was transported to Montreal General where, moments after the game ended, Boston’s captain, Ilya Rozanov, visited. Though they do not want to be named, witnesses who happened to be in the waiting room of the hospital reported their surprise as Rozanov claimed to be in a long-term relationship with Hollander to gain access to visiting rights. Additional witnesses even rumored the word ‘married’ was thrown around before a panicked Rozanov was taken to see Hollander. Word of mouth is not the most reliable, but additional reports and photos of Rozanov breaking down in the hospital parking lot made it seem like the rumors were more likely than not. 

A blurry photo of Ilya sitting on the edge of a curb, hand pressed to his clearly crumpled expression is attached. Shane thinks he hears Ilya curse on the call.

This is not the first time that marriage has been a rumor in the players’ lives. In fact, amidst a rather hastily disproven rumor of Shane Hollander and actress, Rose Landry, being together, there were murmurs of Hollander claiming to have been married from the get go. But the question, as the whispers died down, has always been: married to who? Hollander was seen in that same year to have purchased a ring in Las Vegas that was later seen in photos with fans months later. Ironically, if the same ring were anything to go by, Rozanov was seen sporting a ring in the following season. 

Two photos of them are included. One of Ilya from an interview; sweaty and grinning after a practice with the ring visible when he still used to wear it on his pinky finger. And one of Shane; smiling awkwardly between two fans, the ring on his necklace also entirely visible. 

The two players have one of the most notorious rivalries in the sport with their teams’ longstanding animosity toward one another making the competition a show worth seeing every time they face each other. But while the rivalry remains a point of conversation every season, have the two captains been more friendly than everyone initially thought? As of this year, the two were seen in the background of a video posted by Hollander’s linemate, Hayden Pike, talking after the infamous NHL awards where Scott Hunter further confirmed the difficulties that come with being a closeted athlete. 

Another photo—Ilya passing by Shane with a hand lingering along his back. Hayden sees it and says, “Well fuck.”

Hollander and Rozanov were notably absent for the rest of the night but years of easily explained absences and and excuses paint a picture of the two star athletes as not out, but definitely not a secret. There is clearly something there, as most evidently seen after Hollander’s knock-out injury where Rozanov was seen visibly frightened by the experience and refused to leave Hollander’s side until he was completely taken off the ice. 

Shane realizes he’s never watched back the play that led to his injury. The article has helpfully added a video to change that. Hayden sees his thumb hovering and immediately tries to stop him. 

“Shane, wait–”

He presses play. 

It’s cut to the exact moment that Ilya takes a hit from Berkes while Shane receives a pass from Comeau. He’s coming up on the left side, just as he’d envisioned for weeks leading up to this game. And then Shane looks back after Ilya gets hit; that crucial mistake costing him as Marleau stretches his stick out half-hazardly at the last minute. Shane breathes out slowly as he watches his body go flying only to be stopped by the goal and the boards.  

The video continues. 

Shane watches quietly as his teammates drop their gloves with Hayden leading the charge, but his focus catches on Ilya who hovers near center ice. His jaw moves, saying something you can’t hear over the announcers shouting with the crowd. And then Ilya moves forward with his skating shaky and hesitant. But somehow, he makes it to Shane first.

Ilya crouches next to him, clearly speaking and only becoming as frantic as everyone else on the ice when the medical team pushes him away. Shane watches as he starts to shout at the medical team and he can almost remember what Ilya said but it all comes back fuzzy. 

Ilya follows as Shane is taken off the ice. Theriault is the one to stop him from following Shane into the tunnel. 

Shane sees all of this with the video abruptly ending when Ilya skates back towards his team, visibly distracted. He stares down at the finished video on his phone and wonders how the hell people didn’t figure them out sooner. 

“Shane.”

He blinks and looks up at the video call. Ilya’s face is there, scrunched in concern. He works his jaw and then starts to apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t– I wasn’t thinking about the hospital or–”

For the first time today, Shane suddenly feels something other than panic. He feels angry, but not at Ilya. Never at Ilya.

“Hey, wait,” he interrupts. His parents quietly hang back. Hayden’s leg is bouncing incessantly beside him. “Ilya, look at me. This isn’t your fault. This is some asshole who thought they were doing us a favor. I mean, the thing with Rose and even the hospital were months ago. They held onto this for months and purposefully released it today of all days. This is– Ilya, it’s hateful. I mean, Jesus, it’s invasive. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Shane is right,” Yuna cuts in gently. “They have photos of you two at the Ottawa airport later on in the article as well. If anyone reads this and thinks it was for your best interests, they’re insane.”

Shane hasn’t even gotten that far, but that anger starts to twist further in his stomach. It’s not that he’s never had to deal with stalkers before. There’s always been the occasional crazed fan or even someone sharing something on the internet that Shane never consented to showing. He had always considered it one of the drawbacks of being a professional athlete and being as famous as he turned out to be. All he wants is to play hockey and be with the man he loves. Apparently that was too much to ask for. 

“I’m going to work with the rest of your team, Shane, and Ilya, if you would like, I want to talk with your team as well, to get this sorted. We can do a joint statement or individual statements, or refuse to publicly address it at all. Whatever you both decide, we will move forward with it,” Yuna is saying. David nods in support, hand tangled with Yuna’s as they both wait for either Ilya or Shane to respond. 

Shane looks at Ilya, taking in the stress that was starting to read on Ilya’s face. He searches Shane in return, not saying anything as if waiting for permission to say anything at all. Shane thinks about the last five years with him. He thinks about this last year alone as his brain catalogs it all into one supercut of heartbreak but also the happiest moments of his life. The article didn’t change the fact that Shane wants to keep living the rest of his life beside Ilya. No matter the immense fallout, he could continue on if Ilya was there with him. His love for Ilya is once in a lifetime. A few words and the opinions of others were not about to ruin that. 

Shane takes a slow breath. “I want you to know first of all that I love you,” he tells Ilya directly as if his parents weren’t on the phone with them and Hayden isn’t sitting right beside him. “No matter what happens, that doesn’t change.”
Ilya offers a shaky nod of his head. “Okay,” he says, sounding relieved to have heard this from Shane. 

“And I want to do what you want. This is your public image and career and life too. But I think I want to address the article. I want to tell them that it’s a violation of our privacy, that we had no plans of telling anyone about us until we were ready, and we’d certainly not have gone about it this way,” Shane says.

Ilya smiles though it’s tired around the edges. “No,” he agrees. “I would have figured out a way to one up Scott Hunter’s Stanley Cup kiss.”

Shane cracks a genuine smile then. “I was thinking something more subtle, but sure.”

“You really want to tell the world?” Ilya tests. 

Shane tries not to overthink it. He’s done so much of that for years now and he’s too exhausted to go through it all again. “I want to tell the world how much I love you,” Shane answers. “I don’t care what they’ll say. I will always choose you in this, Ilya.”

Ilya’s concern falls away as he lets out a breathy laugh. No one comments on the tears in his eyes. “Okay, Mr. big declaration. We tell the world then,” he says. 

“Is that your decision?” Yuna asks, earning another round of nods from Ilya and Shane. 

“You two really are disgustingly cute,” Hayden mutters.

“Don’t be homophobic Pike or we name you in statement about outing us,” Ilya warns. 

“To be fair, that video I posted was before I even knew about you two. It was actually like thirty minutes before I found out. But I am sorry. Fuck, I really am sorry,” Hayden pleads. 

“He’s joking, Hayden,” Shane says even as Ilya makes a face to suggest otherwise. 

“Why don’t you two give us an hour and we’ll have things ready soon,” Yuna interrupts to get everyone back on track. “Will you guys be okay until then?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “My team is fine, but I suspect I will not be playing today.”

Shane had practically forgotten their season opener was tonight. “What about you Shane? Has your coach said anything?” Yuna asks.

“Um,” he stalls before looking down at his phone. He finally looks at the list of notifications and sure enough, there’s a missed call from Theriault waiting for him. “I have to call him,” is all he says. 

His parents don’t look too happy about that. Ilya even less so. Hayden pats his back and tries to be reassuring. “Whatever happens tonight, we’ll deal with it. I’ve got him,” he tells the other waiting three. 

“Give us updates,” Yuna insists. “We love you both, all right?”

Shane thanks them and there’s a smattering of love passed around with Ilya staying on the call a few minutes longer to make sure Shane would be fine and shooting warnings at Hayden to make sure that happened. Then the call ends and Shane sighs as he collapses against his couch. 

“Coach is going to be pissed, isn’t he?” Shane asks. There was no point in denying it. Theriault had always been old-fashioned and there was nothing he hated more than distraction in the middle of the season. Shane is now one terrible distraction ruining the flow of the team before they even managed to start their first game of the season. He sighs as Hayden subtly nods. 

“Management is going to be pissed too,” Shane goes on to say. “Fuck, and J.J.. The rest of the team–”

“Slow down, Shane,” Hayden cuts in. “Yes, people are going to be mad even if they have no right to be. You didn’t do this on your own terms, and it’s unfair to think you deserve the backlash for it. I’m here for you, buddy. And for Rozanov too, even if he’s less likely to accept whatever support I’m willing to offer him.”

Shane snorts. “You’re a really good friend, Hayden.”

Hayden smiles with a shrug. “Not every day your best friend breaks the internet. Figured they’d have been more excited about that backhand at the end of last season. That was fucking marvelous.”

They laugh for a bit until Shane decidedly has to meet with their coach. That doesn’t mean he won’t take his time showering from the morning skate with his sweat an even crust across his skin at this point. Hayden offers to drive him back to the arena given Shane’s car was left there. 

On the way over, Shane runs through what he’s going to tell Theriault and management if they show their faces. Hayden tells him to not worry about the team, that he’s got it handled as the alternate captain. Everything is decided.

Shane gets a text from his mom about the statement they were to put out with clear instructions to not go searching on the internet before or after either he or Ilya decide to post it. Shane will do his best to listen. He texts both her and Ilya that he’s on his way to talk with his coach and probably won’t even be able to do anything about it until after he’s finished here. 

Luck is sent his way. Shane doesn’t feel much of it when he heads inside to find Theriault grinding his jaw with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Hollander,” he says, “my office. Now.”

Shane wordlessly follows while Hayden lingers back. The rest of their team would likely be heading back to the arena for pre-game preparations in the next hour. Shane doesn’t know if he even wants to face them right now so he chooses to leave that to Hayden like they planned. 

He steps inside Theriault’s office, noticing the GM hovering in the corner and takes a seat as Theriault all but slams the door behind him. “This better be a fucking joke,” he starts.

Yeah, Shane thinks. This is not going to go well.

“It’s not a joke,” Shane says quietly.

Theriault scoffs before taking a heavy seat across from him. “How long? This thing between you and Rozanov?”

He says it like an insult and Shane digs his nails into his hands to stop himself from arguing right now. “Years,” Shane answers.

Theriault scoffs again. “My fucking captain,” he grits out. “You realize this is a conflict of interest.”

Shane nods, but adds, “I never shared anything about the team with him. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Theriault mutters. “It’s still a conflict. Management thinks so, I think so. Hell, I got a call today from the commissioner about you two. You’re benched on behalf of Crowell’s orders until all of this is sorted. He has enough to deal with when it comes to Hunter and the rest of that mess. Just my fucking luck that my captain decides to do all of this today.”

Shane processes what Theriault is saying. A jolt of anxiety shoots through him at the mention of the commissioner; about being benched; about Scott Hunter being an issue at all. 

He can’t exactly form a good enough response though as he whispers, “We’re not even playing Boston today.”

Theriault goes red in the face. “It wouldn’t matter if we were playing Boston!” He roars. “The sun could shine out of Rozanov’s ass and all of this would still be a conflict, Hollander. Until you get that through your head, you’re benched until I say otherwise.”

Shane is suddenly tired of this. He wants to get out of this office. He hates that the GM is just standing there, watching this shit show happen in front of him without saying anything. The statement his mom put together is still on his phone. What Shane really wants right now is to be with Ilya. 

“Okay,” Shane relents and then he stands and leaves without another word. 

He walks down the hallway toward the locker room where murmurs can be heard. Shane collects a breath before stepping inside, using the excuse of needing to grab some things from his locker before heading out for the day indefinitely. 

As expected, his team is there, deadly silent now as they watch him wander to the place he goes to night in and out. He sees the ‘C’ next to his name and feels their staring sear into his back. He takes another breath before he turns to face them.

His eyes find J.J. first. Hayden is sitting beside him looking pale and nervous. He guesses their conversation didn’t go well either. 

“For what it’s worth,” he starts, managing to keep his voice steady. He could break down later when he’s back at his apartment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen today or like this. As your captain–”

A few scoffs slip out. 

“As your captain,” Shane repeats firmly, “I would never do anything to jeopardize us as a team.”

“Except suck dick from the enemy,” one of them blurts. Shane doesn’t know who says it. Maybe Comeau.

“Knock it off,” Hayden snaps. 

“It’s fine, Hayden,” Shane mutters. “You all can think whatever you want. I can’t stop you from doing that. I would hope that you’d respect me enough to show otherwise, but I get it. You can only lead your team to a Stanley Cup and near perfect record for the last five years if you’re supposedly straight and not in love with a man. You guys play hard tonight. See if me not being there makes any difference.”

He grabs his things and leaves the locker room without waiting for anyone else to say something. 

The drive back to his apartment is quiet. His phone buzzes occasionally. A quick glance shows Hayden profusely apologizing. His mom checks in again. His dad send more support. Ilya telling him he loves him over and over. 

Shane’s world is wrapped up in a collection of concerned messages that he quiets even further when he silences his phone eventually, hoping they all understand that he just needs a moment. 

The apartment is dreary when he gets back. His bags are still at the door from when Hayden brought them over. His laptop remains open on the coffee table. The windows show an oncoming storm that only adds to Shane’s miserable mood. 

