Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Zane Boodram, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, Friends and Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pining So Mutual But They Won’t Talk About it Because What if it Ruins the Friendship, Shane Being Out Earlier Changes More Than a Few Things, Just Not How Down Bad They Are For Each Other, Down-Badism via Best Friendism, In International Law Terms This Is A Fundamental Change Of Circumstances, Shane is Drafted to the Centaurs, There Is Some Angst But Happy Ending Guaranteed, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Assorted Centaurs Appear, Very Minor Shane Hollander/OMC, Mixed Media, Ottawa Centaurs Player Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-02 Completed: 2026-05-10 Words: 36,206 Chapters: 2/2

so you must like me for me

Summary

Shane wants to figure out if he's gay before he gets drafted—and no, the way he felt when Ilya Rozanov smirked at him with a cigarette between his lips in Saskatchewan has nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, the random guy he hooks up with to try and make sure one way or another takes a picture, and Shane gets outed before the draft. In the ensuing scandal, he goes seventh overall, to Ottawa.

It turns out, having the worst thing you can think of happen to you when you're seventeen years old can end up being pretty liberating. And land you an unexpected best friend.

Notes

Title from “Delicate” by Taylor Swift.

A million, million thanks to anonymouspinkturtle who is the best beta, late-night fic consultant, and artist anybody could ask for. A million thanks as well to syllic for her suggestions and answering every random question I keep sending her way, and to nicolasechs who helped me untangle the knots I got myself tangled into with my outline. Also, I have been over-using em-dashes to the despair of my betas since time immemorial, and genAI will take them from my cold, dead hands, thank you.

I have taken canon, put it into a blender, and hit the button HARD for this one.

Chapter 1: reputation's never been worse

Chapter Notes

March 2009

The thing is, Shane can't stop thinking about it.

About Ilya Rozanov's smirk, a cigarette between his lips, and that look in his eyes back in Saskatchewan. The way it made Shane shiver, made him immediately want more but also feel like running away as far as he could.

He’s trained himself not to look for years now, because that’s how you survive locker rooms and teammates—especially when you look like Shane does. There’s no need to draw anymore attention when you’re already so different from everyone else.

And all the teammates he’s ever had follow the same unspoken rule.

But Rozanov, he just. He just looked at Shane.

And all those things Shane has tried to put into a very tightly closed box since he was around fourteen years old are rattling around and trying to get out, and he doesn’t think this is something he can handle right now, not with the draft coming up.

Not when he’s already handling so many other things—the way the chirping sent his way is increasingly so much more bitter and mean-spirited than ever; the flood of think-pieces about whether he deserves to go first or not that dissect every part of him, from his backhand to his genetic make-up; the various brands his mom is trying to set up sponsorships with. The sheer weight of being “the first Asian-Canadian…”

Shane just. He needs to know.

Because if he knows, for sure, he can make a plan for it. He can break it down into something manageable. He can figure out how to survive it, maybe.

So he looks at his calendar and sees that his mom has a meeting scheduled for him in New York City with Reebok the week he has a break from any games, and it feels like it’s a sign.

He wouldn’t be able to do anything about what he’s feeling in Canada; it’s not an exaggeration, the fact that wherever he is people seem to know who he is and they either like him or hate him or wish him well or hope he’ll break an ankle.

But in New York City? Who’s going to recognize some random Canadian hockey draft prospect?

He googles possible gay clubs and bars that he might be able to get into without an ID. He googles exactly how to get to them from his hotel—what subway lines to use, what stations he can buy a MetroCard in, how long the ride is going to take.

Shane plans everything down to the last detail.

Of course, what he doesn’t plan is what to do when the guy he hooks up with in the bathroom—not even anything big, just a blowjob—takes a picture without him noticing.

And what he doesn’t plan even more is what to do when, two days later, the picture shows up in social media and the whole world finds out what he confirmed on his knees in that grimy club bathroom: Shane Hollander is gay.

From the Desk of Yuna Hollander
Pre-Draft To-Do List:

1. Second Reebok meeting CANCELLED
2. Reach out to Rolex Double-check Rolex brand ambassadors, double-check morality clause
3. Reach out to UNIQLO
4. Schedule meeting with McCarthy-Tétrault law firm re: non-discrimination statutes in MLH
5. Review MLH-MLHPA CBA – player protection clauses
6. Re-stock ginger ale

June 2009

Shane goes seventh overall in the draft.

It’s not—it’s not bad; he knows he’s lucky.

But for the last three or four years of his life, his coaches and the players around him and scouts and anybody who writes about hockey in Canada and everywhere else has assumed he’d go first or second, always a race between him and Rozanov.

Shane has built his life around it, around being the best.

He’s sacrificed hours of sleep and vacations and hanging out with friends playing video games and in general the idea of having friends, because by the time he was around twelve or thirteen and started getting really noticed, more than a few of the kids on opposing teams and on his own team just started to hate him.

He’s playing exactly the same way he was, four months ago. Better, even, because his point-per-game average is a little higher.

He’s just as competitive, just as focused—he is in every possible way the same prospect he was when he went up to the Combine, when he did individual interviews with the teams, when writer after writer ranked him one or two, depending on the style of play they favored.

The only thing that’s different is that Shane made the stupidest mistake of his life and everyone’s seen a picture of him on his knees, sucking a random guy’s dick.

And that’s enough, he guesses, for Boston, Montreal, San Jose, Tampa and two other teams to pass on him.

That’s enough to drop him from first or second to seventh.

That’s enough for the journalists to start talking about locker room dynamics and unwanted distractions instead of his hockey IQ or his speed or his focus.

Shane’s grateful that Ottawa picked him. He is.

But he can’t help but wonder if they picked him just because he’s from Ottawa, as some sort of... weird hometown pride thing? It’s the stupidest thing, and it makes no sense, but this entire situation has shaken him.

The thing that hurts the most is that he’s felt slightly off-center his whole life.

He’s always saying the wrong thing, or at least not the right one; he has to practice conversations—he has to remind himself over and over again that not everyone takes hockey as seriously as he does, that his routines and the stats he knows aren’t the baseline for everyone. But he always told himself it was worth it, the way he felt, how out of step with everyone else he seemed to be, because he had hockey.

Hockey—at least the part of it that takes place on the ice—is the one place where he’s never felt off-center, never felt awkward.

And he hates that now he can’t trust it, because his numbers are exactly the same, his numbers are better, actually, and even then Boston didn’t want him and Montreal passed on him.

He thinks of his interview with the Montreal scouts at the combine, the way they’d mentioned how they were champions of diversity because they would be okay with Shane being Asian-Canadian.

He guesses being gay and Asian-Canadian was too much diversity by half.

The cocktail hour after the draft is its own kind of torture, and Shane drinks ginger ale after ginger ale because he needs something to do with his hands and mouth that isn’t punching the Montreal GM after he gives Shane a commiserating smile and says, “Optics are important, Shane, it’s nothing personal, I’m sure you understand.”

The other players just give him these fast half-haunted, half-fascinated glances, the kind of morbid stare you give a car crash, and Shane can’t quite bring himself to blame them for it—he feels more like a car crash than a person, right now.

Only Rozanov meets his eyes directly, every once in a while, when he looks up from whatever conversation he and the man who is probably his father are having with the Boston GM.

“We’re truly interested in building a team that will compete and get Ottawa its first Cup, and Shane is the first piece of that puzzle.”

A gentle nudge to his elbow and Shane tunes back into the conversation that his mom has been having mostly without him with the Ottawa GM and his staff for the last few minutes.

“I’m very excited for the opportunity to do that, absolutely,” he says, hoping it makes any sort of sense.

The GM and the Director of Hockey Operations both nod agreeably so he thinks it did.

His mom takes over again, thankfully, talking about the Centaurs posters Shane had around his room since he was three, all the games they’ve been to, conveniently eliding the fact that if it had been up to her, all the posters would’ve been for the Metros.

Still, it allows for the conversation to move away from Shane personally and towards hockey history and stats, and that much Shane can do in his sleep.

The rest of the cocktail party drags on for what feels like an interminable amount of time but Shane resists the instinct to leave early with every fiber of his being. He wasn’t drafted first and he wasn’t drafted second, but he was drafted, and he knows without his mom having to point it out that ducking out early will send the wrong message.

“This—you—is not something to be ashamed of, Shane. The guy who leaked that private moment, he’s the one who should be ashamed. He doesn’t get to take away what you’ve achieved.”

And, yeah, Shane knows his mom is right.

The same way she’s probably right about the ten-page master plan she’s created to make sure Shane is going to be okay in the MLH—it even has an Excel pivot table.

But the thing that sticks to his throat, uncomfortable and impossible to ignore, is that he never wanted to live through this day thinking about pride or shame or being a symbol.

He just—he just wants to play hockey.

And no matter how hard he tries—deep breathing, visualization, trying to trick his brain into sleep—he can’t get rid of the sheer feeling of frustration buzzing under his skin.

Which is why he winds up at the hotel gym at midnight and, of course, runs into Ilya Rozanov.

Or, more accurately, Ilya Rozanov runs into him.

Shane is on the stationary bike, pumping his legs harder and harder and trying to focus only the burn in his thighs and calves, the tinny beat of electronic music in his ears, the pace of his breathing.

He forces his thoughts away from the leak, from the stares, from how it felt to be passed over by six teams for one stupid decision.

He is only a body, only his legs, only his breath.

“Hollander?”

His pace on the bike stutters, and he opens his eyes to see Rozanov standing next to the other bike, wearing shorts and a tank top. Shane pulls his headphones out of ears almost automatically.

“Is okay if I—?” Rozanov gestures to the stationary bike.

He looks unusually diffident, almost as if he’d be willing to walk away if Shane told him that he couldn’t use the bike next to his. Not that Shane ever would say that—not to Rozanov or anybody else.

“Yeah, of course,” Shane answers, and if it’s a little breathless it has everything to do with the fact that he’s been on the bike for like fifteen minutes by now and not at all with Rozanov’s tiny black shorts or the way his shoulders look in his tank top.

Rozanov nods, climbs on the bike and he starts pedaling, almost immediately setting a fast pace that Shane’s legs follow automatically.

They bike, their breathing getting heavier but oddly in sync.

After a few minutes, Rozanov gives him a sideways glance—it’s warm, but challenging—and speeds up. Shane laughs a little and follows him, leaning forward to pump his legs faster. A few minutes later, Shane is the one who speeds up, grinning, and he hears Rozanov hiss but soon enough, he’s matching Shane’s pace again, and it keeps building and building between them, half-challenge, half-game, until Rozanov raises his arms in mock-surrender.

They wind-down—they can’t just stop, of course—and as Rozanov puts his hands behind his neck, does a half-twist to each side, Shane realizes he’s smiling.

Today was, maybe, the second worst day of his life, and he’s smiling.

They get off the bikes, legs unsteady, and collapse next to each other against the gym’s mirrored wall.

“Whoo, what a day, huh?” Rozanov says, shaking his head.

He takes a deep pull from his bottle of water, and Shane tells himself he’s only staring because he’s thirsty, too.

“Yeah, I know,” he answers, because it really was. It’s still being one.

Rozanov holds out the water bottle to him, and Shane hesitates for a split second before taking it. It doesn’t mean anything bad—it doesn’t mean Rozanov thinks he’s weak, or stupid for coming down to the gym in the middle of the night without water, or anything like that. It just means that Rozanov has water and Shane doesn’t and that’s it.

As he’s drinking, he can see in the mirror in front of them that Rozanov is openly looking at him, a considering look on his face.

“I am sorry for today,” he says.

Shane frowns, taking another drink of water before turning to look at Rozanov.

“What are you sorry for?”

“You going seven—is bullshit,” Rozanov replies. “Okay if you go second, because I’m better than you, but seven… fucking bullshit.”

Shane has the “fuck you, you’re not better than me” on the tip of his tongue but, the thing is, according to at least six MLH GMs, Rozanov is.

And yet, Rozanov looks like he’s deeply offended, like he means what he’s saying, not chirping or bullshitting at all, and that. That heals something in Shane. They’ve been one and two, back and forth, for at least three years now, and the fact that Rozanov acknowledges it, too…

“Thank you,” Shane says. “It—Montreal told me it was about optics, or whatever. I don’t know.”

Rozanov shakes his head quickly, harrumping. “What, optics are you suck one dick and can’t hold hockey stick anymore? Bullshit. They will all regret, Hollander. Trust me.”

It’s the most matter of fact reaction Shane has experienced to this entire mess, and such an unlooked for kindness, that in a split-second Shane is blinking away hot tears that threaten to fall.

Rozanov freezes just slightly for a moment—no luck in him not noticing—but he just takes his water bottle from where Shane placed it between them and drinks a long pull of water.

“Ottawa is good, yes? Good city?” he asks a little hesitantly after a second.

Shane isn’t quite sure if he’s asking if Ottawa is good for gay people or good for Shane himself, and he knows Rozanov isn’t implying that the Centaurs are a particularly good team right now, but he takes the question as a welcome distraction from fixating on how emotional Rozanov’s support is making him feel.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I mean, a lot of people say it’s kind of boring, but I like it. I mean, uh, it’s my hometown so I’m obviously kind of biased. And I’ve been a Centaurs fan since I was a kid, so.”