He toes off his shoes, sets them in their usual place at the door. He gathers his things, putting everything away as well. He cleans up the kitchen and living space even if it’s already clean. Takes another shower, slipping off the chain around his neck if only to put his ring back on his finger. There’s not really a point in hiding it now.

Shane crawls beneath the covers of his bed, feeling cleaner but still off in ways he can’t fix right now. His phone is still silenced and set aside to prevent himself from googling and looking at online reception to the article. He should probably ask when Ilya intended to post the statement. It should be coordinated so they present like a united front. It would be pretty embarrassing to be the first out couple in the league and not show solidarity. 

Shane frowns at himself for the thought. His relationship isn’t a business transaction to be put on display for people who will pick it apart anyway. 

He angrily pulls the covers over his head and forces his thoughts to quiet themselves. The game he was supposed to be captaining starts at some point. Shane doesn’t resurface to even watch from his couch. He stays in the quiet comfort of his bedroom, pretending to sleep as if that will get everything to stop for just a minute.

He’s not even sure how long he stays there. Time must have passed considerably as the outside world has darkened with night now here as opposed to the pale sun of early afternoon when Shane had first left the arena. Today just won’t end, he thinks. Shane presses his face further into his pillow, hoping he can actually sleep through the rest of it. He manages maybe another hour or so. 

A knock sounds out from his front door. 

Shane doesn’t move, just continues to bury himself. 

The knocking comes again—more insistent this time. 

“Shane, open up.”

Shane sits up so fast his head swims and black dots spot his vision for a moment. He blinks them away and hears more knocking. He’s out of his bed quickly then, body syrupy with disuse and stress from the day until he unlocks and wrenches his front door open to find Ilya standing there with rain drying in his air and a wrinkle between his brows. 

Shane’s jaw unhinges a bit, but Ilya is glaring as he says, “I went to Montreal place and you were not there. Why are you here and not there?”

“I was just–” Shane’s brain catches up. “Wait, why are you here?”

“Benched,” Ilya says with a shrug like that should be obvious information Shane should already know. “My team and coach is unhappy about it but commissioner said so and they decided to listen. I got the first flight out of Boston to come here.”

Shane notices the single carry on resting at Ilya’s feet then. His eyes start to burn at the site of the bag and of Ilya. “You came all this way?”

Ilya smirks, leaning on the doorframe of Shane’s apartment. “Is short flight. And why so surprised? I cannot check up on my fiancé?”

Shane is pulling him inside in the next moment, bringing him into the world's most bone-crushing hug as he breathes in Ilya’s scent; his head tucked into the crook of where Ilya’s neck meets his beautiful shoulders. His hand holds onto the jacket Ilya’s wearing in an iron grip as Ilya chuckles and kisses along Shane’s hair.

“Let’s go home,” Shane whispers into him. “I want to go home.”

“Okay, moya lyubov,” Ilya says, kissing the top of his head once more. “Let’s go.”

Shane drives them to the Montreal place with Ilya’s hand pulled into his lap the entire time. They don’t say much, just enjoying each other's company while they have it. 

Ilya cooks them dinner, insisting Shane stay put in the living room. They eat together while watching a shitty action movie that Shane laughs at only when they both realize Rose is in it and Ilya tries to jokingly change the channel. They don’t talk about the events of today as the night gets late. No one checks the scores of their teams despite both of the games definitely being done at this point. 

Shane helps clean up from dinner even though Ilya complains that he can do it. Shane wants to help though. He’s not been rendered entirely catatonic with the last few hours or so bringing some life back into him. He doesn’t complain when Ilya does join him by the sink to only rest his chin on his shoulder and hold him from behind. Shane sets aside the last dish and dries off his hands before he turns.

He captures Ilya’s lips slowly at first and then more fiercely, backing him into the opposite counter. Ilya groans from Shane taking more command, letting the other man hike up his thin shirt and drag his hands down his chest and the line of his stomach. His head tilts back as Shane’s lips find his neck. 

When he tries to find the hem of Shane’s shirt, Ilya almost yelps when Shane bats his hands away. He pulls back to find Shane’s pupils blown with interest. “Don’t move,” Shane breathes out heavily. “Keep your hands to yourself and just let me make you feel good.”

Ilya swallows heavily. He purposefully makes a show of putting his hands on either side of the counter with his grip tightening as Shane undoes the button of his pants. They go back to sloppily kissing with Ilya gritting his teeth until Shane slides his tongue in, making him ease up. It’s difficult though as Shane’s hand dips below his boxers with the other hand finding Ilya’s jaw and forcing him to look at Shane as he starts to relieve some of the pressure building in Ilya’s stomach. 

“You’re mine,” Shane breathes out, movements getting messier as he continues. Ilya can only marvel at Shane, watching with barely concealed lust as Shane slowly drops to his knees. “Mine,” he repeats before taking Ilya into his mouth. 

Ilya moans, dropping from his hands to his elbows hitting the counter. Shane doesn’t lose momentum and Ilya desperately wants to grip his hair, but he listens to Shane’s earlier request. He keeps his hands to himself. It’s a miracle he’s not cracking the granite. 

“Shane,” he gasps as Shane’s fingers have a bruising grip on his hips that travels higher, caressing Ilya, knowing his tells, what makes him tick. Slurred Russian slips out as Shane adjusts his angles and Ilya’s mind whites out. 

He’s breathing heavily as he practically falls back onto the counter only for Shane to crawl back up and kiss him hard. “Let me touch you,” Ilya groans into Shane’s mouth. He notices Shane’s erection straining against his shorts. Ilya can help this. 

He’s about to ask again when Shane says, “Wait for it. In the shower.”

Then he peels away, leaving Ilya breathless in the kitchen to watch Shane pad his way toward their bedroom. It takes Ilya too long to gather his wits. 

He finds Shane already in the shower, running soap along his chest and barely looking at Ilya when he joins him. Ilya comes up behind Shane slowly. There’s enough room in the shower for them to move around each other. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asks, still not touching Shane even though he aches for it. 

Shane takes his time rinsing himself off before he turns around to face Ilya. He steps back into the spray of the shower and for a moment, Ilya is transported to years ago when he’d first gotten Shane’s attention in the public showers after a photoshoot Ilya insisted he’d do with Shane. Only they’re over half a decade away from that moment now. Ilya is still fascinated by Shane all the same. 

“Come here,” Shane tells him. 

Ilya does as he’s told. Shane snakes a hand around Ilya’s neck with Ilya’s hands coming up on either side of him, pressing against the shower walls as they kiss. Ilya listens again as Shane wordlessly pushes him to his knees. 

They have to shower again when they’re finished. 

They sit opposite of each other on the couch, legs tangled and a blanket tossed carelessly over the two of them. Another movie is playing in the background that neither are watching. Ilya scrolls on his phone, answering texts and looking through emails. Svetlana is worried, but he insists that he’s fine. He’s more than fine right now. He looks over at Shane and knows he’ll be okay. 

Shane is also focused on his phone. It takes him a while to comb through his messages. He assures his parents that he’s good, telling them that Ilya’s in town for a visit. They should all get dinner soon together. Somewhere public. Rose reaches out to him which does make Shane smile. She tells him that she has a break in her schedule where she can come see him. They set a date to get dinner. They have a lot to catch up on. Hayden checks in as well. Keeps his comments about the team minimal. Shane’s agent is asking about the statement. Shane reads through it and knows it’s a pretty good statement overall. It addresses how unfair it is that this random journalist took away a decision from Ilya and him. How the photos included were, for the most part, taken without consent. It even addresses how the article uses Scott Hunter’s name as a reason for all of this as if this doesn’t hurt his reputation as well. The statement also clarifies that they’re together. That they’ve been together in secret for a while without giving an exact timeline. They don’t mention the marriage given that’s all sort of backwards anyway. 

Shane should get around to posting it. 

Ilya nudges his leg with his own. 

When he meets Ilya’s eyes, Ilya says, “You are thinking too much.”

“Hard not to,” Shane says honestly. 

“The statement is good,” Ilya comments, finally bringing up the one thing they’ve managed to avoid all night. Shane can only nod. 

“Do you not want to announce anything?” Ilya continues, feigning casual curiosity though Shane can hear the nervous tension in his voice. 

“It’s not that,” Shane insists. “I want to. It’s just– It makes me feel gross having to make a PR statement about my relationship. You’re not just some fucking accident that I have to clarify to maintain my image. I hate how this happened.”

Ilya crawls closer. Shane adjusts on the couch to make room for him so they can sit side by side. Ilya throws an arm around his shoulders, bringing a hand up to run through Shane’s hair. He presses a kiss to his temple and sighs. “I know you do not think about me that way,” Ilya says. “You are important to me too, and I wish this was a better situation than we were given.”

Shane leans into his touch. “I just wish we had more of a say in all of it.”

Ilya hums in agreement. They sit there quietly for a moment until Ilya adds, “We could say something. The statement can be posted later.”

Shane turns to him. “What do you mean?”

Ilya unlocks his phone, saying, “I have idea.”

Shane opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Ilya silences him by opening up his camera and smiling. Shane hesitates but manages to smile as well, head pressed against Ilya’s. Their temples rest together with Ilya’s hand still tangled with Shane’s hair. His ring is visible, a spark of gold and Shane’s number captured in the corner of the photo. They look a little tired if you stare at the image long enough. But the casual touch of everything in the soft lighting of a place just for them is endearing enough that Shane can’t find much else wrong with it. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asks as Ilya pulls up his Instagram. 

“Making post to tell the world how much I love you. If you do not want to go about it like this, I won’t post it, but this gives us some say, yes?” Ilya does wait for Shane to agree. 

Shane looks at Ilya’s face, memorizing all its intricacies before he nods with a quiet, “Yeah, okay.”

The photo gets drafted. Ilya types away easily. Shane feels his mouth twitch into a smile just before Ilya presses post. 

This is my fiancé. He normally does not need introductions because you all know him very well, but you did not know that I have loved him for a while. Now you do. To everyone else, Shane Hollander is considered the best hockey player in the world. To me, he is just the man I love. (And maybe second best hockey player)

Ilya turns off his phone right after and nestles closer to Shane. 

“We will be okay,” he whispers. 

Shane doesn’t say anything but he breathes a little easier as he settles next to Ilya, sliding their hands together and holding on for dear life.

Chapter End Notes

nothing like sex in the kitchen to regain #control

I also sort of tried to make the article seem like a journalist was in the hospital waiting room but whatever. Take it as you guys see fit!

Thank you as always for your sweet comments and kudos!

Chapter 15: A Little More Time

Chapter Notes

There is comfort here but it's a heavier one!

CW: xenophobia, homophobia

They get an email the next morning from Roger Crowell’s assistant that they were to meet with him in New York at their earliest convenience. 

Shane reads the email over and over as Ilya gets ready in the bathroom, hesitating when he returns and sees the look on Shane’s face. Shane only passes him the phone, slipping away to wash his face and wake up for the day. He takes his time in the bathroom and avoids his own reflection as much as he can. 

There’s movement in his periphery and he finds Ilya watching him from the doorway. 

“There is a flight option for later today,” Ilya offers.

Shane rinses toothpaste out of his mouth and grips the sink counter. “Okay.”

Breakfast is quiet, but they cook around each other with Shane making them both coffee and Ilya insisting on making a full meal he insists Shane eat even if his stomach isn’t up for it. They only take a break to post the statement Yuna had written for them to their individual Instagram stories, with Shane reposting Ilya’s photo from last night as well. He risks taking a look at the comments but finds his chest easing up slightly when he sees the outpouring support. 

It’ll be weeks later, after the journalist received multiple complaints about the article, that it finally gets pulled. Shane will vaguely remember seeing a long-written apology in his email inbox that is sent to both him and Ilya with little personalization other than regret that they would respond in this way. It’s all wasted energy if he were to focus on a single journalist who got their five minutes of fame. The email never gets responded to. Shane focuses on the positive reception from Ilya and his joint decision instead. 

Wordlessly, he shifts his phone toward Ilya who reads a few of the comments and smiles. He leans close to press a kiss to Shane’s temple before they tuck into their breakfast. 

Ilya pays for their flight. Shane writes back to Crowell. The meeting is scheduled for the next morning, early. 

They pack light with the trip to New York being barely less than 24 hours long. They waste the early afternoon doing nothing. Shane would normally enjoy the simplicity of it if his anxiety didn’t keep reminding him why Ilya was even visiting him in Montreal or why they were on their way to New York soon. Ilya remains gentle with him; whether it’s lingering touches or the occasional kiss. Shane does his best to be present. He needs to get things together by the time they’re in an office with Crowell. 

Yuna is worried about the meeting. Shane can tell as they call her on their way to the airport. 

“I just don’t trust the guy,” she insists. “He didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic when Scott Hunter came out and keeps changing his mind on whether pride nights matter in the league. I don’t trust him when it comes to you two.”

“I don’t trust him either,” Shane says. He glances at Ilya who’s driving, despite Shane’s initial protests—is hard to even speed in your family van, Hollander. Ilya offers a nod of agreement. 

They’ve both had limited interactions with the commissioner as he likes to position himself far out of reach unless there was publicity to be present for. But their meeting is private, demanding. Crowell couldn’t even reach out to schedule it himself. Shane still can’t believe all of this happened without them being able to have a decision on the matter. 

“Then make sure you go into his office with a plan, all right?” Yuna says. 

Shane has no idea what sort of plan that would be, but he tells her they’ll figure it out before they arrive in New York. It’s enough to get her off the phone so they can be on their way, but the general stress of navigating the airport occupies them until they’re sat in a far off corner of their boarding area, waiting to be allowed on the plane. 