Rozanov nods. “Boring place for boring Hollander, is perfect,” he says with a grin. “Centaurs probably feel they win lottery getting you, yes? Traded higher draft pick last year and now Montreal is stuck with Korogyi and Ottawa gets second best prospect in the world.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, elbowing him in the side, but he can’t help his grin right back.

“Boston is okay, too?” Rozanov asks, a little more seriously.

It strikes Shane, then, that even if he had been drafted by Montreal, it wouldn’t have meant moving to another country for him or even speaking another language, because he’s spoken French all his life alongside English. But Rozanov is facing all of it: not just a new city but a whole new country, an entirely different language.

It must be absolutely terrifying.

So Shane gives the question the consideration it deserves.

“I only spent a little time there, for a tournament a while ago, but I really liked it,” he answers, looking down at his feet, tracing the memories of the city in his mind’s eye. “It’s beautiful, and people there really, really care about sports—baseball, basketball, hockey, obviously. There are museums and good restaurants and, um, a lot of bars too, I think, even though obviously I didn’t go to those.”

Shane pauses, wondering for a second if any of this is actually remotely useful for Rozanov, but when he glances up, Rozanov is looking at him intently, like he’s drinking in his words.

So he keeps going.

“And, um, as for the team—I mean, they probably already told you this, of course, but I really do think your style of play is really suited to their team system. They have a couple of stand-out wingers, like Marleau, and they’ve been doing some really solid development in Providence, too, so I think that once you’re with them, they’ll be an up-and-comer again really soon.”

“Up-and-comer?” Rozanov asks, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Oh, um—like, strong? Ready to go for the Cup again?” Shane replies.

Rozanov nods, letting out a breath. “Yes. Yes, is what I want, to go for the Cup.” He tilts his head a little. “You’ll be up-and-comer with Ottawa, too, yes?”

Shane bites his lip, thinks about the current Centaurs line-up, the stats of the prospects he knows are playing in the farm team. Thinks about himself.

It’s not going to be easy. And it’s definitely not going to happen next season, or even the season after that.

But he’s going to try like hell. He’s going to prove them all wrong.

“Yes,” he finally says, decisive.

Rozanov grins again, something fierce and joyful in his smile, and Shane smiles back.

When Shane goes back up to his room later, he has Ilya Rozanov’s number in his phone, and the unexpected but welcome certainty that instead of the rival he’d been set against for the last few years, he has a friend.

Good luck in your first game, Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
no luck needed. am best

Ilya Rozanov
but thank you

You’re welcome

Ilya Rozanov
you have first game tomorrow yes?

Yeah, against Winnipeg, but it’s an away game. I’m kind of nervous, but I’m honestly more nervous about Montreal? We play them next week, first home game of the season. I just feel like I have to be perfect in that game or they’ll be right about me, if that makes sense

Ilya Rozanov
makes sense

Ilya Rozanov
is roommate okay?

What do you mean okay? It’s Koskinen, you remember him? He was at World Juniors in 2009 for Finland. He’s a little messy and he left a damp towel on the floor which was annoying but other than that fine

Ilya Rozanov
but he does not make shit comments? say bad things about you or video?

Oh! Yeah, no, no shitty comments. Svensson told me he had a team meeting and threatened to fine them if they said anything? Which is embarrassing but nice

Ilya Rozanov
is what captains must do. i’m glad he’s okay even though he’s swede

Swedish people are nice, Ilya

Ilya Rozanov
russians better. anyway you will do okay against winnipeg and even better against stupid montreal, make them cry. break leg okay?

That’s not really a thing in hockey, it’s more for theatre I think. And if I break someone else’s leg I’ll definitely get suspended. But thank you

Ottawa Citizen @OttawaCitizen
Centaurs win first home game of the season! Rookie Shane Hollander scores first goal, and nabs two assists.

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
Hollander’s point streak continues despite Centaurs’ loss: watch the video of his latest goal at the link!

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
So when are we going to talk about the fact that Hollander already has six points in four games and Korogyi has zero? Anyone? Bueller?

Montreal Gazette @mtlgazette
OpEd: Did the Metros squander a no. 2 Draft pick because of homophobia? The Shane Hollander decision //OpEd: Les Metros ont-ils gaspillé un choix numéro 2 au Repêchage à cause de l'homophobie? La décision Shane Hollander…

Ilya Rozanov
hollander help

I’m here

Ilya Rozanov
what is tu fais dur for quebec assholes

Ilya Rozanov
i google but result makes no sense because gagnon is not hot

It kind of means that you look or are ugly? Or repulsive I think. Google is probably giving you the french translation and that’s why it doesn’t make sense

Ilya Rozanov
okay so gagnon must die

Ilya Rozanov
also what is tabarnak and calisse and criss. google says religion?

I mean direct translations for all of them really are religious - tabernacle, chalice, Christ, but they all basically mean fuck. Or holy fuck, I guess

Ilya Rozanov
quebec people must die. we start by killing metros, okay? you and me, kill them this season as punishment for stupid language

That actually sounds pretty good, yeah

Is your knee okay? I saw you fall a little weird after Scott Hunter checked you

Ilya Rozanov
scott hunter couldn’t check a pillow

Ilya Rozanov
knee is okay, just some ice. good goal against san francisco last night

Thank you. Team still lost, though

Ilya Rozanov
it takes time to rebuild yes? you are doing your part. rookie of the year award for sure for you

I think I’d prefer to make the playoffs and get a Cup, but thank you, Ilya. I actually think you’ll get Rookie of the Year, you’re playing amazing

Ilya Rozanov
thank you shane

Ilya Rozanov
hollander help

What now

Ilya Rozanov
what do i do if wash machine has decided to explode and fill entire house with bubbles?

Call a technician? Or somebody on your team who can help? I’m not a washing machine expert, Ilya

Ilya Rozanov
don’t have time for expert because i’m hosting dinner tonight for team. also i convinced front office i could live alone so i can’t tell them about exploding wash machine

Fine. I’m not actually sure what to do either but I’ll call my mom and ask and then I’ll call you

Ilya Rozanov
hurry hollander before bubbles get me

That was a rough game. Just texting to make sure you’re doing okay

Ilya Rozanov
is good for you no? if i play bad you’re higher in points race, higher in rookie award

Ilya

Ilya Rozanov
sorry. bad mood. brother called, said awful things

Well that was shitty of him. Sometimes the puck bounces just don’t go the way you want them to, it’s how hockey goes

Ilya Rozanov
he IS shit. and puck luck, yes i know. still horrible to lose like that

If you want I could watch the game again, maybe email you a few pointers, things to work on? It really won’t be that much, Ilya, but if it helps

Ilya Rozanov
yes please. thank you shane

February 2011

When Shane lands in Nashville, he finally admits to himself that—regardless of what he told his mom and dad—he’s pretty nervous.

The guys on the team told him not to take the weekend so seriously, because All-Star Games aren’t a big deal, but Shane can’t help but feel that whatever he does, eyes will be on him. If he takes it too seriously, if he doesn’t, if he plays well, if he sucks… and there’s always so much press for these things, random bloggers and media from different outlets that the MLH keeps inviting to make the game relevant or whatever, and whether he wants to or not, Shane is always a story.

He’s been a story since he was a kid: scouts tracking him since he turned twelve, teammates and coaches talking about him to local press, and Asian-Canadian on top of it all.

And then the leak happened, and Shane feels like he’s not just a story anymore; it’s like a story is all he became. Like everyone’s forgotten he’s a person, under the adjectives they stack one on top of the other to describe him or demonize him or even to support him.

He hardly thinks that the press covering the ASG are going to be different.

The one silver lining to this whole thing, though, is that Ilya is also here and because they’re splitting up into East vs. West, they’ll get a chance to play together, which Shane has been looking forward to for weeks.

He feels a little guilty about just how much he’s been looking forward to playing with Ilya, but the thing is—it’s been hard to come up against the limits of what any individual player can do for a team. No matter how many point streaks he goes on, no matter how many times he puts the puck in the net, the truth is that the Centaurs are a bottom-of-the-standings team, and have been for a while.

He knows it’s the nature of the League, and he truly does believe it’s what keeps hockey so interesting: a bottom of the conference team gets enough high draft picks, combines it with good development, and some solid trades, and in a few years there’s every chance they could get the Cup.

Shane just—he maybe didn’t prepare himself, for how it would feel to be stuck in the rebuilding part of that process.

He was so used to winning, in Juniors. And he wouldn’t trade being drafted into the show for anything, of course, but he does miss winning.

And is winning an All-Stars Game a little silly? Maybe, but he’ll take it.

He just hopes he doesn’t get picked last in the draft—getting a car is not worth the ridiculous questions he’d get asked about it.

He’s walking through the lobby of the hotel they’re all staying at, which is suitably gaudy and filled with what looks like a lot of country music memorabilia, when he hears his name.

“Hollander!”

He turns to see Ilya walking quickly towards him, a wide grin on his face. It makes other people turn to look, too, and normally Shane would feel a little annoyed by it but he’s so happy to see Ilya again—their last game against each other was over two months ago, because the Centaurs had a long road trip out west—that he doesn’t care.

“Hey, Roz,” he says. “How are you?”

“Thirsty,” Ilya says seriously, before pulling him in for a rough sideways hug. “Come with me to the bar, okay? You can get ginger ale, promise I won’t make fun.”

There’s a few other players at the bar already when they get there, and the sound of conversation audibly drops. Either they’re surprised to see Shane and Ilya show up together, or it’s the stupid leak all over again.

Ilya looks around with a slight frown on his face before gesturing for Shane to sit down at one of the high tables.

“Is me, you know?” he tells Shane, leaning forward a little. “I intimidate them so much, they all shut up.”

Shane is really pretty sure that’s not it, but he appreciates Ilya trying to make the whole thing easier. So he makes a deliberate effort to relax and tells himself to ignore the weird vibes.

“Hey, talk to me about that move you did last week with Minnesota in the second period,” he says.

“Ah, you saw that?” Ilya says, smirking. “I’m calling it the Rozanov, will be the terror of D-men and goalies everywhere.”

“Of course you’re calling it the Rozanov,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “What if I get it perfected before you do, huh? Call it the Hollander.”

“Huh! So you are thief, then,” he says, but he looks pleased. “Fine, Hollander. If you are willing to live with that in your conscience, I explain.”

Ilya starts explaining the move, using the salt and pepper shakers and their own drinks to illustrate, and they keep going, talking about the systems they like and the systems they don’t, games they’ve played and watched and admired, and suddenly Shane registers that they’ve drawn a bit of an audience. Guys from different teams—there’s a rookie from Arizona who was the fifth draft pick, but also veterans, some of the best of the league who seem to be listening and nodding along.

“Glad to have you both on my team,” Scott Hunter (Scott Hunter!) tells both of them, once Shane and Ilya realize they’re not just talking to each other.

“Yes, you need us to score for you, you are so slow now,” Ilya says, matter-of-factly, and Shane elbows him on the side, hissing his name.

Hunter huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s so strange that you two are friends.”

“Why? We are both the best, so of course we are friends,” Ilya says, eyebrows raised.

And it sounds a little like show-boating—classic Ilya—but Shane finds that he can’t really disagree.

Back when he was in Juniors, he felt alone, like he was in a league of his own. It was satisfying, obviously, but also… lonely.

And he’s enjoying playing with the Centaurs, sure, but a lot of the guys in the room are so much older than him, generally kind to him as a rookie but not exactly willing to go out to dinner and discuss the Russian Five or the evolution of goalie equipment for three hours.

Ilya does. When they get something to eat after they play against each other, sure, but also when they text or talk on the phone.

It’s something, to be in a league of two.

Later that night, when everyone except Shane is more drunk than they should be for something that is going to be broadcast on live television, the draft takes place.

Hunter is the captain for the East and his first pick is a goalie—Taylor, who is the only reason New Jersey is still holding on to a Wild Card spot for the playoffs—and Shane feels glad because it’s exactly what he’d do if he was the captain. He knows the whole point of the game is that it’s high scoring, but there’s no reason to make it easy for the other team. The second pick, though, is Shane himself.

Shane can’t quite believe it for a second—did Hunter actually say his name?—until Ilya nudges him in the side and Shane walks towards the podium.

“Good to have you, rook,” Hunter says, when Shane is next to him.

Shane can only nod, hoping he doesn’t look as wide-eyed as he feels. Because, well. He knows his own numbers, he knows he’s doing very well even if his team isn’t, so much, but the narrative around him has refused to die. The first thing that comes up when you google his name aren’t his stats, it’s a tabloid with a badly blurred picture of him on his knees.

So Hunter making the point to pick him this early, it’s not nothing.

Ilya is picked in the eight round, which Shane will hold on to just in case he ever needs to shut him up, and he immediately makes Kirill move one seat over so he can sit next to Shane and chirp other players under his breath so only Shane can hear him.

Shane probably shouldn’t indulge him, but Ilya is really funny, and Bolland really does look drunk and confused enough that he’s bound to fall off the stage before the night is over.

When the All-Star draft is finally over—an LA D-man got picked last; he’s going to give the car to charity—the players make it down to where the press is waiting.