Shane has sunglasses on and his hood up with Ilya sporting only a hat. It’s not exactly inconspicuous of them, but they stay beside one another and avoid interacting with as many people as possible to avoid being spotted. That was the last thing they needed right now—to have more photos leaked. Shane almost feels paranoid as he constantly watches the crowds around them, feeling itchy as if any phone pointed in their general direction is there to make everything worse. 

Even thousands of feet in the air, Shane can’t shake the feeling of being watched. His gaze is unfocused as he watches the plane wing cut through wisps of clouds as his mind reviews through the article, considers the people around them, thinks over the commissioner and what the hell Shane was going to say to him.

He doesn’t want to go in and beg to keep his job. Shane has decided that Ilya would always come first, hockey second. Even if all of this is so wrong it makes Shane feel unused to his own skin.

Ilya places a calming hand over Shane’s shaking leg. It’s his right hand that now wears their engagement rings. The ‘24’ on the face of the ring winks in the setting sun Shane had been watching from the plane window. He looks at Ilya, takes a breath, slides his hand into his, breathes again.

They end up staying in a hotel neither of them have been to. Ilya had said something about making this a sort of vacation for them, which Shane had rolled his eyes about despite the idea not being a terrible one by any means. The room is lavish and expensive. The windows look over most of the city with Shane coming close and seeing the dots of people and the scattered lights break up the immense blackness of an autumn night. Ilya steps up behind him, lips finding the column of his throat and kissing over Shane’s steady pulse.

“I want to take you to dinner,” Ilya says.

“I thought we were just going to do room service,” Shane counters.

Ilya holds him a little tighter. “Are you worried about being seen?” When Shane makes a noncommittal sound, Ilya adds, “I saw how anxious you were at the airport.”

Instead of avoiding talking about it, Shane shoots for a little bit of honesty, hoping it helps. His nerves have been scraped raw the past two days. He feels dizzy with anxiety most waking hours now. It irritates him that he isn’t handling this as well as Ilya seems to be.

“It’s hard not to after that article,” Shane tells him. “Some of those photos were taken without either of us knowing, and I hate that.”

Ilya hums, arms still wrapped around Shane as they watch New York City continue to tick. “The photo at the hospital upset me most,” Ilya comments. Shane turns a bit in his arms, somewhat surprised at this information even though he shouldn’t be. Ilya goes on to explain everything that already exists in Shane’s head. 

“I was not thinking clearly that day and they captured it. Our worst moment with you injured and me a wreck. Is unfair.”

Shane thinks back to the video of him getting injured; of the stunned body language Ilya had until he came over to check on him. Even still, Ilya’s behavior as Shane was getting taken off the ice showed he was scared. His memory of Ilya meeting his parents in the hospital is not the best, much to his annoyance. He remembers feeling happy, however. So much so that the single emotion was enough to override the panic he should have been feeling instead. And then there’s the photo of Ilya in the parking lot, breaking down from the stress of a handful of hours in what he thought had been protected privacy. 

Shane turns fully and kisses him slowly. His nails drag down the back of Ilya’s head and then his neck, earning a pleased sound he swallows with another kiss. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” Shane asks when they pull apart.

Ilya searches his face briefly like he’s checking to make sure this is not some compromise Shane decided on his head before saying, “Somewhere nice. Expensive.”

Shane snorts. “And who’s fronting the bill?” He asks as he goes for his coat and begins to put on his shoes. 

Ilya grins as he does the same. “I paid for trip here. Seems only fair you get the rest.”

Shane rolls his eyes but he possesses a fond smile that lingers as they leave the hotel room. “I don’t even want to be in this city right now. If it weren’t for the commissioner, we’d be cooking dinner at home.”

“I would be cooking,” Ilya corrects, slipping his hand into Shane’s when they get into the elevator. “I do not want to be here either, but we should enjoy what we can.”

Shane only sighs as they head out of the hotel with no particular place in mind, thinking a menu or smell will be enough to grab their attention eventually. Ilya insists he’ll know the right place when they come across it. Shane thinks he just wants to walk around a city holding his hand but doesn’t complain, finding he likes the normalcy of it the longer they walk.

It’s a brisk night with the noise endless and the foot traffic miraculously persistent no matter how many turns they take. For a brief period of time, Shane and Ilya exist as part of the crowd. Nameless faces in search of a good place for dinner like any other couple out tonight. They aren’t famous professional hockey players for once. Shane wonders if retirement will feel like this and if so, maybe it won’t be as aggravating as Shane anticipates. 

The restaurant they decide on has an inconspicuous black doorway and very minimal seating with even less lighting. Shane isn’t sure about it at first, but he glances at the menu and notices dishes his mom used to make him when he was little or when they were visiting her side of the family for holidays. Cold noodles normally thrown in with a sauce his mom never showed him how to make for when the summer months were hot. She’d switch it out for a broth if it were winter. Vegetables would be thinly sliced and they’d all gather around a table to dig in, relishing in the comfort that comes with shared culture in food. 

Eating something similar with Ilya is a new experience that Shane tucks away safely in his head. The restaurant is small and private enough that there’s only one doorway that Shane can occasionally look at and be relieved when he doesn’t see someone with a camera or phone peering in. The other guests keep to themselves, happily ordering and eating just as Shane and Ilya do. Shane smiles fondly as he adjusts Ilya’s grip around his chopsticks and talks quietly about what his mom would probably order for them if she were here. He ends up writing down the name of the restaurant for her in his phone when they finish up and get ready to leave. 

Ilya doesn’t direct them immediately back to the hotel however. Shane follows him willingly, enjoying the languid peace of the night as his edges soften like this was Ilya’s plan all along. They stop in a bodega where Ilya gets a small pint of ice cream he insists they share when they get back to their hotel room.

“The season just started,” Shane says, not exactly saying no, but not entirely keen on the idea.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “A bit of ice cream won’t ruin your ability to be the top scorer in the league. If it does, then you were never that good to begin with.”

Shane smirks at Ilya. “Did you just call me the top scorer in the league?”

Ilya huffs. “Slip of tongue. Mistranslation. You are hearing things Hollander and should not repeat them to save yourself from embarrassment.”

Shane laughs and laughs, pausing briefly on the sidewalk to kiss Ilya if only to make him laugh too. 

They end up eating the ice cream in bed. The world might be ending, but Shane pretends he’s just enjoying the privilege of being with his fiancé. 

Their intention to fall asleep early turns into an attempt. Despite their time with Crowell coming closer and closer, Shane remains curled up on his side, watching Ilya pretend to sleep in the darkness of an unfamiliar place. 

“What are you planning to say tomorrow?” Ilya whispers, giving up on his pretending. His eyes open slowly, focusing just on Shane. 

“I don’t know,” Shane answers honestly. “I haven’t given it much thought. I just want to say the right thing, but I’m not sure what that is.”

Ilya runs his fingers along the outline of Shane’s face. The touch is minuscule; barely a breath of pressure. It sends shivers down Shane’s spine. “Maybe we will have a stroke of genius and convince Crowell to be a good person about this,” Ilya suggests.

Shane breathes out a half-hearted laugh. “If only things could be that easy,” he says. “I love you. I only know that right now.”

He can tell Ilya smiles at this even in the darkness of the room. “I love you too. I will know this even tomorrow.”

Shane could have slept a full eight hours and he probably wouldn’t have felt it. They manage a quick hotel breakfast before dressing and finding the best route to get to Crowell’s office. The trip there is too short, but Ilya doesn’t ask if Shane is all right once on the way there, so he assumes he must look prepared to face today. Shane still feels unsteady about all of it, but as they’re directed toward the elevators, Ilya presses his side into Shane and some of that nagging worry fades. 

“Mr. Rozanov. Mr. Hollander. Mr. Crowell will see you now.”

Shane wipes the sweat from his palms down his pant legs and stands. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, steadying himself. Ilya nods at him as one final act of reassurance before they push past heavy double doors. Roger Crowell has his back facing them. He looks out of the windows of his office that captures what looks to be the entire city. He appears like a king in his glass castle with Shane and Ilya taking a seat each in the two chairs placed in front of a heavy, expensive-looking desk. 

No one says anything at first. Shane glances at Ilya for some direction, but there’s no need really because Crowell finally opens his mouth.

“This is quite the situation, boys,” he says flatly. Crowell turns to face them. His downturned mouth is screwed up slightly with his eyes narrowing as he looks between them both. “A frankly embarrassing situation that comes as a surprise. I fucking hate surprises.”

Shane tries not to wince from his tone. Ilya is rigidly still, face blank as if he were retreating to some colder version of himself that Shane never met. 

“It was a surprise for us too,” Shane starts. 

He did not think it was possible for Crowell’s eyes to narrow even further but witnessing it sort of makes the rest of Shane’s words die in his throat. “I don’t have time to deal with surprises,” Crowell snaps. “Your fucking teams don’t have time to deal with this. We just started another season and instead of overlooking everything that comes with that, I’m having to reprimand you two like you’re fucking teenagers who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. It won’t stand in the league. Whatever this is, it’s unacceptable. I can’t allow it.”

Shane tries to stop the feeling of vomit crawling up his throat. He could fix this. They could still make it out of here unscathed. 

“We didn’t release anything,” Shane says. “Our private lives got blasted out for the whole world to see.”

“But then you made those posts,” Crowell says with a chuckle like he can’t believe Shane would even try to argue with him right now.

“We deserve some say in what is said about us,” Ilya cuts in. 

“And you’ve decided to destroy the brands and the legacy that you two have built in a single day. Your reputations are on the line here and if you refuse the out the league is offering you, then I think we’re done here.”

Crowell pushes forward a sheet of paper so both of them can lean in to read. It’s a short paragraph, neatly typed and organized and so insanely written, Shane doesn’t even bother with reading the entire thing. 

Shane sits back heavily. “You want us to lie and say it was a conflated publicity stunt meant to bring in more viewers.”

Even saying it out loud sounds ridiculous to his own ears. Ilya pointedly pushes the paper back toward Crowell.

“It’s not a lie. Not if you want to continue playing under my league,” Crowell grits out.

“You are going to kick us out for being together?” Ilya questions.

Shane’s pulse rabbits. His hands tighten in his pockets. Crowell looks disgusted. 

“I helped organize your fucking visa, Rozanov. When you play, know that you’re able to do so because of me,” Crowell threatens.

“You make all your money off of us,” Shane snaps. He feels himself lean forward in his seat, challenging Crowell even as Ilya blinks at him in surprise. “I plan to get married to Ilya next summer. We’ll apply for citizenship and figure the rest out. We don’t need you, but you need us.”

“Married,” Crowell scoffs. “That is definitely not happening, and I’d choose your next words very carefully, Hollander. You may be the face of progress or whatever for this league, but I’m not afraid to take a step back if it means keeping a player with clear behavior issues out of my hair. Face it, the league’s culture is not built to support players like you two unless you stay within the lines. You’re overstepping now.”

Disgust rises up in Shane. “I lead the fucking league in jersey sales,” Shane blurts. “Ilya is a close second. Every season we’re the top in stats for goals and points. Our teams that we both captain have broken every attendance record in the book. You kick us out, and I expect the league will take a pretty big hit in the sales and viewership you’re so desperate for, especially when everyone learns the commissioner is homophobic and racist.”

“Are you threatening me right now, Hollander?” Crowell chuckles. “You thinking of suing? What team out there is going to want to sign either of you when you cause all these problems, huh? With your reputations in the gutter, you’ll be lucky to find spots on an AHL team when I’m through with you.”

Shane settles back in his seat. Ilya keeps glancing at him nervously, but Shane can’t bring himself to look at him right now. Not yet. He had this. They were practically at the finish line. 

“That’s fine,” he says calmly. “There is more to life than hockey.”

Some of the humor on Crowell’s face shifts. “You’re going to throw everything away,” he gawks. “When all you have to do is put out the league’s statement and then I’ll relinquish you back to your teams.”

“That statement is bullshit and you know it, sir. Anyone with half a brain will know it’s bullshit. And I don’t want to lie. I’ve done years of it. I’m fucking sick of it. You can do whatever you want to me; trade me, kick me out of the league, whatever,” Shane rambles before at last, looking at Ilya. Ilya’s eyes are wide with his lips slightly parted like he’s looking at Shane for the first time. That look is enough to give Shane that final push. 

“I’m not going to lie about who I love. I’m content in choosing to build a life with Ilya whether hockey is part of that or not. I would ask that you consider alternative options because I’m not signing off on that,” Shane says, gesturing to the sheet of paper sitting on Crowell’s perfect desk, before outstretching the same hand toward Ilya. “Come on. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Ilya stands without argument. He takes Shane’s hand as they turn to go with the commissioner blinking at them, momentarily stunned in disbelief until the spell breaks and they’re leaving to the sound of his yelling.

They make it to the elevator with the doors closing and then suddenly Ilya was crashing his lips into Shane’s. Shane’s delighted laugh slips through as he’s backed into the elevator’s wall. Ilya shifts to kiss the angle of his cheekbone, his jaw, the space right above his brow, that perfect nose, those pretty lips again. 

“You just had to mention you have more jersey sales than me,” Ilya mutters into Shane’s mouth. He can’t stop smiling, entirely drunk on whatever came over Shane in that office.

The elevator door dings, breaking their kiss. Shane pulls them out with his hand still firmly wrapped in Ilya’s. “I told you I’m done lying,” he says with a shrug, grinning when Ilya nudges him. 

“Oh, I heard,” Ilya says as they push open the doors to get out onto the main street. It’s a balmy day with the sun pale and the air cool. Shane considers it to be nice enough to have take-out in the park or something. God, he feels electric right now.

“You didn’t have to say all of that in there,” Ilya says abruptly, turning to Shane. There’s a bit of nerves in his voice as he adds, “I am fucking furious with Crowell, but I know you choosing me could mean giving up everything else, and I–”

“Ilya,” Shane interrupts, “I said all of that because I meant it. Besides, I can deal with Crowell. I recorded the whole meeting so I suspect he’ll have a change of heart soon if he wants to keep his job.”