Considering all the big names around, Shane hopes he can make it out unscathed and maybe talk Ilya into getting something to eat that isn’t deep-fried, but he gets waylaid by a couple of the Canadian outlets.

“Shane, what’s it like to be at your first All-Stars Game?”

“Uh, it’s a big honor to be chosen, of course, and I’m very excited for the skills competition and obviously for the game itself,” Shane answers, bog-standard answer for the standard question.

“You aren’t concerned at all?” another reporter puts in, and Shane glances down at his press pass.

Montreal Herald.

“Concerned?” he repeats.

“Well, you have to play on a team with Ilya Rozanov, who’s been considered a rival of yours for some years now since you were both in Junior hockey, and with a very different playing style. Very aggressive,” the reporter says, the tone of his voice making it clear he finds the style a negative.

And normally Shane would simply say something about team sports and everyone contributing, but Ilya has just made what was looking to be a nerve-wracking experience for Shane fun—has made it a point to stick by him, to diffuse whatever weird shit other players are sending his way.

So it feels important to tell the truth.

“I’m not concerned at all, I’m excited,” Shane says. “Ilya is my very good friend, and he’s my favorite player to watch. I can’t wait to see how we play together out there tomorrow.”

There’s a sudden, unexpected silence, and Shane takes advantage of it to give the reporters a nod and step back so he can head toward the exit.

Ilya is waiting close by—there’s no way he didn’t hear what Shane said—but all he does is wrap an arm around Shane’s shoulders and say,

“Come on, Hollander, let’s find you your boring salmon and rice before you faint of hunger.”

The skills competition the next day goes by pretty fast, but it’s fun.

Shane breaks Scott Hunter’s record for fastest shot and Ilya breaks Adam Johnson’s record for hardest shot, which endears them to their teammates enough that nobody snows Ilya even though he can’t stop chirping them. The actual game goes really well, too—the East wins, and Shane and Ilya get about three goals apiece.

The excitement over the win carries Shane over into going to the bar with everyone to celebrate and even into drinking a couple of beers the older guys hand over covertly.

He feels warm and happy and he’s definitely laughing more loudly over Ilya’s stupid jokes than he should.

Which is why it’s so jarring, when he hears it.

“Yeah, I guess he plays okay, for a cocksucker. I don’t know that I’d be okay with him being in my locker room, though.”

It feels—it feels like a bludgeon to the chest. Or no, because at least that would be honest, up-front. It feels like a serrated knife in the back, like something bad that happens in the dark.

Shane is just—he’s so tired.

He doesn’t know what he has to do or achieve to make this stop. The Calder? The Art Ross? Is the Cup going to be enough? Or will the goalposts move again?

Ilya goes tense as a bowstring next to him, and Shane darts out a hand to hold his wrist and keep him next to Shane before he can go confront anyone and this ends up in the first All-Stars Game bar brawl in history or something.

“Don’t. It’ll just make it worse,” he says, voice low.

Ilya turns to look at him, and he looks so angry and so sad on Shane’s behalf, it thaws the coldness inside Shane’s chest.

“Do you want to go up to your room? We can have another drink, watch movie,” Ilya offers after a moment. “Or we can put on the game I had last week against Tampa, you can tell me all the mistakes I made. I promise I won’t hang up on you this time.”

Shane nods, because he really doesn’t want to be around other people anymore.

Behind Ilya’s back, he sees Scott Hunter glancing over at them for a beat and then calling for a round of shots for everyone, which makes the bar explode into even more raucous noise and lets Shane and Ilya slip out without anybody noticing.

Upstairs in Shane’s hotel room, Ilya more or less takes charge.

He directs Shane to change into sweats while he fiddles with the various drinks in the minibar. Once Shane is settled on the bed, sitting against the headboard, Ilya walks towards him with a precariously balanced tray—where did he even get a tray?—with two water bottles, and two crystal tumblers filled with something clear and strong-smelling.

“Pick your poison,” he says, settling down the tray on top of the bed and sitting down next to Shane.

“What is this?” Shane asks, pointing toward the crystal glasses.

“Tequila—the vodka they have is shit, so I thought this would be better option”, Ilya replies. “Brought you water, too, you don’t need to drink tequila if you don’t feel like it. We can also call room service for ginger ale.”

Shane contemplates the options in front of him for a moment, and takes one of the crystal tumblers in his hand. He then gestures for Ilya to take the other one, they clink their glasses together, and Shane drinks the tequila in one go. It burns on the way down and he coughs a little, which makes Ilya laugh. Ilya did not drink his own tequila in one go, which was probably smart.

“You’re an asshole,” Shane says hoarsely.

Ilya offers him one of the water bottles and Shane drinks more than half of it.

“Okay?”

“I don’t think I’m a tequila person,” Shane replies, which makes Ilya snort. “But I do think I needed that.”

“Good,” Ilya says, and sips from his own glass.

They’re quiet for a moment, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.

It feels safe, and a little fuzzy in a good way, in complete contrast to how he was feeling at the bar. Shane shifts his body a little, settling deeper into the pillows and closer to Ilya so they’re shoulder to shoulder. The warmth from Ilya’s body relaxes Shane even more. Shane looks at Ilya’s side profile, the perfect shape of his lips.

“You know what the worst part of all this is?” Shane says, almost before he realizes he’s speaking.

Ilya hums in response, turning to look at him with raised eyebrows, and Shane jerks a shoulder. “The leak, being outed, the whole thing… we didn’t even kiss. I just—I got down on my knees and I gave him a blowjob, and I, y’know—sort of came before he even touched me, and that was it. It was sort of underwhelming.”

Ilya’s mouth drops open.

“You are saying that this shit man who took picture and shared it, he didn’t kiss you?” he asks, and he sounds incensed.

“He didn’t,” Shane confirms. He bites his lip, glances down at his hands. “I mean, it wasn’t like the most romantic setting, I guess. Just at some bathroom in a club.”

“No, fuck this,” Ilya says, vehement, and reaches across to take one of Shane’s hand in his, forcing Shane to look up and meet his eyes. “He should have made it good for you. He is total shit, Shane, don’t excuse it. Come on, say it.”

“He is total shit,” Shane repeats, obediently.

He notes, absently, that Ilya’s hand feels really good in his. He doesn’t want to let go, and Ilya is making no move to take it back, so Shane lets himself have this. He feels warmer, suddenly, and he can’t stop darting looks at Ilya’s lips, shiny with tequila.

“Good,” Ilya says, nodding in satisfaction. He turns serious, after a moment, his gaze intense. “Now, I have idea, Hollander, but you don’t have to say yes, okay?”

Shane nods cautiously.

“I can kiss you,” Ilya says. It’s so unexpected that Shane is sure for a second he misheard, but Ilya’s looking at him, honest and clear-eyed and very much not joking. “I—I like both, maybe you know, and. Am a good kisser. And you deserve a good kiss, okay? You deserve that.”

Shane had not realized Ilya liked men as well as women, but, then again, Shane had to get on his knees in some club bathroom to truly determine that he was gay, so he’s obviously pretty bad at knowing this sort of thing about anybody.

Now that it’s out there, though, Shane can’t stop his brain from throwing image after image of what it could be like. How it would feel.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, feels himself lean further into Ilya’s body.

“Ilyusha,” Ilya tells him, soft.

“Ilyusha,” Shane repeats, obediently. “Are—are you sure? This isn’t because you pity me or something, right?”

“Is not pity,” Ilya says, speaking quickly, squeezing Shane’s hand, leaning even closer to him, his eyes wide and sincere. “You are so hot, Shane. So fucking hot. So I would love to kiss you, okay? But… but we need to promise that we stay friends no matter what. Because friends is—is most important thing to me.”

“It’s the most important thing to me, too,” Shane says, because it is.

He doesn’t know what he’d do without Ilya on the other side of his phone. Without having somebody to complain to, and joke around with, and spend hours and hours talking hockey with.

Without someone who has his back, even when they’re playing for different teams.

“Okay. Okay,” Ilya says, nodding, his gaze moving fast between Shane’s mouth and his eyes. They’re so close to each other now that they’re almost breathing each other’s air. “So I can kiss you?”

In answer, Shane closes the remaining space between their lips, presses his mouth to Ilya’s.

A breath passes, two.

And then Ilya’s hand goes to Shane’s jaw, and Ilya takes over the kiss. It feels—it feels immediately consuming, burning hot, Shane quickly losing track of where his mouth ends and Ilya’s begins.

It feels devastating in the best way.

Shane’s entire body is buzzing, warm, there’s a relentless beat pulsing inside him that just says more, more, more, and he’s clutching Ilya closer to him, opening his mouth wider.

He thinks he could do this forever.

Ilya’s hands are roaming across Shane’s body, squeezing his pecs, gripping his hip, then moving towards Shane’s very, very hard cock.

“Okay if I give blow-job?” Ilya asks into his mouth, and Shane thinks he blacks out just for a moment. “Shane?”

“Yeah—yeah,” Shane pants, because, like. There’s only one way to answer that particular question, obviously.

“Okay, okay, good. But take this off,” Ilya says, almost whining, pulling on Shane’s sweatshirt.

Shane does, more than a little clumsily, while Ilya is busy putting the tray of drinks out of the way and shoving down his pants and underwear, and before Shane’s really braced himself for the reality of this happening, Ilya’s mouth is on him.

Shane collapses onto the bed immediately, moaning so high he has a wild thought that there’s no way whoever is next to his room didn’t hear, but after a second even that thought is completely obliterated.

He’s reduced to sensations, reduced to being nothing but a body, to the heat of Ilya’s mouth on his dick and his big hands moving across his chest and squeezing his nipples. When Ilya starts playing with his balls his hips shift upward, wanting more and feeling like it’s too much at the same time. Ilya holds him down with one strong forearm across his waist, his mouth going from the bottom to the tip of his cock, and then sucking the whole thing deep.

“Ilya, Ilyusha, I’m gonna—” Shane warns.

But Ilya doesn’t pull back—he just sucks Shane harder—and so Shane is coming before he can take another breath.

“Fuck,” Shane says, and feels more than sees Ilya jerking off almost on top of him, like he can’t stop himself, like he’ll die if he doesn’t come right now.

It’s unbelievably hot.

Ilya moans as he comes, kisses Shane’s stomach, and then twists his body to land next to Shane on the bed.

They meet each other’s eyes, still breathing heavily, and they start laughing almost in unison.

Shane feels—he feels elated and sexy and so grateful, for Ilya.

“It was good, Hollander? You still sure you’re gay?” Ilya asks, a shit-eating grin on his face, reaching a hand out to squeeze Shane’s pec.

Shane rolls his eyes—Ilya can be such an asshole—but can’t keep himself from grinning back and putting a hand over Ilya’s on his chest.

“It was good, Ilya,” he confirms.

“Good,” Ilya repeats again, and he looks so satisfied about it, so happy about making Shane happy, that it warms Shane down to the bone.

“Now, I go get more water and snacks and you get laptop,” Ilya says, getting up from the bed and throwing Shane tissues along with his boxers and a t-shirt before putting on his own briefs. “You need to tell me how to get past the San Jose PK or I will murder.”

“Murder who?” Shane asks, slipping into his underwear. The shirt feels a little more loose around the shoulders than it should, and he glances down to see the Raiders logo. Of course Ilya probably thinks it’s hilarious to make Shane wear his team colors.

“Someone. Anyone. Not the point, Hollander,” Ilya replies, from where he’s rummaging in the hotel mini bar and discarding or selecting various snacks in a fairly baffling decision-making process from what Shane can see. “The point is I will murder and then go to jail, and you will be so sad and so guilty your best friend is behind bars because you did not tell him how to score power play goal against stupid San Jose.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “Well, we can’t have that.”

He powers on the laptop—he already has a pretty good video compilation on the San Jose penalty kill bookmarked.

June 2011

“And Rookie of the Year goes to—Vincent Lemaire!”

Ilya Rozanov
who the fuck is vincent lemaire?

He plays with the Nomads, Ilya, you played against him like four times this season

Ilya Rozanov
i KNOW shane, but this is bullshit. you lead assists, i lead goals and this asshole leads what? terrible eyebrow contest?

I know. I know. It’s bullshit. You really deserved it, Ilyusha

Ilya Rozanov
YOU deserved it. if it was players who voted for this there would be no doubt. fuck these sports people.

I mean some players are still pretty weird about me so who knows. But thank you, it means a lot to hear that from you. Anyway stop texting me before we get caught on the broadcast ignoring Lemaire’s speech

Ilya Rozanov
i will ignore eyebrows monster if i want. but fine. see you after this in your room? tequila again?

Gotta talk to a couple of sponsors first but yeah, meet at 10 pm? 2401. Tequila again is fine

MLH @MLH
And your 2010-2011 Season Rookie of the Year is… Vincent Lemaire from the Minnesota Nomads!

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
In a serious upset, Lemaire takes Rookie of the Year over Hollander and Rozanov. Click on link to read more on the possible politics behind this decision.

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
We’re gonna break rank and be transparent here: Wysh voted for Rozanov as best rookie, Marek voted for Hollander. And as hockey journalists, we need to have a conversation about what just happened, because… Lemaire?