Ilya’s mouth parts again. 

Shane merely shrugs. “Mom said we should have a plan. So I came in with a plan.”

Ilya breaks out into a grin. “She has always been the smartest of us.”

He brings Shane close again, kissing his hair as he whispers, “Thank you. I love you.”

Shane leans back and pecks him on the corner of his mouth. “I love you too. Are you up for lunch? I heard there’s a place nearby that makes a ridiculously good chicken parmesan.”

Ilya was barely containing his excitement. Shane laughed nearly the whole way there, his shoulders feeling lighter than they had in years. The end results would not be perfect. They rarely were. But Shane thought as he looked at Ilya in the midday sun, beaming at him while they went out for lunch, that this is as close to perfect as he will get. He’s not always sure he deserves it but damn does it feel well-deserved now.

Yuna is both horrified and delighted when she hears about their conversation with Crowell. Horrified because he’s more of a pig than she thought and delighted because the recording on Shane’s phone could keep them afloat for a little while longer. Things were still touch and go with their teams, but it was about a week after a further heated exchange over the phone with Crowell that Boston was asking for their captain back. 

Shane lets Ilya get on a flight, assuring him that Montreal reached out as well and everything would be fine. And they did eventually reach out, even though the delay left Shane a little breathless at times. His first practice back was less than good. It was actually spectacularly bad given his team had dissolved into fitful teenagers that had lowered themselves to petty things like refusing to pass to him at all. Hayden picked up on it a few times and snapped at them to get it together and knock it off. J.J. avoided him like the plague. Shane didn’t hover. He showed up. Did what he could. Ducked away from Theriault’s critical stare. Showered, left, ate, repeated it all the next day.

Shane’s first game back is a delicate event. The locker room feels stuffy with unsaid words. They weren’t connecting as a team anymore. Montreal has its worst start to a season in decades. Shane tries not to take it personally, but it eventually weighs on him.

“I can’t keep fucking–” He breaks his stick against a goal when their fucking defense got the bright idea that they were better shooters than Shane. Hayden eyes him warily as they do a line change. Theriault’s imposing presence hangs behind them. It’s another game. The score is tied when their team last year would have wiped the floor against the team they’re playing right now. It’s almost embarrassing watching how disjointed they look on the ice. Surely the personal damage done to Shane’s life could not affect their team this much. 

When the intermission before the third period rolls around, Shane’s decided he’s had enough. He turns toward his team as they huddle in. “What the actual fuck is happening out there?” He shouts.

Some of them blink in surprise, probably having never heard him yell before.

“Nothing? You all have nothing to fucking say? We’re getting beat on everything out there. It’s a miracle the score is still tied with how we’re playing!”

“You’re one to talk, Hollander,” Drapeau mutters. 

Shane works his jaw, something coming loose in his chest as no one steps in to argue. They all sit across the locker room, waiting for Shane to correct them without really listening at all. “If you have something to say,” he starts, “fucking say it.”

Drapeau clicks his teeth; eyes falling to the floor. 

Shane’s anger grows. He doesn’t think he’s ever really been angry at his team before. The feeling is new and unfamiliar and makes him lose some of his control. “I’m so sick and tired of all of you whispering behind my back. My personal life never got in the way of us winning or how we played before and now all of a sudden, you forget how to skate properly and how to talk to me like I’m a human being.”

“Your personal life involves you fucking the captain of our biggest rival,” Comeau spits. “That’s not just something we can ignore. It’s the biggest fucking elephant in the room, and we literally play Boston in a week.”

“It hasn’t interfered in the last five years!” Shane shouts. “You only care now because you know about it! You realize how fucking ignorant you sound right now? Rozanov isn’t even on the ice tonight so there shouldn’t be an issue unless your anger with me is going to affect every game we play from here on out.”

“You should have said something,” a different player mutters. Miitka sits a bit straighter to get Shane’s eyes on him. A whole room of familiar faces and yet, none of them feel like the people he thought were his friends.

The silence is overwhelming. It makes Shane’s skin buzz with the need to throw or hit something. He wishes he could skate until his legs fall off. He wishes for so much right now. 

“The capitaine is right.”

Shane blinks and finds J.J. looking at him sternly, but he blows out a long breath before addressing the team. “We are playing like shit out there. When we play Boston, I do not want to be an embarrassment. Right now, we are embarrassing.”

Hayden stands then. “We’re really struggling on the power plays,” he adds, reminding everyone that he’s the team’s alternate captain. “If we continue to operate like it’s every man for himself, they’re going to capitalize when we’re down. I’m not losing to fucking Vancouver tonight.”

“Let’s tighten up,” J.J. agrees. “There’s still plenty of time for a clean win.”

There are a few gruff mumbles of agreement. People start pulling their gear back on and go to leave the locker room without giving Shane a second look. He stands by his locker, watching them all leave and barely feeling the pat of reassurance as Hayden follows them out. He’s alone for a minute but the isolation feels endless.

They end up winning 3-1 with an assist and goal from Shane. No one cheered him on after either and the celebrations on the ice were minimal if not awkward. Shane strips his gear slowly afterward, listening to Theriault discuss the few good things he saw out there. Practice for the rest of the week was going to be grueling. Shane knew it was going to address all the wrong things. These guys are some of the best players in the league. Refining their skills wasn’t something they needed more work on. It was Shane; his presence, his attempt to captain—that is what is ruining this team right now. 

He doesn’t realize most of the other players and staff have left until J.J. takes a seat beside him despite his locker being on the other end of the room. J.J. stares ahead while Shane stops fumbling with the laces of his skates and says, “I am mad at you.”

Shane wants to say that’s hardly fair, but he’s so exhausted with telling people his feelings for them to not give a shit. “I know,” he says instead.

J.J. sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shane leans back, letting his head hit the wall. “Because I thought I had more time,” he says, keeping his eyes forward just like J.J.. “I was going to tell you. I had a plan to tell both you and Hayden but you both found out by accident instead. I thought I was going to be able to sit you both down and tell you about my life, but it never happened.”

J.J. makes a noise of agreement, far removed from any sort of support he could give Shane. “I can’t say I’m too happy it’s Rozanov.”

Shane’s teeth slide against each other. His jaw aches. “Well, you’re going to have to deal with it, J.J.,” he says flatly. “Because it’s always going to be him. It always will be.”

J.J. nods at this before finally turning to look at Shane. “You mentioned being together for a while,” he starts, waiting for Shane to nod. “It never came between you and the game? Or our team?”

Shane scoffs. “Never. And I don’t appreciate you assuming I would let that happen.”

He reveals some of his anger to J.J. who in all fairness, takes it like a champ. He nods again and says, “It seems like I have some things to sit with then.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. His mouth thins and his eyes go a bit distant until J.J. breaks the terrible silence again.

“For what it’s worth, I wish you had the chance to tell me personally. I would have probably still been pissed that it’s Rozanov, but I think it would have gone better.”

“It would have,” Shane says quietly. 

J.J. sighs and stands, patting Shane’s knee as he goes. “Hell of a game tonight, Hollander. One of the best parts of this job is playing with you.”

Shane looks up at him, body too tired to stand with him. “Thank you for saying something earlier,” Shane deflects. 

J.J. shrugs. “Should have intervened a while ago,” he says. “Just give me a little more time.”

And because Shane always tries his best to appease the needs of others, he says, “Okay.”

J.J. awkwardly smiles at him. “I love you, Hollander.”

“You too,” Shane says. Then he’s watching J.J. pack up his things and leave.

Shane leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs as he breathes out slowly. He’s the last one in the locker room. There’s hardly ever any privacy here, but Shane pretends he’s not at risk of someone walking in when the first tear falls and then suddenly he’s breaking down and crying. His body is wracked with choking sobs of frustration and anger and so much sadness that it pours out of him. Despite being allowed to play, despite forcing his way back into a secure position on his team, despite there being so much good in Shane’s life right now, the minor strikes of anguish have finally caught up to him. 

The annoyance toward himself in breaking lingers as he goes home later that night. His apartment is quiet because of course it is, and Shane keeps it that way by silencing his phone as some sort of punishment. But him not responding to a text from Ilya that night raises some flags. That’s the first time Ilya knows since they’ve gone back to their respective city and teams that something is wrong.

Chapter End Notes

TRUST I'm blowing up Crowell in my mind. but... two chapters left like woah. that happy ending is on the horizon!!!

Also... I may be writing another fic... and it might have more angst? we'll see where that goes

thank you so much for all your kind comments and for reading!

Chapter 16: A Plan

Chapter Notes

don't worry everyone a bad bitch is about to fix all of their problems!

November 2016

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But we should, yes?” Ilya says. He watches Shane sort his things for their game later tonight. Boston got in the night prior with Ilya lingering in their shared apartment in Montreal. He had been anticipating seeing Shane for weeks now. The absence of him felt like a physical thing; something tangible that he wanted to chuck off some building. But Shane was here now only he wasn’t really. Ilya is looking at him, but Shane is a world away.

“I just want to focus on making it through tonight,” Shane says, back facing Ilya as he folds his base layers again. 

Ilya bites back from arguing. Shane is tired. That much is obvious from the taut tension of his shoulders and the distant look of his eyes. Shane turns those tired eyes to him at Ilya’s silence and smiles sweetly if not a little bit sadly. There is so much going on behind those eyes. Ilya wishes he could do something that actually helped. 

Shane lifts his hand to the empty space between them. His ring is there. Ilya focuses on it as he takes long strides forward, finding the familiar touch; every callus and ridge memorized. He comes closer to Shane, resting his forehead against his. Despite being nearly pressed against each other, there is a new space between them that Ilya decides he hates. 

But Shane does not want to talk about it now. He wants to play their ridiculous sport and pretend the press and the fans are not going to be talking about something else entirely. Ilya had already hard some of the early murmurs. Most of it was less than kind comments about their ability to play against one another after everything had been leaked, as if they had not been doing it for years at this point except in secrecy. Others speculated about the less than promising start for both of their teams with the absence of their captains proving to be an initially devastating blow when the season first began. Only Boston had started to find their rhythm again while Montreal struggled to maintain any sort of consistency like they were stuck on one horrible rollercoaster that didn’t seem to be ending any time soon. 

Ilya has his own thoughts as well—his own speculations about whatever is going on within Montreal. He’s not an idiot. The lack of conversation around anything to do with Shane’s team even when he asks about Ilya’s and how they took everything is enough of a tell. 

He will have to be patient. Their upcoming game offers enough of a distraction if the disruption across Shane’s team weren’t all the more obvious on the ice. Montreal is still a strong team. They hold Boston well for a while but the unforced errors continue to creep up on them as they pass through the first and then second period. Ilya manages an early goal. His team celebrate hard as they always do when they score first against Montreal. Amidst the cheers of his teammates, Ilya catches Shane’s head bent low and quick words flying out toward one of his defenders. It’s an odd sight, considering Ilya doesn’t really know Shane to be a captain that yells at his players. The defender’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, jaw locked as he shakes his head with a scoff when Shane finishes. He skates away; Shane stands there momentarily before blinking, gathering his thoughts, and heading back toward center ice. 

Ilya goes for the face-off, leaning over and not even opening his mouth to say anything, but Shane must see something in his face that makes it seem like Ilya’s thoughts are on display. 

“Don’t,” is all he says, voice strained and his eyes focused on the patch of ice where the puck will drop. 

Shane wins the face-off. He manages to tie things before the third through sheer frustration evident in the way he’s playing. Ilya normally adores the beautiful way Shane plays. It is perhaps one of the few times in Shane’s life where he does not have all his reservations in place. He plays freely and skillfully, reading every minute of the game with perfect precision. You can tell he loves every second of it. But Shane today looks as if he were playing with hatred in his heart that is layered over something more vulnerable, sadder. Maybe disappointment. 

Boston takes the lead late. Montreal doesn’t even seem to react as if knowing this was coming.

Ilya looks up into the stands where he knows Yuna and David are sitting. Yuna is leaning close to David, whispering with a stiff expression on her face. David nods, scratching at his head and sighing as they both watch Shane try to get his team to regroup despite the final minutes ticking down and their efforts to win having faded a while ago. 

Ilya nods to each of his teammates as they step off the ice. A win has lifted their spirits. They will likely want to celebrate. Ilya already has plans. No one really talks about them, but he does notice later that his usual invite out is kept quiet. That’s been happening more often lately. He’s not sure if it’s something he wants to deal with.

Shane and him are the last off the ice. They look at each other once from each of their respective benches. Shane forces a smile before mouthing, Later.

They would talk. Secrets were not something they did anymore. 

“Rozanov, how did it feel to play against Shane Hollander after it was revealed that you two have been in a long-term relationship for years?”

The reporter shoves a microphone in his face. Ilya doesn’t correct them about the timeline. He finds that whatever actual truth Shane and him can keep to themselves, he will protect religiously.

“Is same as always,” he answers easily. “Hollander is a great player, as is Montreal. This win was important.”

“I’m sure the bragging rights will feel good,” one of the reporters chuckles. A few others smile over a joke that Ilya doesn’t find that funny.

“The points earned today will feel good,” Ilya corrects. 

“Do you and Hollander plan to get married in the middle of the season?”

Ilya’s eyes flick to a different reporter. Everyone leans in close. There is not enough air for all of them. Ilya squares his shoulders, trying to think quickly about what he’ll regret saying the most or if Shane will be upset at him later for losing his temper. Ilya can reel it in. He can be cordial for the vultures. 

“My personal relationship with Shane Hollander is none of your business,” he starts. When one of the reporters opens their mouths to either apologize or argue with him, Ilya bulldozes through the conversation, uncaring if he’s being unprofessional. “If you want to talk about the game tonight, that is fine. I will discuss the game. I am not saying you cannot mention Hollander around me. If anything, you could ask how we worked tirelessly in practice to make sure we could defend against his strong side. His ability to create scoring chances from nothing is not something we take lightly. But if all your questions are about my personal relationship, I will not answer them. We have kept things private for a reason. I understand that you find our relationship to be exciting, but it is not for you. Our lives were impacted because of speculation from a journalist not too different from you all. I will not add to the rumors. I don’t appreciate the questions. I’m sure Hollander would not either. So, what else do you want to ask?”

There were no questions at first. Ilya waits patiently with a goofy smile plastered on his face. The reporters have pulled their mics away, and Ilya can’t help but chuckle. 

“Ah, I see cat has your tongues. Official statement for tonight is this,” Ilya says, “We played well and hard. The win is deserved. I am proud of my team and there are things we need to work on if we want to be successful for the rest of the season. I look forward to playing Montreal again back home. Is always a privilege to play good hockey.”

He leaves with a quick nod and the cameras follow him momentarily before lowering entirely. Ilya takes a seat at his chosen locker with Cliff eyeing him as he takes off his pads. “All good, Roz?”

“Da,” Ilya says. “Felt good to tell them how I feel.”

Cliff smirks, nudging him slightly. “Atta boy, Roz.”

And though his team still accepts him, the arms are not always as welcoming as they once were. Ilya can manage it. He understands the uncomfortability and unsaid reservations, but those thoughts are kept quiet so he will not act against them as he tries to rally his team together into something that feels worthy of playoff contention. It’s still early in the season, but their slow start was going to cost them in the long run, especially when they start to lose steam near the end of the season in the natural decline of efficiency after many exhausting months of constant play. 

He is the last one to leave the locker room. No one comments on him taking a different route out of the hallway toward the parking lot as opposed to the back where their team’s bus is waiting for them. Freshly showered, Ilya pulls his hood up and searches for Shane’s ridiculous car. 

He finds both moments later. The awful car and Shane leaning against it, impossibly making the car look almost sexier. Almost. 

Ilya smiles at him even though there’s still that tiredness lingering around Shane. He leans in for a quick kiss before he throws his things in the back and gets in the passenger seat. Shane reaches for his hand when they get on the road. The action seems to settle him so Ilya holds on tightly. 

They get a text from Yuna and David that says they both played well. Ilya reads it out to Shane who stares at the road ahead, only nodding and telling Ilya to say thank you. The little group chat he’d been added to with Shane’s parents is normally a delight for him. Ilya still sometimes has to pinch himself when he realizes that he has a family in this new life with Shane. He types out what Shane told him too then separately texts Yuna and David to say thank you for including him, for showing up even if they would have for Shane. He can’t express in enough words how thankful he is for them. 

Ilya takes their bags up the stairs toward their apartment with Shane leading. He lets Shane wander in as he carefully puts everything away, maintaining the order because he knows that overstepping right now would only stress Shane out. Ilya finds him moments later in the kitchen, doused in the open fridge light as he stares at the countless options for dinner without reaching for anything. 

“What are you hungry for?” Ilya asks, leaning against the center island and studying Shane who looks over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes. Ilya smirks. “Besides that, Hollander. We both just played a whole game. I am hungry. I will cook. What do you want?”

Shane sighs, letting the fridge door fall close. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

Ilya suspects the impending conversation they were going to have later was not going to be a good one. 

He does his best to adhere to Shane’s ridiculous eating habits because he knows the control is one of the few things Shane has a hold on right now. He makes a separate meal for Shane and even picks over it as he carries it to the dining area. Not bad, Ilya thinks as he chews on some broccoli. Not the best.

Shane eats everything slowly with his body eventually slumping in exhaustion as he works through his dinner; that rigidness smoothing out with every passing minute. Shane does the dishes. Ilya waits for him on the couch. 

He can’t stop himself from grinning when Shane finally reappears. Ilya bursts into bright laughter when Shane swings a leg over the back of the couch and then shifts to fully straddle Ilya before simply collapsing on top of him. Shane tucks his face into the crook between Ilya’s neck and shoulder and makes it known that he has no intention of moving any time soon. 

“Are you comfortable?” Ilya asks, running a hand through Shane’s hair and settling his arms around him. 

“Always,” Shane breathes out. 

They stay there like that for a while. Ilya slides his hand along Shane’s back and for a moment, he wonders if Shane has fallen asleep. But then he hears from his shoulder, “I saw what you said to media.”

Ilya hums. “They needed to hear it.”

“I agree,” Shane sighs. “Thank you.”

Ilya kisses the top of his head. He wants to ask Shane what’s going on within his thoughts. He itches to do so, but Shane keeps talking; small comments here and there that Ilya tries to believe will lead to him opening up. 

“You played well tonight,” Shane is saying. “Frustratingly well.”

Ilya continues to run his hand down Shane’s back. “You were angry tonight,” he risks. 

Shane merely hums. 

“How are you now?” Ilya presses.

Shane breathes out as if he could further fall into Ilya. “Just tired.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. “Let’s go to bed then.”

Shane doesn’t complain as Ilya taps his hip. They do a weird dance to get off the couch and then the distance clicks back into place with Ilya watching Shane through the mirror of the bathroom as they brush their teeth. Shane runs water over his face, breathing into a towel longer than necessary before drawing it away and meeting Ilya’s stare in the opposite mirror. 

“They don’t–”

Shane’s words break off as he huffs and closes his eyes in frustration. Ilya is there in an instant, hands sliding around Shane and traveling toward his face. “Tell me,” he whispers, pretending it doesn’t sound like begging. 

“My team,” Shane starts again. “My coach. Management. They don’t trust me anymore even if they say they do. I’ve given so much to them and I just– It’s all crumbling around me, and I can’t fix it.”

Ilya’s shoulders fall slightly. He suspected, yes, but hearing the hurt in Shane’s voice is something else. “Maybe it is not something to fix,” he says quietly. 

Shane laughs wetly. Ilya’s thumb moves to wipe away the tears clinging to his lashes. “It wouldn’t matter,” he whispers. “They don’t want me to fix anything. They won’t even let me try.”

“Then do not waste your energy on it,” Ilya says even though he knows that will be impossible for Shane. He probably dreams of solutions to everyone’s problems. It’s simply how he is. 

“I just wish things were different,” Shane says off-handedly. 

Ilya doesn’t mean to freeze, but he does and suddenly Shane is stepping out of his thoughts and looking up at him intently. “Not this,” Shane assures, hand settling over Ilya’s steadily beating heart. “I don’t want anything to ever change about this. I mean that I wish we had been given a choice and that acceptance wasn’t something that’s conditional.”

Ilya sighs. “Montreal does not deserve you, moya lyubov.”

He kisses the bridge of Shane’s nose, then the corner of his eye, then his eyebrow. Shane doesn’t move, letting Ilya pepper him with kisses as if his unconditional love were enough to make things better.

“They’re my only option right now,” Shane sighs, sleepily blinking his eyes open as Ilya pulls back. Ilya doesn’t refute this. He knows both of their contracts won’t be up until right before the 2018 season. That meant this season and the next will be them—Shane—dealing with this. 

Part of Ilya’s brain starts to fantasize about some miraculous alternative, but he keeps quiet, doing what he can by dragging Shane to bed if only to get him off his feet. It is the right choice given how quickly Shane falls asleep, half-draped over Ilya’s chest. Ilya keeps his lingering touches present as he pretends to sleep as well. 

He tilts his head toward the windows. The night is impossibly midnight blue with clouds cast over the moon and making everything that much darker. He tries to imagine what it would be like to try and build a life here in Montreal; if it would even suit him. His life in Boston is hectic at times and quite peaceful at others. The soullessness of the life he had tried to maintain out of his apartment in Moscow does not resemble the quiet comfort of what he has managed here in this Canadian city. He wonders if they would ever give up the Montreal apartment or if they would keep it out of convenience. Would Shane sell the other apartment he seems to take to when Ilya isn’t visiting? Would Ilya ever sell his place in Boston?

He sighs and reaches up to rub his eyes. Shane barely stirs atop of him with his face scrunched in sleep. Ilya’s theory of Shane trying to solve everyone’s problems in his dreams seems more likely every day. 

His movements are as slow as he can make them. There’s a lot of adjusting and moving pillows around so Shane isn’t jostled. Even still, Ilya waits a moment, standing beside their bed and watching Shane relax back into sleep before he’s grabbing his phone and slipping out of the room.

He scrolls through his contacts as he goes to the furthest room from the bedroom he can find, which happens to be the little office where Shane has some of his accomplishments carefully organized on shelves. Ilya glances at the hat and sunglasses still resting on that Rookie of the Year award he loathes, heart beating faster in his chest as he hits call on his phone. 

Several rings drone on before the call finally connects. In a sleepy voice mixed with a bit of annoyance, Svetlana answers with, “Do you know what time it is?”

Her words are a bit slurred but still wonderfully and melodically Russian. Ilya smiles, leaning against a wall. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Svetlana huffs on the other end, but Ilya can tell from the rustling that she’s sitting up to try and focus. “Has something happened? It really is late and you should be sleeping after your game. Nice goal by the way, though not more impressive than if you had scored against a better Montreal team.”

“That is why I’m calling,” Ilya explains.

Svetlana is quiet at first like she’s trying to guess the root of everything before Ilya can tell her. “If you wanted to call to critique your game, you should have done so in the morning when I’m more awake and have more time,” Svetlana tells him flatly.

Ilya breathes out a short laugh. “You already send me enough comments about what I need to fix. I’m calling about Montreal.”

Svetlana makes a noise before saying, “Montreal or Jane.”

“Shane,” Ilya says. “Both maybe. I don’t know.”

“How is sweet Jane?” Svetlana goes on to ask. 

She’d called Ilya after the article was released. Though she had been miffed about Ilya not telling her personally, she’d assured him she was not as blind as the rest of the league and world apparently and could put two together after Ilya had not denied her comments about ‘Jane’ the last time they’d both been in Russia. The talk was long with Ilya doing a lot of apologizing and Svetlana saying he could make up for it by telling her everything. And so he did. She of course found the whole situation hilarious and asked if either of them had been concussed around that time to have not known they couldn’t get legally married when they thought they had. She then went on to say she was happy the marriage was a farce. Svetlana would never let Ilya live if she was not invited to his actual wedding. She then kept going on about bridesmaids and the conversation derailed from there. 

“Upset,” Ilya starts to tell her about Shane. “Montreal is not handling us well. Shane is taking the brunt of it and it’s affecting how they all play. How he plays.”

“I can tell,” Svetlana sighs. “I thought something was off with them but that’s unfortunate. You two did not ask for this.”

“No one seems to care about whether we asked for it or not,” Ilya sighs. 

“Is Boston still being, what is it? Passive?” She asks.

“They are still good to me. Things are different though but no one will say anything. My team is not suffering because of everything,” Ilya explains.

Svetlana makes a complicated noise. “You know I have been asked to take on an analyst position for them after I finish my MBA.”

Ilya smiles at the thought. “They would be lucky to have you. No one knows the game better.”

“Except for maybe your Jane who cannot enjoy the game because of his shit team,” Svetlana points out before at last cutting to the meat of why Ilya wanted to call her. “Why tell me all this? You two should talk about how to handle it together.”

“He becomes closed off when we talk about his team and the organization backing it. It’s like grief, Sveta. He devotes so much to them and they’re behaving like they wish they could kick him out,” Ilya sighs.

“He should sue if that is the case,” Svetlana says.

“You know he wouldn’t do that,” Ilya huffs. “He still thinks he can play with them while all of this is happening. Even if it makes him miserable.”

“Your Jane is one of the best hockey players in the world, Ilyushka. If Montreal will not correctly utilize his talents and he will not push back against them, then he should find a place that will appreciate him for what he is worth,” Svetlana says.

This had been Ilya’s idea even if it was in the smallest of conceptions in his head. Svetlana lays it all out rather simply even if the dirtier work behind the idea is all unsaid. Still, Ilya is relieved to hear there might be some sense in his idea. That is the reason he called Svetlana. She has the most sense of almost anyone he knows. 

“Have you mentioned this to him?” Svetlana asks to clear the silence at Ilya’s lack of comment.

“No,” Ilya answers shortly. Ilya is admittedly afraid of how Shane will react if he were to casually bring up the idea of breaking Shane’s contract early to search for a team that will probably pay him less and uproot him from the life he worked so hard to build in Montreal. As far as Ilya knew, Shane had every intention of playing for them until he retired. Ilya can’t imagine another decade or more of this suffering.

Svetlana laughs softly. “Do you want me to suggest it to him then?” 

“No,” Ilya says again, “I will tell him. He will want a plan though. Nothing will happen if he thinks I came up with this on some whim. It has to feel like something possible for him or he won’t go for it.”

“You sound like you are trying to bait your fiancé into choosing happiness,” Svetlana groans. “I assume you want to know my opinion on what teams would suit him.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “And I need ideas for how to make signing with a new team more appealing. There are more costs than benefits right now.”

“You might already have an answer for that. I can hear it in your voice, but I will give you time to think about it by telling you what teams would be good for Jane, yes?” Svetlana waits for him to make a noise of agreement. Ilya’s brain is still snagged on her notice of what would be enticing for Shane to give up on Montreal the way they have given up on him. Ilya does have ideas, maybe answers, but they feel almost as frightening as telling Shane about all of this in the first place. Svetlana said she’d give him time because she’s sweet to him like that. 

“Do we assume he will want to stay in the same division?” Svetlana starts.

Ilya thinks about it and tries to imagine what it would be like to see each other less than they already do. “Probably yes.”

“Shame,” Svetlana says. “Admirals need more depth at center. I think Shane would play well on an alternate line with Hunter. Vaughan is not a bad wing to have either.”