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
Yeah, nobody’s calling it out for what it is, but let’s put a name to it: Rozanov and Hollander didn’t get the Calder (even when HEADS above Lemaire) because this league and its media have a serious Russophobia and homophobia problem.

July-December 2012

“And the Art Ross Award goes to—Shane Hollander!”

Ilya Rozanov
YES. fucking YES shane

Thank you, Ilya. I’m sure you’ll get it next year

Ilya Rozanov
i get art ross AND mvp AND cup just watch. wish i was there to celebrate with you, get you a round of tequila

I wish you were here too. It sucks that you had to go to Russia early this year

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
As expected, Shane Hollander of the Centaurs takes this year’s Art Ross for highest number of points in the league.

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
Great to see Hollander take the Art Ross but we bet he would’ve been happier if the Centaurs had clinched that Wild Card spot at the playoffs – two points away has to sting!

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
If the Art Ross wasn’t awarded based on math, you bet the league would’ve found a way to keep Shane Hollander away from it. Just how much more does this kid have to prove before mainstream hockey media stop mentioning his sexual orientation as a qualifier before every achievement?

I hope summer training is going okay! I’m training with a few of the guys sticking around Ottawa and maybe going to the camp Scott Hunter puts together later

Definitely hitting Scott Hunter’s camp – it’s last week of July, in case you’re back this side of the Atlantic by then you should come

Guess you’re not back in the US yet. Training with Scott was fun! Some of the other Admirals were there, and a couple of guys from New Jersey. Maybe we can do this together next year

Ilyusha, is everything okay? I’m getting worried

Ilya Rozanov
sorry. busy with family shit. my father a little sick

Don’t worry, I totally get being busy with family stuff. Here to talk if you need, okay? We can figure out Skype or something

Ilya Rozanov
thank you shane

Mom
Honey, have you thought about the Uniqlo offer? They’re giving us time to decide, but since they’d be putting together a full collection they need an answer sooner rather than later.

I’m thinking about it, mom, I promise. It just feels like a lot, a Pride collection, you know? Very in people’s faces

Mom
This is always about how comfortable YOU feel, Shane. But not being in people’s faces hasn’t exactly made anything go away, so maybe it’s time to be bolder, you know? Let’s talk about it over lunch next week, okay?

Okay

Shane is absent-mindedly sipping on his London Fog and reading the Uniqlo proposal for about the fourth time when a pair of strong hands land on his shoulders. There’s a split-second of tension and annoyance, and then, just as quickly, his body recognizes who the hands belong to and he relaxes into the hold.

“You’re late,” he says, without glancing up from the papers in front of him.

“Is not my fault there are like ten thousand Happy fucking Goat coffees in Ottawa, Hollander,” Ilya complains, shaking him a little. “This place better be good. At least goat is cute.”

“It’s my favorite,” Shane says, finally giving in and looking up to meet bright blue eyes. “Hi, Ilyusha.”

“Hi, Shane,” Ilya sing-songs, grinning wide, and almost like he can’t help himself, he leans down to pull Shane into a rough hug. “‘S good to see you,” he says, into Shane’s shoulder.

“You, too.”

It really is.

Ottawa and Boston haven’t played against each other for a while, but it’s finally time for their first home and away match-up of the season. Unfortunately, they’re playing an early game and the Raiders are flying home right after, which means their usual dinner plans have been turned into a slightly more rushed morning coffee.

And, well. Definitely no tequila whatsoever, or anything else that tends to happen around tequila. The more metaphorical tequila.

“Going to get coffee and muffin—you want something to eat?” Ilya asks, startling Shane away from remembering the last time the metaphorical tequila ended up in Shane giving Ilya a blowjob and Ilya’s fingers in his ass.

“Um, maybe something with protein?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything before heading to the counter. He’s probably going to come back with some sort of pastry or cookie the size of Shane’s face, and, to be perfectly honest, Shane is going to eat it, because everything here is worth eating, macros be damned.

Shane stares down at the Uniqlo proposal again, bites his lip.

It’s the same thing he’s read six times, the same thing his mom went over bit by bit with him: a jointly designed athletic collection, Pride-themed, with part of the revenue going to a charity or charities mutually agreed on by Shane and the brand.

It’s—it’s good, obviously. It feels way more meaningful than soda or luxury watches or other things his mom has floated past him, and it feels special that the company is Japanese.

But it also feels like one more way to make himself a target.

“What’s this?” Ilya asks, returning with two plates and a glass full to the brim of iced coffee and settling it all down on the table.

“Oh, um. It’s this proposal Uniqlo sent me to create a collection?” Shane replies, setting the sheaf of papers down closer to Ilya. “What’s this?” he asks, gesturing to the plates.

“Banana cake with maple cream for me, cinnamon honey scone for you,” Ilya replies, licking a thumb covered in the frosting of his ridiculous cake, which distracts Shane for a beat while Ilya squints at the proposal. “Mr. Businessman…” he says, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face. “This looks very good. I like their t-shirts for cold and their jackets. Are you going to do it?”

Shane shrugs, pulling the plate with the scone closer to him. It smells amazing.

“I’m honestly not sure. I like Uniqlo, too, but this would be a special collection for Pride, and some of the revenue would go to a charity. I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he says.

Ilya raises his eyebrows and looks at him in frank disbelief. “You not ready to do charity?” he asks.

It sounds more than a little ridiculous said out loud, considering the fact that Shane already donates to various charities, as Ilya knows full well. It sounds shitty.

Shane takes a bite out of the scone while he thinks through how to explain how he’s feeling and why he’s worried. The cinnamon and honey feel like they’re melting in his mouth and Shane feels warmed by the fact that Ilya knew exactly what he’d like, even when Shane hadn’t been able to say it.

He figures his explanation doesn’t have to be perfect, not with Ilya.

“I guess—I guess that I just worry that doing something like this, so visibly, uh, gay, it’s going to bring all the shit from before the draft back, you know?” he finally says. “Like, all those articles about how distracting my sexual orientation is, and whether it’s worth it having me on a team… and, like. Obviously I’m gay, and doing this or not doing it won’t change that. But I don’t know, I guess I hate that it never stops being a thing. I mean, on the other hand, it also feels like some asshole is always talking about it whether I’m doing anything gay or not, so maybe who cares?”

Ilya nods, glances down at the proposal again. There’s a mock-up of one of the t-shirt designs—an nearly abstract hockey stick in rainbow colors. It’s pretty amazing, and it’s pretty terrifying, all at once.

“What does your mother say?” Ilya asks.

“She, um. She says we’ve tried playing nice and being discreet, and I still didn’t get the Calder, so,” Shane replies, tilting his head. “She thinks I should just go for it.”

Ilya grins. “I think you should go for it, too.”

“You do?”

“Shane—you didn’t win the Calder, okay, but last season you got Art Ross,” he says, turning a bit serious. “You dragged your team to two points away from a playoff spot for first time in years. They probably make you Captain soon, get you decent goalie, better winger, and you win Cup, too. So fuck being discreet. Be Shane Hollander. Gay and good at hockey, yes?”

Shane shakes his head, feeling suddenly light, buoyed. “Gay and good at hockey. Okay. And this isn’t just because you want a free Uniqlo t-shirt, is it?”

“Not only,” Ilya says, raising a careless shoulder, badly hiding a grin in the corner of his mouth. “Cowards don’t play hockey, remember?” he continues with a wink, and Shane smiles.

They spent like four hours once, their first season, talking about Russian hockey history, Anatoly Tarasov, how he’d changed hockey forever, how he’d trained Slava Fetisov and the rest of the Russian Five in the sixties.

“Cowards don’t play hockey,” he agrees, and lifts his mug in a toast.

Ilya clinks his iced coffee glass against Shane’s mug, and then takes a deep drink before smacking his lips.

They start giggling in unison, almost like little kids, and fuck, Shane loves spending time with Ilya. He doesn’t feel this way with anybody else. This understood, this comfortable.

Things are easier with the Centaurs now—they drafted a really great forward this year, Boodram, some of the guys coming up from Belleville are really solid, and once they solve their goalie issue, Shane really thinks they’ll have a shot. They also, probably, need new coaching staff, but that’s a little above his paygrade even if he does get named Captain soon.

But the way he just clicks with Ilya, the way he doesn’t have to struggle to make himself understood because Ilya just keeps making space for him, for the way he takes a little time before answering, the things he notices and the things he doesn’t… and, of course, the way they play together.

It was one of the reasons why Shane was so excited by the idea of both of them making it to Hunter’s training camp in July, just getting a little bit of time on the ice together again.

Ilya’s mind must be running down a similar track, because he asks, “How was your summer program with Scott Hunter? Did you have to take breaks all the time so Hunter could ice his old knees?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “He’s not that old, Ilya,” he says. “It was pretty fun, actually. He showed me some cool drills I’m definitely going to teach the Centaurs. He also took me to his favorite smoothie place, but, uh. The smoothies weren’t actually that good, they were kind of super watery? It was nice of Scott to take me, though.”

“Oh, is Scott now, is it?” Ilya asks, wrinkling his nose. “Is he your best friend now, then, Hollander? Is this your way of telling me I’m being replaced?”

“You know it’s not,” Shane replies, huffing out a laugh. He takes another bite of his scone—it really is so fucking good—and more seriously says, “I really wish you could’ve been there. Playing against you is always great, but playing with you…”

“Yes. Is the best,” Ilya says, nodding a little. “I, uh—I did want to train with you this summer, even if program was Scott Hunter’s, but…”

He shifts in his seat, opens and closes his mouth. It’s so unusual to see him even a little bit uncertain that it makes Shane worry.

“Ilya, you don’t—you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” he says quietly, speaking fast. “We’ll have other summers.”

Ilya blinks quickly at that, but after a beat he sets his jaw, takes a breath. “No, I want to tell you. You remember I text you that my dad was a little sick? I, uh. I think is more than a little.”

Shane swallows hard. “Oh, Ilya, I’m so sorry. Is—is it bad?”

He wonders if it’s something like cancer—his uncle John had cancer a couple of years ago, and it was pretty rough, even with a really great doctor. Would it be weird if he asked his uncle for his doctor’s phone number? Probably a little. It’s not like the doctor can go to Russia, anyway.

“Is not good,” Ilya says. “He—he’s starting to forget things. He says things he shouldn’t. I think it started earlier, actually, because sometimes when he called…” Ilya trails off for a moment, shakes his head. “But is worse now.”

“That sounds awful, Ilya. I’m so, so sorry,” Shane repeats, leaning a little closer and reaching out to give Ilya’s hand a squeeze.

He feels—he feels so much, suddenly. So incredibly sad for Ilya and so fucking helpless, but also like he’s the worst sort of friend because he was upset over the summer about Ilya not replying to his texts and not coming back in time for the training program, and in the meantime Ilya was dealing with this.

He thinks about what he can actually do. What his mom would do.

Probably make a list. Probably get a really good doctor. Probably put together an Excel sheet.

Shane isn’t that great at Excel, but maybe he can start with a few questions.

“Did you go to the doctor? Is there, um. Is there anything they can do?” Shane asks carefully.

“I convinced him to go to the doctor, yes,” Ilya says after a moment. “It was a nightmare. The doctor said the sickness is, uh, progressive? So medicine can control, a bit, but. Not stop. And he needs help, probably—nurse, something like that. But my dad refuses.”

“Shit. That’s complicated,” Shane says, frowning. “And you can’t convince him? Or, uh, maybe your brother can talk to him?”

Ilya snorts, a disdainful look crossing his face. “My brother wants to pretend is not happening. He is hard man, you know? Hates to think of my dad being…”

“Weak?” Shane suggests.

“Da, weak,” Ilya says, and then runs a hand over his face. “It’s hard to convince either of them. My brother is police, and so is my father. Was. Not too powerful himself, but. Powerful friends. So needing help, needing nurse, he can’t accept it. He’s too proud.”

Shane nods, and thinks for a moment, staring down at the table. There has to be another way for Ilya’s father to accept help.

“I mean, I don’t know—Olympics aren’t far off, and you’ll obviously be the captain for Russia, Ilya,” Shane starts, thinking out loud, considering the angles like it’s a difficult hockey play. Weaknesses, strengths, analytics. “It would—it would probably be awkward, right? If your dad said or did something he shouldn’t, with all those eyes on the country. Maybe you could use that?” he says carefully, feeling like he’s stepping on particularly thin ice as the words leave his mouth.

Ilya is open with him—more open than he is with most people, Shane thinks—but Russia, his life there, even his family, it’s always been mostly off the table, outside of a very few details. Shane knows Ilya only has his dad and brother, that his mom died, but not how or when.

So the last thing he wants is to fuck up this moment by saying too much, but he also doesn’t want to say too little.

But Ilya tilts his head, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “That—that might work. I could talk with Minister Vetrov, maybe.” He nods a little to himself, and then glances at Shane after a moment’s pause, a faint smile on his face. “Hollander, that idea is a good trick. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I don’t, not really,” Shane says with a small shrug. “It’s, um. It’s probably what my mom would do. She always says that a lot of the time people won’t do the right thing, so you have to push them into it. Find the right pressure points.”

Ilya gives him a long, considering look.