“If you value our friendship, Sveta, you will not fantasize about sending my fiancé to go play with Scott Hunter and his idiots,” Ilya warns.

Svetlana’s laughter is like little bells over the line. Ilya misses her, he realizes. He makes a mental note to get lunch or go out when he returns from this road trip. 

“Don’t be sensitive, Ilyushka. I could have theorized about what it would look like to have Shane Hollander in California. San Francisco remains too young and could use his guidance,” she says.

“I am regretting calling you,” Ilya mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose as more horrific possibilities roll through Ilya’s head about where Shane could end up.

“You worry too much when it comes to him,” Svetlana cuts in. “Besides, you said he would prefer to stay in the same division so I will not torture you further. Detroit is on a good run recently. They beat you in the playoffs last season.”

“I remember,” Ilya mumbles.

“They are as inconsistent as Montreal right now though. In more need of better defense, a new goaltender. Not exactly your Jane’s forte. Buffalo is–”

“Terrible,” Ilya interrupts. “Do not even try to make that a reasonable suggestion.”

“Terrible teams often need miracles,” Svetlana sings but she backs away from Buffalo much to Ilya’s relief. “Toronto is a bit of a mystery. They have depth but it doesn’t show up in their game. Their defence is steady if they can manage to keep Ryan Price from asking for another trade. You found him fun to play with when he did that one season with Boston right?”

“Price is a good guy,” Ilya says, not revealing everything he knows about the peculiar defenseman but after knowing what it’s like for people to view you on the outside and assume things, Ilya has a bit of sympathy for the guy. “He did a short contract with Buffalo and has been helping Toronto even out some of their issues last I heard. You are right in saying their defense is not an issue. Their goaltender is not half bad either.”

“Hayes should ask for a trade if he knows what’s good for him,” Svetlana mutters. “Price too. Toronto does not value their players long-term. And you have to live in Toronto.”

“Small price to pay when you are a rich hockey player,” Ilya points out. 

“We could discuss sending Shane to New York again if you want to keep defending Toronto or should we move on?” Svetlana asks.

Ilya sighs. He didn’t know much about Toronto as an organization either. He’d be essentially telling Shane to hop cities and go play for a team that hardly stays consistent in their roster for more than two seasons. It would be a temporary fix and not something Shane would want or give up his life in Montreal for.

“The only other option is Tampa,” Ilya mutters.

“You called me because you wanted good advice. Don’t put out bad ideas, Ilya. There is also your team,” Svetlana starts, but Ilya already finds himself shaking his head.

“I cannot ask him to move to Boston,” he says.

“Why not? You play well as his wing if that one All-Star game is sitting in my memory correctly. Boston needs to free up cap space anyway before the trade deadline next year. It will be less than what he makes now, but he will have you as well,” Svetlana reasons.

“People will view the trade as a sympathetic attempt to keep us together,” Ilya sighs, already imagining how the media would spin it. It was a press disaster waiting to happen. “Shane would also view it as pity, which I do not want him to think is the reason why I’m even considering all of this. And he does actually care about maintaining standards in the league. Asking to be traded to your rival team is suicide for your reputation.”

“Ah, I thought you were going to complain about me suggesting you play wing, but those are all good reasons as well,” Svetlana says, earning a tired chuckle from Ilya. And then carefully, Svetlana adds, “You are putting a lot of consideration into this for him. Even if he is your Jane.”

“I want him to be happy,” Ilya says, somewhat deflecting even though he knows his avoidance won’t last for long. It never does with Svetlana. 

“What about you? Will you be happy with him elsewhere?”

When Ilya doesn’t immediately answer, Svetlana hums like she already knows what he’s refusing to say. “You two both have a cup a piece,” she starts slowly. “You are the captains of some of the best teams in the league. You are working things out with what you are given now, but I suspect this will not be enough in the long run.”

Ilya shakes his head even though Svetlana can’t see it. He knows she can probably predict what he’s going to say, but he gives her an answer anyway, “No. It won’t be. I want– Is it ridiculous to want to be great together?”

“Most people would probably tell you yes. I am going to tell you that it will not be easy but it is not impossible. There are logistics and a lot of begging and insistence that this will be worth it for it to make sense, Ilya. You could be throwing away a good future in Boston. Even if Montreal despises him, Hollander would find a way to get them winning again with time. You tell me he is stubborn like that,” Svetlana says.

Ilya laughs quietly. “He deserves better, Sveta. I want better for him.”

Svetlana sighs like she knew all along that Ilya had been considering this. “I will pretend that I am not upset about the possibility of you abandoning me in Boston, but I want better for you too, Ilyushka. It has been a long year for you as well even if you refuse to acknowledge it.”

It is the first time anyone has brought up the passing of his father, even vaguely, since it happened. Svetlana knows Ilya’s scattered grief is not all because he lost his last parent. There is unresolved anger and so much hurt he no longer knows where to place. And as of now, he can no longer return home to see where those feelings may misdirect themselves. He misses seeing important moments of his niece’s life. He misses familiar parts of home and being able to see his mother but other than these things, there is nothing for him there. He holds onto some of that need for comfort and unfurls it with Svetlana who entertains that need as often as she can. 

“Canadian work visa would be nice,” she says to break the silence. 

“Shane and I are getting married. I won’t need to worry about my visa afterward,” Ilya says.

“Marriage and citizenship take time, Ilya. And I am referring to another team in your division you apparently forgot about because they are so terrible,” Svetlana corrects.

When the realization hits Ilya, he abruptly laughs, finding it almost preposterous. “Ottawa,” he breathes out almost like a curse. 

“It’s Jane’s hometown right?” Svetlana asks.

“Yes, but they are terrible,” Ilya goes on. 

“Terribly in need of guidance,” she corrects. “You could offer that. They have no depth anywhere and you and Hollander could solve some of that issue. I still think you should play as his wing, which is only the first obstacle so you better listen closely, Ilya. If you happen to get the management’s ear, suggest purposeful trades and organize a few promising draft picks to keep your team steady in talent in the years to come. They have some consistency in their existing players, but they are so terribly dull in their decision making when it comes to lines and who to scratch on a given game. They need a new coach because of this.”

“Jesus Christ, Sveta, are we doing everything on this team?” Ilya asks.

“I am trying to tell you the hard part of what it would look like to make this dream of yours a reality, Ilya,” she says sternly. “This will not be easy. You will both lose terribly and many times before things start to work. I am thinking long-term because the next place you two end up could be where you stay for the rest of your careers if you’re lucky. I am also saying there is promise in Ottawa. It is miniscule but it just needs nurturing. You’ve always loved a project. This could be that. Your buy in for Jane is the fact that he gets to play for his hometown. His parents will be closer and you will be with him. Your marriage can start in a place you can build a life in. Is all of what I am saying making sense?”

Unfortunately for Ilya, it made perfect sense. He could see it in absolute clarity. Their horrifically abysmal team will put out a slightly better record than prior seasons with Ilya and Shane still happy in spite of it. With how many changes needed to be made, Ilya suspected a cup together was not in the near future, but maybe one day. He wonders if Shane could even manage the frustration. That cottage of his in Ottawa really is wonderful, but even its peacefulness was no match for Shane’s irritation. Still, it feels so possible that Ilya lets his head fall back against the wall just to jolt himself out of making wishes when there is hardly anything to wish on.

“Do they have the cap space?” He asks. 

“They make rash trade decisions right before playoffs every season,” Svetlana shares. “The cap space will be there if you show interest early. The signing could happen over the summer, discretely and away from the public eye. You start rebuilding immediately and negotiate better salaries and contracts after your first season with them where you have to show promise.”

“You think I cannot show off for a bunch of coaches and management?” Ilya asks sarcastically.

Svetlana sighs, continuing to take this all more seriously to prevent Ilya from scaring himself out of making a decision on something he actually wants. “If they were to sign you both, that also means taking on the scrutiny of having the first married couple in the NHL on the same team. I do not know much about them as an organization, but if there are individuals who will doubt your ability to show off because of your relationship with Shane, then none of this will work. You can’t just be your usual self with this. Either can Shane. You both have to be more than impressive and work with management to show them that you have a plan and vision for their team they weren’t seeing; that you intend to be there long-term. I need you to be prepared for all of this, Ilyushka. I can’t get to you as easily if you are in Canada and I am here. I cannot just drive around the corner to help when you need it.”

“You have already helped so much,” he says quietly. “There is no one else I would have trusted with this nor would anyone else have been as honest with me.”

“Who else would entertain your wild ideas at three in the morning?” She teases.

Ilya smiles, holding the phone close to his ear. “Only you.”

Svetlana laughs as if to agree. And then, “You must tell Jane as soon as possible. Maybe not at three in the morning unless you think he can be sensible about it.”

“He’s too sensible,” Ilya mutters. “I will tell him though.”

Svetlana hums. “Call me again when you have it all worked out.”

“I return to Boston in a week and a half,” he offers instead. “We can talk over a nice dinner.”

“Normally,” Svetlana says, “when you ask a girl to plan out your entire future, you should offer dinner first. You’ve done it all backwards.”

Ilya’s laugh is genuine and sudden. He marvels at how he’s been able to keep someone as steady as Svetlana in his life. He thinks of how he told her that her kindness is something too freely given to someone like him and she’d countered it by saying it was exactly what he deserved. All these soft things in his life; Ilya can’t understand how he manages to earn them. “This keeps happening,” he says with a smile. “Everything is backwards.”

“Stick to a plan this time, yes?” Svetlana advises. “No more accidents.”

And though she found their accidental marriage that ended up being as real as Buffalo ever winning the cup hilarious, there is some practical advice in what she is saying. Everything from this point forward cannot be decided upon off of some sudden interest or chase that delighted Ilya. This is the rest of his life he is considering. It should be handled with more care than a drunken night out with the man he’s fallen in love with.

“No accidents,” he repeats. “Thank you, Sveta. I love you.”

“I love you dearly, Ilyushka,” she tells him. “I’m going to blame you for my headache tomorrow.”

Ilya smirks. “Sleep well then.”

“You too.”

The call ends and Ilya presses his shoulder blades into the wall to ground himself. His ridiculous idea doesn’t feel so ridiculous anymore. It seems probable which would normally scare him if it didn’t spark so much hope. He just needed to sort out how he would tell Shane and make it sound reasonable to him. Shane is sensible, yes, but he can also be incredibly stubborn. Ilya loves every aspect about him, but that stubbornness could put a pause on things if Ilya doesn’t go about this correctly. 

Sighing and pocketing his phone, his body screams for sleep, especially knowing he has to be up early to head back to the hotel his team is staying at before they head to the airport for an early afternoon flight. Ilya wishes he could stay here longer. His time with Shane is cut up into these precious stretches of time. He needed this all to work out because the thought of doing this for even more than a year sends his thoughts down a dark path. 

He leaves the attached office space only to nearly run into something on the floor. 

Ilya glances down and jumps, cursing loudly in Russian before his eyes focus to find Shane sleepily blinking up at him. He has his knees pulled into his chest and his back to the wall near the doorframe. His arms are casually looped around his legs, but they tighten in an apology as Ilya says with a hand trying to steady his fast beating heart, “You scared me.”

Shane starts to stand, still looking entirely apologetic.

Ilya cocks his head at him. “How long have you been sitting here?” He asks.

Shane thinks for a moment before deciding that lying is not the best route right now and says, “A while. Is everything okay?”

Genuine concern drips from his voice and Ilya realizes that Shane probably just heard a near hour of frantic Russian with his name carefully dropped multiple times in the conversation. Ilya comes close instantly, blunt nails dragging along Shane’s forearms before pulling him into a hug. “Yes,” he insists. “Is perfect or I think it will be.”

Shane’s chin digs into his shoulder as he asks, “Were you talking with Svetlana?”

Ilya hums. “Needed some good advice.”

Shane pulls back, running a hand through Ilya’s restless curls. “Did she give you some?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says quietly. Some of Shane’s curiosity still lingers in the slight turn of his mouth and the way he keeps looking at Ilya like he can find the answers without asking about them. Svetlana did say he needed to tell Shane about everything. She also said to probably not do it at three in the morning. Ilya decides this will be his last hasty decision he makes for some time as he braces for everything with a slow breath and says, “How would you feel about asking to be traded with me after this season ends?”

Shane physically draws back. Ilya tries to pretend the movement isn’t hurtful. “I would say that sounds like an insane idea,” Shane says carefully.

Ilya sighs. “I asked how you would feel, Shane.”

“Frightened,” Shane answers immediately. “Or I don’t know. Surprised?” His face scrunches in concentration with the remnants of sleep that were clinging to him shaken off like rain drops on a closing umbrella. “I thought you said things were going well in Boston.”

Like clockwork, Shane’s worry always slingshots back to Ilya, orbiting him persistently even if Ilya is trying to make Shane see how unhappy he has become. 

“They are,” Ilya assures. “But is not the same as before. Is also not as bad as things are with Montreal though.”

He tries to be gentle with his wording, but Shane blinks hard and turns away. “I’m working on it–”

Ilya’s outstretched arms fall to his sides as Shane wanders toward the kitchen out of his embrace. “For how long?” Ilya interrupts, following after him. He watches as Shane pulls a glass and fills it with sink water before downing it. “Do you still want to be fixing things next season? We have barely started this season and you are exhausted.”

Ilya leans on the other side of the counter. Shane grips the edge and closes his eyes in a moment of clarity regarding his feelings. He can try to deny it all he wants, Ilya knows him. 

In a small voice, without him looking at Ilya, Shane asks, “Where would we go?”

Hope starts to rise up. Ilya wants this so bad. 

“Svetlana thinks Ottawa is the best option if we want to stay within our division and in Canada,” he says with as much determination as he can muster. 

Shane’s eyes snap to him, widening and staring at Ilya like he’s grown a second head. “Ottawa,” he repeats. “The team currently on a ten game losing streak.”