“You don’t like this, I think.”

“I really don’t,” Shane confirms immediately. “I think it’s stupid people won’t do the right thing when it’s obviously right, and I think power plays outside of hockey games are a waste of time.”

Ilya snorts into his iced coffee.

“But, I don’t know. Nobody actually asked me if I wanted to become a poster boy after the leak—they just decided I was one, for better and for worse,” Shane continues, fiddling with his coffee mug. “So I have to think about pressure points and power plays and all that bullshit, for myself and for the next kid who might face a leak. I just—I kind of wish I didn’t have to carry it by myself, I guess.”

At that, Ilya leans across the table and puts a hand on Shane’s forearm, a reversal from before.

“I can help carry it, Shane. Just tell me how.”

He looks serious, and beautiful—his blue eyes are so intent and so earnest—and Shane feels so incredibly, incredibly lucky that Ilya Rozanov is his friend.

“You already do, Ilya. You’re the only person outside of my parents who didn’t act like my sucking a dick made me bad at hockey,” Shane says.

“Well, no—you’re bad at hockey because you have a weak backhand, Hollander, but that has nothing to do with blowjobs.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but can’t help laughing. “Oh, fuck you, you’re such an asshole. Do I need to score a hat trick on the Raiders tonight with that backhand just to make a point?”

“You should. Our new goalie, he’s a little, how you say—overconfident? So Shane Hollander making him cry would be good,” Ilya replies. “I’ll still beat you, of course, even with hat trick.”

Honestly, the Centaurs starting goalie is enough of a sieve that Shane could get a hat trick tonight and still go home with a loss, but he still scoffs.

“Shut up.”

Ilya grins. “Anyway. Tell me more about these drills from dinosaur Scott Hunter. Why were they so good?”

Shane grins back and turns over the Uniqlo proposal while Ilya goes up to one of the baristas and asks to borrow a pen—Shane likes outlining things on paper as he explains, and Ilya likes to keep his scribbled-down plays.

They spend the rest of the morning like that, heads close together as Shane outlines Scott’s drills and Ilya suggests improvements they could try, and it’s about as perfect a morning as Shane could wish for.

It still feels like too little time, though.

It still feels like he wants more.

It always does.

Later that night, Shane looks over the Uniqlo proposal again. He thinks about being gay and good at hockey, about fathers who forget. He thinks about proportionality, about catastrophe, about how it felt to have the very moment when he figured out who he was on his knees broadcasted to the world.

It’s just a t-shirt collection. People will have a lot to say, probably, but they’ve said worse things.

And anyway, Ilya likes their shirts for the cold. And their jackets.

So Shane emails the okay to his mom.

Ottawa Citizen @OttawaCitizen
The new Centaurs Captain Shane Hollander shows off his modeling chops in an amazing new campaign with Uniqlo: click on the link to read more…

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
Hollander is named Captain and unveils new charity initiative, Hockey Is For Everyone. Is the Centaurs player coming into his own, or inviting distraction?

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
Hollander was an Art Ross winner last season, he’s the Centaurs new C, and is current points-per-game leader for the League this season. And also? His new campaign with Uniqlo is AMAZING. We’re buying everything. Don’t judge us, it’s for charity, okay? #HockeyIsForEveryone

Ilya Rozanov
i get free t-shirt yes?

Yes, Ilya. You can get three, even. I’ll give them to you next time we play against each other

Ilya Rozanov
send them before, so i can wear for press scrum

Ilya… isn’t that a little dangerous, with what just happened with the Pride House for the Sochi Olympics? Maybe you shouldn’t

Ilya Rozanov
i say it’s for my friends charity, because we are friends. is okay shane.

Statement by Scott Hunter, Captain of the New York Admirals

I love hockey. This has been true all my life, as far back as I can remember. My parents were hockey coaches, and some of my earliest memories are the three of us on the ice. They’re also some of my only memories with them, and all the more precious for that.

Hockey has kept my parents’ dreams and memories with me, it’s given me a family when I needed one, it’s given me purpose. But it’s also hurt me. The culture we’ve allowed to grow alongside this sport, the culture that allows for terrible things to be said in the locker room under the guise of “guy talk”, the culture that continues to question to this very day whether someone as talented as Shane Hollander belongs in the League, it’s a culture that should no longer have any place alongside this amazing game.

Given what’s happening in the world, given the upcoming Winter Olympic games, I can no longer stay silent or let Shane Hollander carry this on his shoulders alone. So I am sharing with you all that I am a gay man, and proud of it. I’ll also be making a donation to Hockey is For Everyone, and invite fellow players, team-owners, and fans to do the same.

Fuck. Fuck Ilya did you see? Scott Hunter!!! Fuck

Ilya Rozanov
i saw, i saw! did he tell you about this before? he mentions you a lot

I mean he called to talk about the charity initiative and asked me if it would be okay if he gave a public donation, but he didn’t mention he was coming out WHILE making a public donation

Ilya Rozanov
this is really amazing, shane. is so amazing you inspired him, is so good you’re not alone. i’ll make another donation to charity, tell raiders to do it too

Thank you, Ilya. But be careful, okay? With the new law in Russia… just be careful. I know you have my back always, but I don’t want you to get into trouble when you have to go home

Ilya Rozanov
i’ll be careful, but i can’t let scott hunter be better friend than me. people will start writing articles about how HE’S your best friend now

Ilya Rozanov
and you are sure you are just friends? he’s not coming out so he can ask you to be boyfriend?

No, Ilya, come on! He’s just a friend. Didn’t you see the interview he did with the New Yorker that came out right after? He mentions he isn’t dating anyone but he would like to, and says the guy ISN’T a hockey player

Ilya Rozanov
UGH of course scott hunter would ask for date through the new yorker. he’s more boring than you

Hey, I thought you liked that I was boring

Ilya Rozanov
YOUR boring is cute. hunter just boring

Scott, that was really brave and really powerful. Thank you so much for what you said about me as a player, it really means a lot

Scott Hunter
Thank YOU, Shane. You really are a hell of a player. You deserved to be number 1 in the draft, you deserved the Calder, and I’m so sorry this League and people around it have been so rough on you because of who you are. You’re not alone with this anymore

Ilya was a pretty great number 1 pick, but thank you for saying that. And good luck asking out that guy you mentioned in the New Yorker

Scott Hunter
Oh, jeez. Did Rozanov put you up to that?

December 2013-February 2014

The moment Shane walks into the restaurant where he usually has lunch with his parents, he knows he’s probably not going to love the conversation he’s about to have.

His mom has a particular look on her face, when she needs them to talk about something serious, and right now it’s almost a mirror to those weeks after the leak, when she was coming up with the world’s most intense master plan for how to deal with Shane’s entire life basically imploding. Shane dreamed in color-coded Excel rows for weeks.

So it’s not great that she looks like this right now.

Still, she doesn’t say anything straight away, so Shane sits down and orders a ginger ale and a salmon rice bowl instead of the usual salmon and brown rice—he’s doing this conversation with avocado, if nothing else—and asks his dad about his recent work trip to Vancouver.

The conversation gets them through at least half of Shane’s ginger ale and a good portion of the salmon bowl, but his mom remains tense and it makes Shane do the very last thing he actually wants to.

Ask.

“Okay, mom, what is it?”

His mom darts a glance at his dad, who shifts a little in his chair, and then takes a breath before meeting Shane’s eyes straight on.

“Shane, we need to make a plan for Sochi.”

Shane nearly recoils.

“Mom, no,” he says immediately. “You know I can’t talk about it, the roster hasn’t been announced.”

Obviously, obviously, Shane has imagined what it would be like to represent Canada in the Olympics. He’s dreamed about wearing an Olympic jersey on the ice all his life, about scoring a game-winning goal, getting a medal. He’s pretty sure every Canadian kid who goes through timbits hockey has the exact same dream.

But that’s completely different from just assuming he’s going to be on the roster and making plans for it!

“Shane. You know I understand hockey superstitions. You know I do,” his mom says. “But this—this goes beyond superstitions, okay? This is about strategy, and it’s about safety. Your safety. The US has named a delegation composed of former diplomats and gay athletes. Canada is probably going to follow a similar lead. There’s—there’s a good chance you could be selected as a flag-bearer. So we really do need to talk about it.”

Shane swallows hard.

He’s been following as much as he can around the anti-propaganda law, of course, and not really because of himself—he very deliberately forces himself not to think about what it would be like to be there, playing for Canada—but because of Ilya. Obviously, Ilya isn’t out like Shane is, but he’s been so stubborn about supporting Shane, donating to charity, supporting Scott Hunter, too, that Shane can’t help but worry.

“I mean—would they really use the law against foreign athletes?”

“I’ve been working with the lawyers very off the record and with Farah from the agency to get more clarity on that,” his mom replied. “And you remember Pat Gignon, right? He was an agent for a lot of the Russian players coming over in the nineties and the early two thousands, and he has a really clear view of the political and legal landscape over there, and still some pretty good contacts, so I’m also touching base with him. But I just needed you to know we will be putting together a plan, putting together contingencies, alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand,” Shane says. He doesn’t like it, but he understands. He takes a moment, drinking the last of his ginger ale, before asking what worries him even more than any possible jinxes. What he barely dares to say out loud, but has to. “Do you—do you really think I have a chance at making the team? Considering I’m… me?”

He’s tried to avoid social media, tried to avoid Don Cherry going on and on about how hockey doesn’t seem to have any “real Canadian men” anymore, but it’s hard to avoid all of it. If people still talk about how he’s a distraction in the locker room, he can’t help but think that they’re going to talk any less about him being a distraction in a country where talking about his sexual orientation is illegal.

“Oh, Shane,” his dad says, reaching out to put a hand over Shane’s forearm. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with who you are. There never has been.”

Shane turns to look at his mom, who is blinking quickly and discreetly trying to wipe her eyes, and she nods immediately when she sees he’s looking at her. “Shane—you’re leading the league in points. The Centaurs are sitting comfortably in second place in the division, in sight of their first playoff appearance ever. They’d be lucky to have you,” she says.

Shane glances down at his plate, takes a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay. Thank you.”

The rest of the meal is a little less fraught, but right before he heads out, Shane asks his mom for Pat Gignon’s number.

Shane keeps playing, and he answers every email and every text his mom sends about contingencies and options if he goes to Sochi because he promised he would. He also calls Pat Gignon and has a long conversation with him where he asks him every possible question he can think of about medical guardians and trusts in Russia that he can think of, and he’s pretty sure Gignon thinks Shane is crazy by the end of it but he comes out with a solid list of ideas and contacts for Ilya, so it’s worth it.

In the meantime, Ilya is confirmed to Russia’s Olympic roster—he’s selected as captain, too, which makes Shane feel really proud—and the US also announces their own roster, with Scott Hunter as captain.

Finally, and only after all the other rosters have been announced—because never let it be said Team Canada doesn’t have an unusual flair for the dramatic when it comes to Olympic hockey—Shane gets the call from the GM.

He’s in.

A couple of weeks later, the Canadian Olympic Committee asks him to be one of the flagbearers, and Shane feels almost equally elated as he is terrified when he says yes.

He gets to see Ilya once before Sochi, because the Raiders and the Centaurs play against each other in Ottawa about a week before the Olympic break.

There’s a part of Shane that wants to turn it into a metaphorical and not so metaphorical tequila night—the part of him which gets harder and harder to keep under wraps that longs for Ilya’s hands on his body, for kisses, for more.

He’s been thinking about asking Ilya to fuck him for a while, thinking that given how he is somehow more famously gay than famously a hockey player in certain crowds, having someone’s dick in his ass is just too vulnerable to have it be with someone he barely knows. He can’t go through another leak again, either, not of that.

But if he’s feeling nervous about Russia, he can only begin to imagine how Ilya’s feeling about it all, and he thinks maybe having the “will you please fuck me” conversation with his best friend is something best left after they come through on the other side of the socio-political and personal quagmire that Sochi promises to be.

Plus, he wants to warn Ilya, about how visible he’s going to be. He couldn’t live with himself, if something happened to Ilya because of their friendship.

So he orders brown butter garlic mashed potatoes and steak from one of the restaurants Ilya really likes in Ottawa—they’re very much at that stage of the season where the team nutritionist is almost hunting them down with bowls of pasta to preload before games because they really can’t afford to lose weight right now—and he gets a six pack of Coke.

Ilya gives him an amused stare when Shane plates up the food, says, “What is this, Hollander, you trying to wine and dine me?”

“No, asshole,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, unless there’s something about you and Coke you’re not telling me, it’s not exactly wining you, is it? I just—this is our last game against each other before the Olympics, so.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows and pauses with a bite of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth. “So this is goodbye meal? Like I’m mistress you are sending away from your life? Olympics is coming so now Scott Hunter is your best friend?”

Shane, feeling equally baffled and amused, shakes his head with a laugh. “Ilya, Scott’s the captain for the US team! He’s definitely not going to be my best friend at the Olympics, I want to beat him as much as I want to beat you.”

“Okay, so no problem, then,” Ilya says. “I promise to still be your friend when I get the gold in Russia for Russia, okay? No need to buy me steak. Even though it is delicious, so thank you. I’ll take you to nicest restaurant in Sochi to thank properly, okay?”

“You’ll have to make due with silver because we’re getting the gold,” Shane tells him, because he can’t not. “But, uh. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, Sochi. I—I don’t think I can go to a restaurant with you, Roz. I don’t think it’ll be safe.”

“What do you mean, safe?” Ilya asks, frowning.

“I mean that I’m gonna be one of the flag-bearers, for Canada, and it’s mostly because I’m out,” Shane explains, swallowing hard. “And, um. Well, they’ve told us they’re going to be putting up rainbow flags in a lot of the government buildings in Ottawa and in other cities during the Games. So it’s going to be pretty obvious it’s, like, a statement? And I know you’ve said donating to charity and all of that isn’t risky, being seen with me in Russia... that’s just a different thing, Ilya. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Ilya looks at him for a long moment, silent, a furrow between his eyebrows.

The last thing Shane wants is for Ilya to think he doesn’t want to talk to him in Sochi because of something Ilya did, not when Ilya’s stood by his side during All Star Games and press conferences and a million other little moments. So Shane forces himself not to fidget or over-explain or look down at his own steak and mashed potatoes, but meets Ilya’s eyes head-on, letting him see Shane’s honest worry.

“I understand, Shane.”

“You do?” Shane asks, his voice a little high. “It’s not—it’s not that I wouldn’t want to go to the restaurant, Ilya. I’d like to so much. But…”

“But Russia,” Ilya says, with a resigned-looking smile. “Yes. Is okay. We can go to a Russian restaurant in Boston after we come back. I found one that has good pierogi, good tea. Best vodka.”

“Let’s do that,” Shane agrees. He finally takes a bite of the steak, nearly moans about how good it is. Ilya really does have a better eye for restaurants than he does. “Hey, uh, did I tell you Boodram is investing in a Caribbean restaurant?”

The rest of dinner is lighter, talking about their teams and their quirks and other teams and how they’re doing, but before they say goodnight and Ilya goes back to his hotel, Shane asks him to wait and runs to his study to grab the list of pointers and contacts he wrote down after his conversation with Gignon.

“Here,” Shane says, offering the paper to Ilya, who takes it and stares down at it with a puzzled grin. “It’s um—I had a conversation with Pat Gignon, who was an agent for a bunch of Russian players a few years ago…”

“Yes, I have heard of him,” Ilya nods.

“Right, of course you have,” Shane says. “Well, uh, anyway, I sort of asked him, generally, about ideas on how to set up like a medical guardianship fund in Russia, where the money could be protected and used to pay for nursing or doctors or whatever, and also for good contacts and stuff to arrange that, and those are the ideas he had.”

Ilya stares down at the paper again, and Shane sees that his hands are shaking almost imperceptibly.

“You—you asked because of my father?” he asks quietly, still looking down.

“Yeah?” Shane replies, tentative. “I promise I didn’t mention your name, Ilya, and I tried to be as general as I could. And, um, maybe you already researched this stuff and it isn’t too useful, but… well. I thought maybe it could help?”

Ilya glances up, then, and there’s a slight sheen of tears in his eyes, something very soft and vulnerable in the corner of his mouth.

Shane tries to think of something more to say, thinks about apologizing, but before he can do any of it, Ilya is pulling him into a hug and saying, voice a little choked up, “Thank you, Shane. Thank you.”

He maybe should’ve expected it, when Ilya finds a way to see him at Sochi anyway.

Shane gets a text, when he’s watching the men’s ice-skating program, cheering on his friend alongside Scott Hunter and Vaughny.

Ilya Rozanov
meet me at upper section of rink

Shane glances around, confused, until he spies Ilya way up in the athlete-only section of the rink, blond curls unmistakable even underneath a black toque.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Vaughny.

“Where are you going?”

“Roz is up there,” he tells him, nodding at where Ilya is standing. “I’m gonna go say hi.”

“Oh, right,” Vaughny says. “Tell him I’m sorry about that shitshow with Latvia.”

Shane gives Vaughny a stare, and Vaughny winces after a moment, once he remembers that obviously nobody would want to be reminded about something like the shitshow with Latvia.

“Yeah, okay, maybe don’t mention it.”

When Shane makes it to where Ilya is waiting, he can’t really say anything at first. His eyes move quickly over Ilya’s body, his face, cataloguing the slump in his shoulders, the clear strain on his face.

He looks tired. He looks sad.

“Hi, Shane,” he says, after a moment.

“Hi,” Shane replies.

He wants to get closer, hug Ilya, touch his forearm, but forces himself to stay where he is.

“You have been okay?” Ilya asks, looking at Shane up and down, his eyes sharp with worry. “Nobody has said anything, done anything?”

“I’ve been okay, Ilya,” Shane says. “Most of the guys from Canada and even from the US have been making sure I’m not alone, and nobody’s said anything on the ice.”

“Good. Good,” Ilya says, nodding a bit. “They haven’t been so great in my locker room, so. Maybe is for the best we won’t end up playing against you after all.”

“I’m—I’m really sorry, about the preliminaries.”

And then he wants go bury his head in the stony Sochi beach because why did he just say the exact thing he shouldn’t have?

Ilya shrugs, probably trying to seem nonchalant and missing by a mile. “It happens.”

They’re quiet, then, and Shane’s mind races with a million different things he wants to say, and a million reasons why he can’t say them now.

“We’ll be back playing the regular season soon,” he offers, because maybe that will remind Ilya that the Raiders are second place in the conference, all but certain to make the playoffs and go on a deep run.

Ilya nods, looking down for a moment, like he’s steeling himself. Then he looks up at Shane, and says, “Let me know if anyone does say something, okay? I know you worry, but. I told you I’d carry it with you.”

And Shane is suddenly back to that morning at the coffee shop, with Ilya’s earnest offer, and he feels so warm even as he knows he can’t tell Ilya if something does happen. He can’t risk him.

Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. It’s about having a moment together, even if it’s across six feet.

They stand like that, apart but together, watching the rest of the ice-skating program, and all Shane can think of is, please don’t let anyone see us.

Please let us keep this.

Shane ends up winning Olympic gold for Canada, and it’s one of the most incredible experiences in his life. There’s also the extra satisfaction of the fact that two out gay players medaled—he got gold, Scott Hunter silver—and how it answers the assholes who said that having them here would be a distraction.

Ilya Rozanov
congratulations, shane. you deserve it.

Thank you, Ilya. Remember I’m here, okay? We’re having dinner when we’re back

Ilya Rozanov
yes. but i promise i’m okay. i’m getting cup this year

The fuck you are! I’m not just gonna let you, you know? Even if you’re my best friend

Ilya Rozanov
i know you won’t, but johansson is hurt, so unless you switch to goalie in next two months…

Well. Yeah. Fuck

Chapter End Notes

-Quebecois insults taken from this very useful reference page.
-”Cowards don’t play hockey” comes from the famous Russian song/ice-hockey anthem “No Coward Plays Hockey”. The 2014 documentary “Red Army” has some great context on Russian hockey, Anatoly Tarasov, the eventual Russian Five, etc.
-The timeline for the Russian “anti-gay” propaganda law and Scott Hunter coming out more or less aligns to the coming out of real-life athlete and Canadian speed skater Anastasia Bucsis. The events that followed – choosing out gay athletes for the delegations and various means of protest - also follow events that happened pre and during the actual Sochi Olympics

Next and final chapter is ALMOST done, but my brain decided it wanted a little more story to close up (and to maybe have me end up with a word count closer to 40k than I ever expected when starting this one). Thank you so, so much for reading, and update very soon, I promise! Fic is rebloggable here in case you feel like sharing (and look at the cool banner anonymouspinkturtle made) <3

Chapter 2: mine all the damn time

Chapter Notes

March 2014-January 2017

MLH @MLH
Your first star of the month is Boston’s Ilya Rozanov! Since coming back from the Olympic break, the Raiders captain has been on fire, putting up 14 goals and 7 assists in 7 games!

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
The Raiders are white hot right now, holding on to the top spot in the Metro division and in the Eastern conference, and candidates for the President’s Trophy right now. Russia’s dismal Olympic performance is clearly in the rearview for Captain Rozanov.

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
Rozanov and Hollander HAVE to be Don Cherry’s sleep paralysis demons: one of them is current goals leader for the league and taking his team to the top of the conference, the other is an Olympic gold medalist and leading in overall points, and NEITHER of them is a white Canadian “good old boy”

You’re coming over, right? After the game I mean

Ilya Rozanov
i am coming over. also hopefully coming? i feel like tequila tonight

We are NOT drinking tequila at this point in the season Ilya. But we can do the other thing

Ilya Rozanov
“the other thing” you can say sex shane

Shut up or I’ll disinvite you

Ilya Rozanov
i know front door code and not afraid to use it.

You’re so annoying. But fine, you’re still invited

Shane hasn’t seen Ilya in person since the quick dinner they had right after Sochi.

They’ve texted and called, obviously, but it’s not the same thing. Shane thinks he’s done a good enough job in learning how to read Ilya’s mood through the years, to parse his inflection, the things he says, the things he doesn’t. But it’s not the easiest thing, especially not when there’s always a risk Shane might read what he wants Ilya to mean.

Seeing each other in person is easier.

Ilya’s face opens up to Shane in ways it doesn’t for most people, and so Shane can trust that whatever Ilya tells him, he means exactly that. He also always answers when Shane asks him to clarify what he means.

It’s not something he gets, most of the time, around most people. There’s always five different things people seem to mean when they speak to him, but they’re never clear about which one they want Shane to reply to, and it’s endlessly frustrating.

At least it’s getting better with the Centaurs. The guys they’ve drafted and the guys coming up from their AHL, they’re more willing to give Shane room to be who he is than the vets did back when he was drafted, which Shane guesses make sense—Shane isn’t the weird rookie anymore, he’s the weird Captain with a couple of awards under his belt—but it’s still never as easy to be around anyone as it is to be around Ilya.

“You are making weird face. What are you thinking about?”

Shane glances up from his salmon to meet Ilya’s eyes.

“That I finally feel like I’m clicking with the team. But maybe that it’s weird it took this long,” he says.

Ilya shrugs. “It takes the time it takes. You were always going to be center the team had to be built around. But I’m glad you are happier.” He pauses, and gives Shane a mock-glare. “You better not become best friends with Dykstra now, though. No replacing me.”

“There’s absolutely no replacing you,” Shane answers honestly, maybe a little too earnestly.

Ilya’s eyes soften in response. “Good,” he says, decisive. “Okay, now tell me the truth. Do you think New York Admirals are doing illegal medical procedure, reanimated a corpse to play for them? Because Hunter was worse than usual when we played him two nights ago.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s not a corpse,” Shane replies immediately. And then he shakes his head. “Ilya, don’t be an asshole. He’s not doing badly this season, on average. It’s probably a slump.”

“Is worse than a slump, Shane—is easy pickings for first round,” Ilya says.

And, well, Ilya isn’t wrong.

Barring a few games going one way or another, New York is hanging on to the second wild card spot for the East and Boston is top of the conference, so they’ll play each other in the first round of the playoffs.

Which Boston will win, almost certainly, if Ilya keeps playing the way he is, and if the New York starting goalie doesn’t magically get better and get back from IR, which he probably won’t—rumor has it he pulled a groin muscle badly. The Admirals backup goalie is nothing to write home about, unfortunately.

“Will it be—will it be weird, if we play against each other in the playoffs, do you think?”

It hasn’t really been an issue before, because the Centaurs have been kept out of the playoffs since Shane was drafted. But they’re straddling second and third place in the Division right now, keeping steady enough that it doesn’t seem crazy they’ll clinch.

And if the Raiders win against the Admirals and the Centaurs win against whoever they end up against—maybe Pittsburgh, maybe Detroit, absolutely not Montreal who continue to be bottom of the conference—then Shane and Ilya could face off against each other in a playoff game for the first time in their lives.

“Not weirder than the regular season,” Ilya replies after a moment, tilting his head slightly. “More intense, maybe. I might not—I might not text as often, during. But whoever wins, we are best friends after, always. This I promise, okay?”

It feels like such a relief, to hear Ilya say that out loud, and in a way Shane won’t really be able to explain afterwards, it also makes it easier to ask, “Will you fuck me tonight?”

Ilya freezes, and his eyes dart across Shane’s face, clearly trying to decide if Shane is serious.

“Shane…” he says, soft, and trails off.

Shane swallows, fights back the urge to just laugh it off—it’s not like it would work, Ilya of all people knows Shane doesn’t make jokes about this sort of thing—and nods a little.

“I mean it. I—I haven’t done it yet, and I really want to, and.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. He needs to say this right. He needs to explain where he’s coming from, why this isn’t just a spur of the moment thing. “And I don’t feel safe doing it with anybody else just now. If I tried an app or something, or another club, and that ended up being leaked, too…”

Ilya leans across the table, then, and grabs on to one of Shane’s hands, squeezes it hard. “I would kill them,” he says fiercely. “No, Shane, no. You do this with me. I make sure you are safe, you are happy—you are taken care of.”

“So, uh, yes, then? You’ll fuck me?” Shane asks, double-checking.