Ilya smiles at his fiancé, having known the team’s current record would be a point of contention for him. “We could change that,” Ilya tells him. “We would have a nine game losing streak before we surprise everyone with how good we are at hockey.”

The corners of Shane’s lips twitch despite the weight of everything. He tries to dampen an oncoming smile by biting on the inside of his cheek, pretending to think things over before he comments, “That’s my hometown team.”

Ilya imagines a tiny Shane running around his childhood home in a Cens jersey and proudly proclaiming that one day he would be playing in the same league as them. “I know,” Ilya says. “You would be closer to your parents.”

Shane nods, something serious dancing in his eyes. Ilya tries not to read into it. “I don’t know if they need a new center right now,” Shane sighs as he tries to think of their current roster. He shoots a look at Ilya. “Let alone two.”

Ilya shrugs. “I am good at playing wing.”

Shane’s face goes blank. “Who are you and what have you done with Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya laughs and drags himself around the kitchen island just to touch Shane. He hates when there’s physical distance between them and serious conversations demand they be physically close. “Is not a big deal,” he tries to insist at Shane’s protest. Shane gives him another look as if to make a point. “You and Svetlana would get on like a wildfire,” he realizes, chuckling again at the idea. “I cannot invite you to the wedding. She will make you gang up on me.”

When Shane laughs, he looks away before rolling his eyes. “It’s literally our wedding Ilya. You can’t not invite me unless you have something to tell me.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Ilya playfully waves off. “I can play wing,” he redirects. “We could play together. Sveta has this whole plan of how we could make a team go from bad to maybe good. Some day great. We could be great together.”

Some of the humor has faded as Shane’s thumb runs across the delicate bones along the back of Ilya’s hand. Contemplatively, he asks, “You’d leave Boston for me?”

“I’d leave all of it for you,” Ilya says.

Shane’s lower lip wobbles but he forces down his emotions by simply saying, “Ottawa.”

Ilya nods, smile slipping back into place. “Their mascot is ridiculous. Is very sad to see the horse man try to be so brave in battle when the team loses so much.”

“You can’t talk about them like that if we are actually being serious about getting traded there,” Shane points out, and Ilya knows then that he’s won. Still, like Svetlana had warned, this was not going to be an easy process. Shane seems to sense it as he adds, “Jesus, this is going to be horrific if it goes wrong.”

And Ilya, the endless fountain of hope that he is, says, “It won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t stop bad things from happening,” Shane mutters.

“Ah, but I can stop you from continuing to exist in misery. I will do everything to make this work if you want to as well,” Ilya says. 

“I want–” Shane breathes out, mouth pinching before his shoulders collapse. “Yeah, I want to try.”

Ilya kisses him hard. It startles Shane at first before he’s melting into it. Their arms wrap around one another as the night continues to pass. Things are still not the best now, but they could turn out better. Ilya can see it all in perfect clarity.

“What’s this plan Svetlana was telling you about?” Shane asks with his face pressed into Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya hums and wraps his arms tighter around Shane. “I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

Chapter End Notes

oh ottawa, my shaylas <3

just one chapter left guys... and I will say it's ridiculous gooey and sweet. hope you're excited!!

thank you so much for reading as always and for all your kind comments!!!

Chapter 17: The Rest of Your Life

Chapter Notes

I'm not crying YOU ARE

June 2017

The ink is barely dry before there’s a smattering of applause. Shane tucks away a smile as he glances at Ilya. Their signing is a private thing at their insistence. Ottawa ensured that none of this would get out until most likely July given Ilya and Shane still had to finish things up with their respective teams. But everything was set. In some miracle, Shane is signing a contract to play for his hometown team with Ilya. With his future husband. Whatever the world and fans decided to say when the news got out in July would be background noise for him. They had a wedding to focus on, set exactly for then. 

Beneath the table they were both sat at with a bunch of managers and staff surrounding them, Shane taps his dress shoe against Ilya’s, who shifts his leg to align his shoe with Shane’s. 

Yuna and David were off to the side smiling with tears in their eyes. Shane looks at them, looks at Ilya, looks out the window at the sprawling place he grew up in. Shane feels tears prick at his own eyes before he’s laughing with a bright smile. It’s a minor crack in his usually carefully constructed professionalism, but Shane allows it. He’s never been this happy in his life. 

-

Shane fixes the collar of Ilya’s shirt, hands smoothing down his front before he leans in for a quick kiss. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers. Ilya smiles into the kiss.

“You sure you don’t want to get married today? Too many anniversary dates soon,” Ilya asks playfully. Shane knows he’s entirely joking. 

“Unless everyone is magically on a plane right now to Vegas, I don’t think so,” Shane tells him.

“A shame,” Ilya says. “We will still celebrate tonight.”

Shane nods. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya grins. Shane keeps saying this just to see the joy it brings Ilya, even if his pronunciation was still horrific. Shane was working on it.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, moya lyubov,” Ilya says. 

They go to the NHL awards hand in hand. 

“I can’t believe you are letting Hayden be your best man,” J.J. complains. They’re gathered at the bar, celebrating the completion of another season. It was not a good one by any means, but Shane managed to get them to playoffs before Montreal finally collapsed under their lack of connection. Boston made it a little further, but neither team was quite equipped to make it to the finals. Shane had told only Hayden and J.J. about his trade. The higher ups in the Montreal office also knew, but their lack of anger at Shane’s intention to leave showed he was making the right decision. Ilya had repeated something Svetlana had said when he’d told him how annoying it was that they weren’t even minorly upset. 

We are going to a place that will appreciate you for what you are worth.

Shane’s two existing friends still with Montreal were definitely disappointed. He’d taken them to dinner and decided to break the news before the press could, hoping that hearing it from him would make the blow easier to take. And it did for the most part. Hayden had brushed off Shane’s worry saying Montreal was just a few hours drive away. Shane wasn’t losing them.

“I can’t believe I am letting you be part of my wedding,” Ilya mutters beside Shane before taking a swig of his drink.

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He can’t seem to stop lately. 

“It’s going to be weird,” Hayden says, ignoring Ilya’s comment. He lowers his voice for just their tiny group. “Playing against you two next season, I mean.”

Shane nods. He’s been working on not overthinking everything that had to change at Ottawa once they got going. Svetlana had called the both of them and explained the gaping holes across the organization from the upper management, to coaching, to the players. It was going to be a lot of work, but Ilya seemed apt to solve all the problems so Shane tried to believe they were capable. 

“You are afraid you will make more of a fool of yourself than usual,” Ilya sighs. “I understand, Pike. We will try not to humiliate you too much.”

Hayden shoots Shane a look as if to say help me out here.

Shane shrugs as if to say he’s just like this. Get used to it.

Hayden sighs. J.J. chuckles with a shake of his head. No one comments that the Centaurs were in no state to beat Montreal next season even if the team was without Shane now. 

“Hey.”

They all turn to find Scott Hunter walking up to them. There is a man at his arm, smiling shyly but dressed rather well. He must be the famous Kip that helped Hunter break the internet and the hockey world. 

“This is Kip,” Scott introduces. Kip reaches out to shake all of their hands. 

“This is supposed to be our first public appearance as couple,” Ilya says, narrowing his expression on Scott. “You two keep trying to one up us.”
Scott rolls his eyes but Kip smirks like he finds Ilya funny. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Shane says. “How has everything been?”

He waves a lazy hand around the crowded room. Players and important people and their associated friends and family mill about. All people Shane has known for a while but never personally. It feels a bit one-sided at times given it feels like they know more about him and Ilya than he knows about them, but this is something he has given up on trying to resolve. Life is just unfair like that sometimes. 

Scott shrugs. “As good as it can be,” he says. He smiles at Kip and the look is still the same one Shane had seen on national television. Scott looks back at them. “I wanted to reach out to you both sooner, but I figured it would be better to do so in person. Our schedules are always a mess though, so I wasn’t sure when I’d catch both of you together.”

“I would hope you would never catch us together,” Ilya says into his glass, earning a sharp elbow from Shane.

“You could have texted and it would have been fine,” Shane reassures. 

Scott shakes his head. “A text wouldn’t cover all the things I actually want to say.”

He takes a deep breath with Kip nodding at him encouragingly. “They could just be rumors,” Scott starts again, “but given how Crowell reacted to me, I take it he wasn’t as kind to either of you.”

Shane takes a sip of his drink while Ilya says, “No. We solved the issue though. He won’t force us out of the league unless he wants a lawsuit.”

“That’s good,” Scott says before shaking his head. “I mean not good. You guys shouldn’t have to threaten legal action to keep your jobs. I may have been surprised as everyone else, but it’s never interfered with your hockey.”

“Thank you,” Shane says quietly. He tries not to glance at J.J. who has remained quiet since Scott approached. There were still rough patches in their friendship, but since their conversation in the locker room at the start of the season, J.J. had kept his word about trying to do better for Shane’s sake even if he still struggled to accept Ilya as part of Shane’s life now. Small steps. 

“I was thinking,” Scott goes on to say, “that there should be more protection for players like us. For other things as well. There are a lot of issues with the league I don’t like, but I want to keep playing. I know you guys do too. I want us all to exist in a league that actually feels supportive.”

“Big want,” Ilya points out. They all nod at this. The ‘other things’ Scott is probably referring to swirl around Shane’s head. Though he could sort of fly under the radar with his Western last name, it was no use in denying that Shane would always sort of be an outsider because of his mother’s heritage. Being half Japanese didn’t always mean he was held back in terms of opportunity. He knows other players like J.J. or Carter Vaughan faced harsher consequences from hateful fans and biased managers who had a grip around the media’s throat. The comments Crowell made about rescinding Ilya’s work visa still haunts him at times. Over half of the league was from some other country besides the states and Canada. It was unfair to hold any of that against them. Shane wants the same thing as Scott. He wants the league to be a better place for all of them, only it feels like an impossible task. 

“Yes, it is a big want,” Scott agrees with Ilya for once. “But I’ve started reaching out, talking with players out of the women’s league and at the national level and so forth. I was thinking of starting a coalition of players where we could come together and protect one another within our respective leagues while also pushing for the NHL to be better. Something like this could have helped you guys against that journalist that outed you both as well. You’d be able to deal with things knowing that you’d have a united front behind you. And the coalition won’t exist to only sway the general public or to have broad support from players, Crowell and his idea of league culture is entirely outdated, and honestly, I’m fucking sick and tired of it. I want to try and fix it.”

“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Shane says. Shane had always thought of doing something meaningful in his career that wasn’t just winning. Something like this sounded, in concept, to be incredibly meaningful. He would have to ask Ilya about trying to be more impactful in other ways. Maybe they could do something together. A charity perhaps.
“It’s still in the early phases, but I wanted to ask if you would be willing to be part of it,” Scott says. “You both as well. It would be helpful to have as many players’ support as possible.”

He asks this of J.J. and Hayden who both agree with firm nods. 

“Great,” Scott breathes out. Kip leans into him with a bright smile. 

“He was incredibly nervous to ask both of you about this,” Kip tells them. 

Scott scoffs with a fond smile, but doesn’t deny it. Ilya says, “You do not usually have many good ideas, Hunter. I understand why you were nervous.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Scott says with little heat. Then he reaches out a hand and Ilya smirks and takes it. The shake is firm with a good grip and everything. 

“You are a good man, Scott Hunter,” Ilya says. And while everyone’s eyes fly wide at the compliment, Ilya bulldozes through their shock by adding, “Your sudden wisdom must have come along with your age.”

“And there it is,” Hayden laughs. 

Scott rolls his eyes, but they all stand there smiling and laughing. It is a good night in the end.

When Ilya and Shane escape early to go back to their shared hotel room, no one questions them. The moment they’re alone, Shane asks Ilya how they would like to use the remaining hours of their anniversary. 

Ilya’s eyes darkened as he skipped over telling Shane any ideas by showing him instead. 

It’s past midnight now and Shane’s head is resting on Ilya’s bare chest with their breathing having slowed to match one another’s. Shane has a gentle finger tracing the outline of the crucifix settled at the base of Ilya’s throat. The touch is almost ticklish, but Ilya blinks slowly at the ceiling, enjoying the silence until he wraps a hand around Shane’s and kisses the knuckles. 

“I wish she was still here,” he says quietly. Shane glances at the crucifix around Ilya’s neck and then at their entangled hands and the glassy state of Ilya’s eyes. 

“Your mother?” Shane asks, just as softly.

Ilya hums. A single nod included. 

Ilya still doesn’t mention his family often. It was another quiet night like this where Ilya had passively mentioned that his mother had died when he was twelve, that it was an accident, that he sometimes resents her for being so careless before he broke down into tears for feeling any resentment at all. Ilya’s relationship to his mother is a complicated one. She’s almost revered in Ilya’s world, and as Shane looks to officially tie his own life to that of Ilya’s, he realizes abruptly that his caution in talking about Ilya’s family has prevented him from considering what Ilya wants to include in this new journey they’re about to begin together. Shane sits up. Ilya’s hand remains firmly wrapped around his. 

“Do you have a picture of her?” Shane asks. “For the wedding. We could still have her part of it in some way.”

Ilya’s eyes begin to water but he takes a shaky breath and says, “Maybe. I will have to check some of the moving boxes.”

The last month for Ilya had been a busy mess of packing up his life in Boston slowly and carefully. They were going to utilize Shane’s cottage as their shared home in Ottawa until they decided the drive to and from practice and games would be too annoying and they found a house they both liked as an in-between point. Ilya’s things were currently piled in boxes in the living room. Shane was going to spend a weekend helping him unpack it all. 

“I would like that,” Ilya goes on to say. “I miss her terribly when I am happy. I just wish I could share this with her.”

Shane leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek where a tear slides down before Ilya could repress it. “She would have been so proud of you,” Shane murmurs. “I never got to meet her, but you’re so incredible, Ilya. It would have been hard to not be proud.”

Ilya smiles at him. “She would have said you were too good for me.”

Shane squints at him. “Okay, again, I never met her, but that doesn’t sound like her at all.”

Ilya’s laugh breaks up the solemn nature of the air around them. Still, as he settles, his body clings to grief as he says quietly, “Is just a joke.”

Shane nods, knowing humor is one of Ilya’s favorite tools of diversion. “We’ll make her part of the ceremony,” Shane decides. “I should have asked earlier. I’m sorry for not considering it before.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya whispers, kissing his knuckles again. He looks up at Shane with a misted expression. “She would have loved you,” he chokes out.

“I wish I had the chance to tell her how special you are to me,” Shane says, equally as quiet.

Ilya’s eyes dart away before he mumbles, “You can.”

Then he winces as if instantly regretting telling Shane this. “What do you mean?” Shane gently encourages.

“Ah, is childish,” Ilya fumbles. 

“No, wait,” Shane interrupts. “I’m taking this seriously. Tell me what to do.”

Ilya looks back at Shane carefully. He thinks for a moment before tapping his side. “Get dressed and come to the balcony with me.”

Shane does as he’s told. He finds Ilya moments later, leaning on the balcony railing with a half unbuttoned dress shirt and a distant expression. He comes up beside Ilya and runs a hand along his back, sliding beneath the shirt briefly before dropping his hand entirely and waiting for Ilya to give more direction. 

Ilya’s gaze is stuck on the sky. It’s a hazy dark blue with zero clouds and not a single star out unless you counted the satellites and planes blinking overhead. Ilya seems to be looking at the moon when he eventually says, “Mama, this is Shane.”

Shane’s face breaks out into a sweet smile. He turns toward the same direction of Ilya’s eyes and says, “Hi.”

The warm breeze of Las Vegas and the chatter of the city surrounding them carries on, but there is something isolated on their balcony. The moon shines in full as Shane carefully goes on to say, “I’m sorry we haven’t talked before, but you should know your son is one of the best things to have happened to me. Thank you for bringing him into this world. I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

He looks back at Ilya to find him silently crying. Shane wraps his arms around him immediately and does his best to prove to Irina that he means business. 

It’s a quiet anniversary for them in the end. Shane wouldn’t have it any other way.

-

July 2017

It’s a perfect day. The sun shines down but it’s not overbearingly hot. Shane looks out the windows of the cottage in Ottawa and sees a group of people, his and Ilya’s, lingering in the backyard, waiting for things to begin. There are wooden chairs neatly organized in perfect rows leading up to a patch of evenly trimmed grass right below the swaying branches of a tree that dips further into the shimmering lake behind them. 

Yuna had outdone herself in helping them plan everything. Shane had said he didn’t mind having no decorations, but she insisted on at least having some flowers in place that represent prosperity, fortune, and new beginnings. They’re sprinkled about with delicate purpose. Yuna didn’t even bother with asking as she’d added other things as well like the chairs and tables and food they would all eventually occupy as the afternoon progressed. Shane should have known she would have it all handled. Everything is so beautiful even from inside. 

“Ready?”

Shane turns toward his mother who immediately comes up to adjust his bowtie. He’s wearing a sleek suit, simple in its black and white nature, but clean and perfect for the day. 

He nods quietly. Shane is almost surprised he doesn’t feel more panicked about today. Maybe because it’s the start of something good. He’s already been married once. This was just to make everything official. 

“Is Ilya ready?” He asks. 

Yuna nods, smoothing out the shoulders of his suit. “Your father is with him. He wanted to make sure he had good cufflinks. Consider it an early wedding present.”

Shane smirks but breathes slowly, looking at his mother who smiles proudly at him. “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she says. There are already tears in her eyes, and Shane knows today is going to be emotional, but he hopes most of those emotions are happy. 

“Walk me down the aisle?” He asks even though they already have everything planned. 

Yuna nods. “Of course.”

Music starts up as all the guests take their seats. It’s late in the afternoon now with the oncoming sunset already hinting at being something spectacular. There are small patio lights dotting the pathway Shane is about to walk down with his mother. They remind him of fireflies that occasionally appear later in the summer. At the end of the aisle, Hayden stands there with his spine straight and a big, proud smile. Svetlana stands on the other side, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums and looking marvelous in the dress she chose that matches the ivory white of Hayden’s suit. 

Shane sees everyone turn toward him. He feels his body lock up slightly with nerves, but Yuna whispers quietly to him, “I’ve got you.”

They walk slowly as emotions build in Shane’s throat. He glances out across the small crowd and sees a few of Ilya’s teammates. Their agents. Rose beaming at him in the second row. J.J. is there. Even Scott Hunter and a few of the other players Shane has made an effort to get to know better as their little coalition had been officially formed and the support was growing. The Pike twins finish scattering flower petals along the pathway before finding their seats beside their mother and their curious, younger siblings. In the very front row are three almost empty seats, two of which Shane’s parents will eventually take. One of them has a picture frame resting on it; a smiling Irina holding a tiny Ilya, both of them having matching grins.

Shane takes his place at the front near the makeshift altar with his mother giving him one last hug before taking her seat. The music shifts and Shane feels it buzz beneath his skin. He looks expectantly at the start of the aisle to see Ilya arm in arm with David, smiling at him with all the love this world can hold for them. 

David walks Ilya down the aisle, only pausing so Ilya can unpin the flower from his lapel to set it on the seat where his mother is before he lets Ilya go to stand across from Shane. His eyes are a little red as if he had been crying early. Ilya shakes his head subtly, having noticed that Shane sees it. 

“Your father is very good with words,” he whispers. 

Shane smiles, relaxing a bit as he glances down at their entangled hands and sees a matching pair of cufflinks winking in the afternoon sun. 

The justice of peace checks with them before she gets started. Shane was so ready to begin. 

She starts to speak as Shane takes in every perfect detail of Ilya. Ilya studies him back, face straining from how happy he looks. There are no sunglasses or awful hats to hide behind now. The two are on display for a crowd to witness. Their families are here; people who care for them instead of an Elvis impersonator even though Ilya had suggested a while ago they should get one of those just to make the wedding memorable. Shane doesn’t need to worry about remembering any of this though. His head is clear. All he’s thinking about is his love for Ilya.

“Would you like to say your vows?” The justice asks, right on schedule.

Ilya blinks, broken out of his staring as he looks at Shane. “I thought–”

“I know,” Shane whispers. “I wrote something, but you say whatever comes from your heart when it’s your turn.”

One of the Pike children scrambles from her seat and presents them with two rings. They still wore the ones they got forever ago and then used to become engaged to each other. These were simpler. Matching bands that twist at the center and lined up against one another if you were to hold them together. David and Yuna had helped them pick them out. 

Shane takes Ilya’s ring and Ilya takes his. Then Shane gets out a small sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and clears his throat. His hands are a bit shaky, but he’s been practicing this for a while now. He looks up once at Ilya and that’s all he needs to carry on.

“Ilya,” he starts, and then in broken Russian, he describes their life, his love he has for Ilya, how he can’t wait to spend the rest of their lives together. 

“I should have known from the first day that I met you, you were going to be trouble for me. But you are perhaps the best sort of trouble to have. At some point, you took interest in me and then I fell in love with you. I am inspired by your kindness, your spirit, how you carry yourself in a room, and how you always know how to make me the happiest at any time. You have always been known to the world as an incredible hockey player, but I get to know how incredible you are in so many other ways. Even if others do not notice, and I always have. We are sharing part of ourselves today, but I cannot wait to share so much more with just you. I could spend forever describing all the ways you mean so much to me, but I will settle with being able to tell you in your language, for only your ears, and I will work on my pronunciation in the future so you can hear it again clearer.”

Ilya lets out a laugh, tears falling from his eyes. “Your pronunciation is perfect, moya lyubov,” he whispers. 

Even if Shane knows he is lying, he finishes with, “I tried to marry you once before. I would do this every year if only to see how beautiful you are and to show the world how much I love you. I am incredibly lucky and incredibly grateful to have the chance to marry you today. I love you. My heart has known that for some time. It feels it most at this moment. It will continue to beat for you for a lifetime.”

Shane tucks the piece of paper back into his suit, looking to the justice who looks to Ilya who hasn’t stopped looking at Shane. He doesn’t have anything prepared. Shane didn’t want to tell him about the vows because he was nervous he’d let up on the secret and back out, but Ilya has always been smooth under pressure. 

“My miracle,” he says quietly. “I fell for you many summers ago. I stand in front of you now just as in love, just as lucky. I have loved you from afar, I love you proudly now. In this life, the next, everything in between, my love for you will stay the same. I can’t wait to have the honor to call you my husband and for it to mean something. It will be the greatest accomplishment of my life.”

He looks to the justice who smiles at them. She tells them, “Now, for the fun part. Do you, Ilya Rozanov, take Shane Hollander to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for rich or poor, for as long as you both shall live?”

Ilya says steadily, “I do.”

He slides the ring over Shane’s finger, letting it rest right above their engagement ring.

“And do you, Shane Hollander, take Ilya Rozanov to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for rich or poor, for as long as you both shall live?”

Shane says easily, “I do.”

He slips the ring over Ilya’s finger. The band matches the existing ring well. 

“I hereby pronounce you, Shane and Ilya, as married. You may now kiss.”

“Finally,” Ilya breathes out before dragging Shane forward and kissing the ridiculous smile off his face. Everyone bursts into cheers and so much clapping, but Shane can only focus on the feeling of Ilya in his arms. His husband. His forever.

They eventually have to stop kissing with Ilya lifting their conjoined hands to a new eruption of cheers. The applause and congratulations don’t let up even as the night carries on until the sunset turns into a lively night filled with music and dancing and so much joy. The congratulations were the easiest thing in the world to accept. 

Shane has never felt this social in his life, but Ilya stays by his side through it all and maybe that makes all the difference. They navigate through the crowd, stopping occasionally to talk to the people who have come here to support them. Eventually, they make it to Rose, who is downright grinning at them when they approach. 

“Rose,” Shane says, “this is my husband, Ilya.”

Rose laughs and offers a hand. “Big fan,” she says.

“Ah yes,” Ilya smirks, shaking her hand. “Big fan who almost caused our divorce.”

“Ilya,” Shane sighs. 

Rose continues to laugh. “I’m really sorry about that, but you should know that Shane was nothing but polite. You were his before I even had the chance. It was incredibly sweet.”

“You were the first person I told,” Shane confirms. 

“I will forgive all of this because of how kind you have been to him and about us,” Ilya offers.

“Forgiveness accepted,” Rose says with a small nod.

“Ilya.”

They turn to see Svetlana cutting through the crowd. “I got your drink as requested,” she says, handing Ilya a glass.

Shane watches as Rose’s eyes catch on Svetlana, lingering for a second too long. An idea pops into his head as he remembers the night he first met Rose and suggested she look for someone who worked adjacent to hockey as opposed to an actual player. Rose was still single as far as he knew. Svetlana as well. She was set to start her position as an analyst for Boston this upcoming season. Shane decides to be in the business of creating possibilities in the most unlikely scenarios. 

“Rose, this is Ilya’s best friend, Svetlana. She helped us figure things out with Ottawa and also works for the enemy in Boston,” Shane says. 

Rose still hasn’t taken her eyes off of Svetlana who smiles at her almost knowingly behind a glass. “I don’t work for them yet, Hollander,” Svetlana corrects.

Ilya smirks. “Thank god for that. The first game against Boston will be nightmare when you do.”

“Don’t talk about work at your own wedding, Ilyushka,” Svetlana teases. She then offers a delicate hand out to Rose. “It is nice to meet you. I’ve always thought your sense of fashion was something magnificent.”

Rose blinks and lets out a small laugh. “It’s mostly stylists,” she says.

Svetlana shrugs, “It is hard to make clothes ugly with a pretty face like yours.”

The tops of Rose’s cheeks go a bit dusty and not from the blush she was wearing. Shane tugs on the back of Ilya’s sleeve and tells them, “I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.” 

He drags Ilya away despite his protests. “Hollander, you cannot be Sveta’s wingman. That is my job,” he mutters.

“But I have the right connections,” Shane corrects.

“Our connections now, dear husband,” Ilya smirks. 

Shane was never going to grow tired of hearing that out of Ilya's mouth. Even if his husband eventually forces him to the makeshift dancefloor to just sway with him when the night gets long.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers beneath the twinkling backyard lights. 

Plenty of people dance around them, leaving a little bit of space for them to exist in their own world. In the background, a deep voice continues to sing with Ilya having jokingly made a request to the DJ to make sure they still had some of Vegas here with them on a warm night in July in the middle of Ottawa. 

Take my hand…

“I love you too,” Shane whispers in return. 

Take my whole life, too…

Ilya looks down at him, hands moving from where they’d been resting on Shane’s hip and back to his face now. He kisses him slowly like this will be their last kiss even though they have so much time ahead of them. Shane breathes in the love of his husband and rests his head on his shoulder as they continue to sway to the distant sound of music and nature and people around them. This is his perfect world. The rest of his life. Ilya’s too. At last, they can exist in it. 

For I can’t help falling in love with you.

Chapter End Notes

you all know I had to add some rose/svetlana in there. Yuri nation UP.

I want to say thank you so much for reading this fic. the kindness and appreciation commented and shown has been so wonderful to receive. I'm working on a second fic right now that may take a little longer to put together, but you can look forward to that if you're interested. I'm usually bitching on twitter (moonsongwh0r3) and in other internet spaces in the meantime. see you at the next one if you decide to tag along and again, thank you so much for reading! I hope this was the happy ending you were all waiting for!

Works inspired by this one

Not Quite Hypothetical by RayByAnotherName

cover for With or Without You by gravollet