“I will,” Ilya says, nodding slightly, looking a little like he can’t quite believe what he’s saying but also decisive. “But, uh. There are things that need to happen, before. Um…”

And before Ilya has some sort of conniption over trying to translate douching from Russian into English, Shane cuts in.

“I know, I have supplies and everything,” he says. Feels the rush of blood on his cheeks, hates that he’s probably blushing very obviously. “I, um. I researched.”

Ilya lets out a shaky laugh. “You research. Of course you did.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then glances down at their nearly finished dinner. “You still hungry?”

“Not for food,” Shane answers honestly.

“Bozhe moi,” Ilya mutters, running a hand across his face. “You will be death of me, Hollander. Okay. Okay, I’m done, too. We go to your bedroom?”

No amount of research could have prepared Shane for an Ilya Rozanov determined to make this as perfect an experience for Shane as possible.

Ilya undresses Shane slowly, taking off his t-shirt, his pants, his briefs, folding them neatly one after the other on the bench at the end of the bed—it strikes Shane, then, that they’ve done this enough time that Ilya knows this about him, knows that Shane likes to keep his clothes tidy, and it feels tender in a way he can hardly bring himself to look at—and then Ilya undresses himself, quickly, playfully batting Shane’s hands away when he tries to help.

“Tonight is about you, Shane,” he says.

He then takes Shane by the hand and leads him into the en-suite bathroom, turns on the shower and fiddles with the knobs until the water is heated to his satisfaction.

What follows is surprisingly didactic, and unspeakably hot.

Ilya handles Shane’s body with big, proprietary hands, moving him one way and then the other while he explains what he’s doing, what Shane should do when he’s by himself, what he shouldn’t.

“Don’t ever rush this, okay?” he says into Shane’s ear, holding him from behind, one of his hands keeping Shane’s left leg up on the shower bench. “If you’re ever with asshole who wants you to do it quick, whatever—fuck them. You don’t hurt yourself if they can’t wait for your perfect ass.”

A part of Shane wants to say, almost instinctively, why would I be with someone else? but he bites it back, forcefully. It’s not a thing he can let himself think, not now. Ilya is his best friend, he’s doing this as a favor to Shane. That’s it.

Once they’re out of the shower, Ilya dries them both, tries to give Shane a mohawk when he’s toweling his hair and laughs uproariously at whatever Shane’s face is doing in response.

Back in Shane’s room, Ilya makes him lie down on the bed and laughs again at the number of condoms Shane pulls out of the bedside table, so Shane has to kiss him to shut him up.

And then Ilya is kissing his way down Shane’s body, sucking Shane’s cock into his mouth for a few moments before moving Shane’s legs up to his chest and licking a warm, wet stripe of his tongue into Shane’s hole.

It’s not the first time Ilya’s tongue has been in Shane’s ass, but it’s still disarming, and it makes Shane groan deeply and clutch at his knees. He feels a little overheated already, his skin electric and buzzing, and he has no idea how he’s going to survive Ilya’s cock inside him when his tongue wreaks this much havoc.

And then Ilya pulls back and raises up again, putting on a condom, making room for himself between Shane’s legs and lining himself up. “Okay?” he asks, blue eyes intent on Shane’s face.

“I’m okay, Ilyusha,” Shane says softly.

Ilya moans, almost like he can’t help himself, and then pushes into him inch by inch, and Shane’s mouth drops open. He feels so full, he feels so fucking much, and it’s like his body wants to push Ilya back out at the same time as it wants to pull him so deep he never leaves.

“Easy, Shane. Breathe,” Ilya says, one of his hands moving from holding Shane’s thigh to run a soft knuckle under Shane’s eyes. “Breathe.”

Shane takes a deep breath, exhales, and that’s it.

Ilya is fully inside him.

Shane can see Ilya swallow hard, glance down at where they’re joined, and then he looks up, eyebrows raised. Shane nods, and Ilya starts moving, first slowly, and then faster and faster.

Shane settles into the rhythm of it without realizing, his hips moving like they know what to do, the same way his legs never hesitate on the ice—like this is also what Shane’s body was made for, to take Ilya’s cock, to let the perfect heat of it fill him again and again and again.

Ilya’s face is turning red above him, and he looks mesmerized, like he can’t quite believe what he’s looking at, but he’s looking at Shane.

It’s a little too much, suddenly, meeting his eyes, so Shane closes his eyes and tilts his chin up, wordlessly asking for a kiss, opening his mouth when Ilya obliges and kisses him deeply.

It’s how Shane comes, orgasm rushing through his entire body, radiating from every single cell—like a cliche, like an inevitability.

Ilya follows after two more thrusts, groaning a, “Fuck, Hollander,” into Shane’s mouth, and his last name has never sounded filthier or more sexy.

Ilya is perfect, afterwards.

Exactly as didactic and hot as he’d been in the shower, making sure the condom didn’t break before throwing it out, getting a washcloth to clean Shane up, getting them both glasses of water.

He’s perfectly calm and perfectly confident until he’s about to leave—he has an early flight to Edmonton—when he pauses right at the threshold of Shane’s front door and looks at him quietly for a moment, something a little scared and a lot vulnerable in his eyes.

“Was it—did I do it right, for you? You are okay?” Ilya asks.

And Shane knows, he knows, that Ilya is asking “are you okay?” but also “are we okay?”, that he’s afraid he’s screwed them up somehow, doing this.

There’s something screaming in the back of Shane’s brain, something he can’t bring himself to listen to, something he can’t afford to listen to, because he is not going to be the person who ruins a friendship over getting fucked.

He’s not.

So he steps closer to Ilya, leans up and hugs him, hard.

“You were perfect,” he says, into his ear. “And of course we’re okay. Best friends always, yeah?”

Ilya hugs him back, one of his hands clutching Shane’s back, and he whispers, “Yeah. Yes. Best friends always.”

MLH @MLH
With Boston’s win tonight over Detroit at the Eastern Conference Final, your MLH Cup Finals are set: the San Francisco Monuments vs. the Boston Raiders!

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
Boston v San Francisco will be a final for the ages: will Rozanov’s Raiders take it all? Or will Tanner’s Monuments dominate? Click here for predictions and a full breakdown from the TSN team…

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
We may be ready to call the 2014 Playoffs among our very favorites: between the Centaurs getting their first appearance in years, Detroit falling apart at the seams, FIVE separate 2-OT games in the West, and now a Finals match-up that is plays-hard-Rozanov vs skates-fast-Tanner? EPIC

Ilya!!! YES! Congratulations! Don’t get comfortable, though, I’m getting to the Finals next season

Ilya Rozanov
thank you shane, i am very excited and very tired and very ready to murder san francisco. we will see about next season but i don’t think so

Start thinking it. About the Monuments, I have some thoughts about their power play and some ideas on how to get past their goalie. We can talk about it tomorrow on the phone if you want

Ilya Rozanov
yes please

Ilya Rozanov
also want you to come to one of the games. if you can. be good to know you are in the stands

I really want to be there, Ilya, but I don’t know if it would be the best look for the Centaurs’ C to be at the Finals after we got kicked off in the first round of the playoffs

Ilya Rozanov
in SEVEN games shane!!! puck luck only, you were amazing. and first playoffs for centaurs in ten years!

Thank you. And I promise I’ll think about coming to one of the games

Shane goes to Boston for Game 6.

It’s pretty risky, in terms of reputation, in terms of the unbearable tweets or think pieces it could generate—it’s not a gay bar in New York City while he’s a closeted hockey player, but it’s close.

The usual hockey pundits will find a way to tie the idea of a Captain going to a rival team’s MLH Cup game—not that unusual, at least as long as he doesn’t go down to the ice or touch the Cup—to sexual orientation and race and leadership bullshit.

But Shane doesn’t care.

People know that he and Rozanov are very good friends, any player who’s been at an All-Stars game has heard Ilya proclaim they’re best friends, in fact. Sure, at this point there’s been so much ink spilled about his sexual orientation and race and leadership or lack thereof that feeding the monster is a harrowing notion, but Ilya asked Shane to come.

And Ilya so rarely asks for things.

He demands or cajoles or jokes, but asking... so Shane just can’t find it in himself not to do it.

He thinks about not letting his mom know, but since he knows all too well that even with all his planning things can go wrong, he ends up calling her. It’s the right choice—she manages to get him a private box even though tickets have obviously been sold out for days.

“Do you want me to come with you? Everyone knows how much I love hockey.”

Another option for the spin cycle, she means—Shane Hollander, being a good son. But it feels dishonest, it feels like making light of how important Ilya is to him.

“It’s okay, mom. I think it’ll draw less eyes if I’m by myself. But thank you.”

Shane wears a non-descript black hoodie, a black toque, and arrives a few minutes after the game has started. He wants to be here for Ilya, but he also does not want Boston fans to heckle him.

Watching Ilya play never, ever gets old. He’s electric on ice, sheer power unleashed, and Shane can hardly blink whenever he’s on shift, reluctant to miss even a second.

The game is close during the first period—playoff hockey at its finest—but by the second period Shane can tell San Francisco’s relative youth is slowly but certainly being outmatched by Boston’s grit and hard, relentless style of play.

The score is 2-1 in Boston’s favor before the intermission between second and third period, and whatever Ilya’s told his team seems to have energized them even more, because within about eight minutes, it’s 3-1, and then 4-1.

A hockey game is never over until it’s over, but with five regulation minutes to go, Shane is pretty fucking sure he’s looking at Ilya Rozanov, MLH cup winner, and it fills his chest with a complex mix of immense pride and jealousy and joy.

And then the horn sounds, and Boston screams so loud for the Raiders that Shane thinks he might just have lost his hearing for at least a couple of minutes.

“Raiders win! Raiders win! The Boston Raiders are your 2014 MLH Cup Champions!”

Shane can’t hold back a laugh when he sees Ilya leaping into Marleau’s arms and then the two of them toppling over, the rest of the Raiders falling into a haphazard pile on top of them.

The Cup is brought out, closer than Shane has ever been to it and never further away at the same time, and once Crowell presents it to Ilya—Boston fans booing the Commissioner loudly, as all fans always have—Shane feels himself tearing up.

Fuck, Ilya’s a Cup winner.

Shane stays in the box, looking down at the celebration on the ice, torn between how much he wishes he could be down there to celebrate with Ilya and how much he wishes he could be down there to celebrate his own win, and eventually once the Raiders get off the ice, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He meets Ilya near the locker room, in one of the hallways totally closed off from the media, and hugs him as hard as he can.

“I’m so proud of you, Ilyusha,” he says.

Ilya pulls back slightly, and Shane can see him blinking away tears.

“Thank you for coming, Shane,” Ilya says, softly. “You’ll get the next one.”

Shane finds he can’t get any words past his throat, so he hugs Ilya even tighter. There’s sweat and champagne all over his clothes, now, and he can’t find it in himself to care.

MLH @MLH
Your MLH Cup Winners are the Boston Raiders, taking the series in six games!

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
Raider’s Captain Ilya Rozanov is named Playoffs MVP after an electric performance that saw him put up 15 goals. See video roundup of every goal he scored HERE

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
So OBVIOUSLY Rozanov was taking MVP for the Playoffs, but what are the chances he gets the Hart as well? Don’t count out Hollander who led the Centaurs to their first playoff berth in years, or San Francisco’s Tanner who could get the votes as a consolation prize.

Ilya Rozanov
coming back from russia bit early, can still join dinosaur hunter’s training group?

Yes! Absolutely. I’ll let Hunter know. Is your dad better? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’m here to listen always

Ilya Rozanov
is ok. not better but not worse. finally got nurse help solved so i could come earlier and train with you

Ilya Rozanov
we share hotel room in new york yes?

We can if you want to, sure. You don’t want your own space? Remember I’ll make you fold your clothes and keep your shit in order, Roz

Ilya Rozanov
i will fold clothes in half. i’ll also fold you in half? ;)

You’re an idiot. But yeah, okay, we can share a room

The next season, by February, Shane can feel it in his bones that the Centaurs are finally, truly, a real contender for the Cup.

They have a decent goalie at last because they traded for Wyatt Hayes in the off-season, and the GM shook up the entire front office—tired of getting close but not close enough, Shane guesses—so they have new coaching staff.

Coach Wiebe is young, but he’s hungry, and most of all he’s smart. He doesn’t throw his weight around, or his voice, or his reputation. He listens to the players, he watches them, he re-tools the system so it fits more comfortably around all of them.

Shane feels healthy and focused, Bood and Dykstra are fully settled in as his As, and they’re hovering between first and second place in the conference.

So it makes sense that, when the March trade deadline approaches, the GM goes for broke and signs Pavel Dyachenko to a four-month contract. The second it hit the rumor mill that Dyachenko was looking to move, looking to make a deep playoff run, finally get his Cup because Carolina was nice but hadn’t been in the playoffs for at least ten years, it was blood in the water.

And the Centaurs are a good fit because they desperately need depth at center so they don’t flame out after the first round like they did last year—they need a wall in the second line that’s going to withstand whatever the opposing D pairs throw at them so that Shane can stay fast and creative in the first line.

News of the deal make the hockey world explode for at least three days, with think piece after think piece on whether Dyachenko was right or wrong to leave Carolina, and Don Cherry very nearly having a heart attack on live television, red-faced and ranting about loyalty.

But Dyachenko wants a Cup before he retires and nobody can deny he deserves it, not with his record, even if the Carolina fan base is apparently being less than kind about it.

Shane wonders if he’d have the courage to do it—to burn everything down to get what he wants. He wonders if Dyachenko will think it’s worth it, after everyone thought they’d retire his number in the rafters of the Raleigh Lenovo Center, and now everyone in the state of North Carolina is more likely to burn his jersey in a bonfire.

When the Centaurs win it all in June against Nashville, when Shane gets his first Cup just as Ottawa gets the very first of the franchise, he passes the cup to Dyachenko, and the tears in his eyes seem to confirm that it was worth it.

Shane knows that Ilya is there, for Game 7, to see Shane and the Centaurs take the series in the last four minutes, just like Shane was for Iya’s own win.

They meet in a corridor by the locker room where no press or visitors can enter, and Ilya hugs him so hard it feels like a bruise on top of the bruise Shane’s whole entire body is at this point.

“You deserve this, Shane, you deserve this,” Ilya mutters into his neck. “But if you had to win Cup with a Russian, it should have been with me.”

And Shane wants that, suddenly, so viscerally—wants the next Cup he wins to be with Ilya, playing alongside him. He wants to pick up the Cup and pass it on to Ilya, wants to celebrate at center ice with him.

He’d pull a Dyachenko, Shane thinks, to get that. He’d burn everything in his path, to be with Ilya always.

And that, that is a fucking dangerous thing to think.

Ottawa Citizen @OttawaCitizen
CENTAURS WIN FIRST FRANCHISE MLH CUP! Nashville Tigers fall to Ottawa in Game 7 decisive win! Click to read full recap of the game

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
MLH Cup winning Captain Shane Hollander named Playoffs MVP, with 28 points in 24 post-season games

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
You just LOVE TO SEE that a team with a Centaur on skates in their jersey is an MLH Cup Champion! The whimsy! The weirdness!!! The way Montreal must be FUCKING DYING over the fact they passed on drafting Shane Hollander because he’s gay and now he’s a Cup winner while they still haven’t made it to the playoffs in five years! #LoveWins

Shane groans loudly, the feeling of Ilya fucking deep into him never anything less than amazing.

“Are you close?” Ilya asks into his ear, his arms bracketing Shane’s head, his weight heavy and delicious behind him.

“Yeah,” Shane gasps out. “Yeah, ‘m close.”

It spurs Ilya faster, of course—it usually does, which is why Shane said it—and soon enough, Shane is coming hard enough to see stars, Ilya following a couple of thrusts later.

“Fuck, Shane, that was very hot,” Ilya says, nearly muffled against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane hums, letting himself enjoy the weight of Ilya on top of him, bearing him down against the sheets. In a few minutes it’ll feel like too much—it’ll feel sticky and weird—but for now it’s a good weight. Grounding.

It feels like something he could keep, maybe.

But all too soon, Ilya pulls out and shifts out of the way, saying, “I know, I know, is gross. Let me go get washcloth.”

Because it’s what they’re used to, because it’s what Shane’s told him he prefers. And if there’s one thing Ilya tries to do, even if he’d never admit it out loud exactly like that, is what Shane asks him to.

So as he watches Ilya put on his boxers and walk toward the bathroom, he takes a deep breath, forces himself not to ask him to come back, to hold Shane for a while longer.

He can’t change the rules for this just like that—they’re best friends, they’re not boyfriends.

Ilya comes back, hands Shane the washcloth and settles back into the bed. He’s also acquired a glass of water and a bag of Slim Pop popcorn which he always loudly claims to despise but nevertheless always eats—Shane keeps the cheddar flavor stocked just for him.

“Game was good today,” Ilya says, chewing loudly.

“Ugh, chew with your mouth closed, asshole,” Shane tells him, shoving him on the shoulder. “Also, how was it good? Both teams barely managed three goals between us, and one of them was a total fluke.”

It had been the game-winning goal for Ottawa, but pretty much a trash goal, essentially the result of a whole bunch of mistakes by everyone in front of the Boston net.

“Eh, goal is a goal,” Ilya says, shrugging. “You know wheels always come off a little after Cup win, is natural things are rough.”

Shane sighs. “Yeah. We’re out of center depth again.”

Dyachenko retired, finally a Cup winner, and Carolina apparently got over the shock of betrayal enough that they’re retiring his number and having a ceremony for him. Shane’s invited, along with Coach Wiebe, and they’re almost certainly going to go.

“We had to unload a few people over summer to get under the cap, our starting goalie included,” Ilya says, wrinkling his nose. “So probably no second Cup for me this year, unless a lot of teams get freak injuries.”

Shane thinks again of what it would be like, to play together. To get their second Cups together. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, about how they could make it happen, about asking Ilya if he meant it, what he said after Shane’s win.

Before he can say anything, his phone buzzes three times in a row on the nightstand. He huffs when he reads the messages.

“Who is it?” Ilya asks.

“My mom—she’s reminding me about a photoshoot I have tomorrow for The Advocate with Scott Hunter and Eric Bennet, as if I could somehow forget I’m doing it,” Shane replies, rolling his eyes.

He appreciates his mom reminding him, of course, but, like. He’s doing a big gay photoshoot with the only two other out players in the MLH, since Bennet came out on Instagram over the summer through what Shane was informed was a “hard launch”, a bunch of photographs of him and his boyfriend on a tropical holiday.

“Oh.”

Shane immediately notices the change in Ilya’s tone and glances up to see that Ilya is frowning a little, glancing down at his bag of Slim Pop like it holds the secrets of the universe, the line of his jaw tight.

Ilya’s skirted the line, is the thing, with Pride Nights and donations to Hockey is for Everyone, but he still can’t come out, and Shane thinks it’s starting to chafe on him, a bit.

“Do you want to play MLH 14? You can play as the Metros if you want this time,” Shane offers.

It started a couple of years ago, when Shane was feeling angry and despondent after a game against Montreal. Ilya sat him down, put a controller in his hand, and picked the Metros for him, told him to get the itch of playing for them out of his system. “You will see how much better they would have been with you. How they made mistake.” It was just a videogame, but it still helped. And since then, they usually traded off who played the Metros.

Ilya scoffs. “No, I will play as Centaurs and you play as Metros and I will decimate.”

He gets up from the bed, shoving Shane playfully on the shoulder, and all but runs to the living room. Within seconds, Shane can hear the tinny music of the MLH video game.

At least the distraction ploy worked, even if Ilya’s going to be unbearable about it.

While Shane goes to the kitchen to get them more water and collect another bag of Slim Pops for Ilya, he can’t help but think about what it would be like, if Ilya was out. If there would be room to maybe think about or talk about being more than best friends who have sex every once in a while.

If Ilya would even want that.

Or if, maybe, once he was out, Ilya would have so many options that having sex with Shane wouldn’t be something he’d even want.

“Hollander, hurry up!”

Shane shakes his head, pushes the thoughts out of his head. No point in speculating right now, anyway.

“Coming!” he says, and braces himself for the near-certain sex joke Ilya is bound to make.

Deadspin @Deadspin
Raiders’ Ilya Rozanov has another crazy night out in Boston, hitting four different bars (and hitting on about 10 different girls) | Click to read more

The Boston Herald @BostonHerald
Opinion: With the weak start of the season, should Raiders’ Captain Ilya Rozanov be penalized for his party boy ways?

The next time the Centaurs play the Raiders is in Boston, and Ilya invites Shane to a restaurant opening which is happening after the game.

“Is Connors’ brother or cousin or something who is opening the place and he asked us for help to make it a success,” Ilya explains over the phone. “So I figure if Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander both show up is big success, no?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Your ego needs to be studied.”

“Shut up, you like it,” Ilya says. “Also, I invited Svetlana, too—she’s back from Russia and you two can finally meet.”

Right, Svetlana Vetrova.

Ilya’s other best friend, who is unbelievably beautiful, knows everything about hockey, and with whom Ilya also has sex with sometimes.

Ilya’s spoken about her enough that Shane feels like he knows her, and has over-shared enough that Shane can’t help but feel jealous. Which is stupid, and totally out of pocket, because he and Ilya are just friends.

So he clears his throat, and forces himself to sound normal as he says, “Yeah, uh. Looking forward to meeting her. Send me the details, okay?”

The game is chippy, with Shane and Ilya trading goals back and forth, but it ends with Boston edging Ottawa by one goal, 4-3.

It’s not great—the Centaurs really have to figure out how to solve the lack of depth at center so they at least make the playoffs, even if Shane thinks a repeat of the Cup isn’t really in the cards—but even with a loss the team felt more cohesive than last time they played the Raiders.

Still, it means that even while Shane knows he’s going to get chirped by Ilya and forced to pretend to buy him a drink even when the restaurant opening will have an open bar, he’s not in a bad mood.

Which is important, given that he’s meeting Svetlana.

Without letting himself think too much about why, Shane dresses up in some of the clothes he wore for the photoshoot with The Advocate that the stylist told him he could keep (it was really more like the stylist said he would genuinely die, Shane Hollander, die this very second if Shane didn’t keep the shirt and pants because they apparently did great things for his ass and biceps, and Shane didn’t want to be an unwitting accomplice to someone’s death).

Ilya is already at the restaurant when he arrives, and Shane can’t lie—he feels more than a little gratified by the appreciative up-and-down glance he receives after Ilya pulls him into a hug to say hello.

“Wow, Hollander, I didn’t know you had outfits that aren’t gym clothes,” he says.

“Shut up,” Shane replies. “I have all kinds of clothes.”

“Oh, I know what you wear, and you really don’t,” Ilya says, grinning. “But this outfit is good. Wear more things like this, yes? As reward for looking hot, I won’t make you buy me a drink, I’ll get you something instead. What do you want?”

“It’s an open bar, Ilya,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “And I’ll have the usual.”

“Yes, yes, ginger ale coming up,” Ilya says, but before he goes to the bar he glances at the door and his eyes light up. “Sveta! Over here.”

Shane turns to look and sees Svetlana Vetrova gliding over to them, looking even more beautiful than in the photos on Ilya’s instagram.

“There is no need to shout, Ilyusha, I’m not blind,” she admonishes when she reaches their high table, and then meets Shane’s eyes with a warm smile. “Shane Hollander, I am very happy to finally meet you. I have many questions about the adjustments you made to the Centaurs power play last year.”

“Oh, uh, hi, Svetlana, it’s very good to meet you, too,” Shane says, a little flustered. “And, sure, um. We can talk about the power play.”

“No we can not talk about power play because otherwise you will both ignore me for the rest of the night,” Ilya interrupts.

“Okay, so what should we talk about instead?” Shane asks.

“The new car I’m going to buy,” Ilya says with a grin. “Sveta, show Shane the pictures.”

Svetlana rolls her eyes but pulls out her cellphone and shows Shane a series of sports cars that amount to: fast, faster, fastest, and complete and total death trap. They’re all painted in violently bright colors and are about the absolute opposite of anything Shane would buy.

“So, what you think?” Ilya asks, wagging his eyebrows.

“I think you should get a Jeep, or a Land Rover,” Shane replies. At the incredulous stares both Ilya and Svetlana give him, he shrugs slightly. “They’re practical. Good in the snow.”

“Shane Hollander, I fear you have the body of the hottest athlete in the world, but the soul of a sixty-year old man,” Ilya says. “Is okay, I love this about you. But you are not going to help choose this car.”

Ilya spends some time asking Svetlana for specifics on each of the cars—horsepower, availability of leather seats—but eventually Shane and Svetlana wind up talking about the Centaurs power play anyway.

And then about the goalie situation in Toronto.

And then about whether Scott Hunter’s streaky season is going to finally go somewhere.

By the time they’re comparing the Corsi numbers of the third and fourth lines in the teams in the Atlantic division, Ilya throws his hands up in the air.

“You two are impossible, I go get us more drinks.”

Svetlana meets Shane’s eyes, a sly smirk on her face, and Shane can’t help but smile back. Ilya’s absence gives them the chance to dig into some of the Cens’ weaknesses, too—Shane loves Ilya, but he refuses to give him any advantage on the ice—and anyway Svetlana has really good points about how to use Dykstra a little better.

“You’re—you’re really amazing at this, Svetlana,” Shane says. “You should be working for hockey operations for one of the teams, or something.”

Svetlana shrugs. “I should, but I don’t know that I have the patience for the bullshit I’d face from too many of the old, white men in the sport.” She pauses, gives Shane a penetrating look. “You didn’t exactly have an easy time of it yourself, and you’re the best player in the entire MLH.”

Shane grimaces, unable to deny it.

Being his particular version of a triple threat—half-Japanese, gay, and better than the entire league outside of Ilya—has set him at the crossroads of all-too many chirps, outright slurs, and only barely legal hits.

“It’s getting a little better,” he says, shrugging slightly. “It’s—it’s still rough. I mean, the Commissioner is mostly useless, but some things are slowly improving. The Centaurs’ front office is really solid, so. If you ever do feel like you’re ready to try… just let me know. We’d be so lucky to have you.”

Svetlana looks at him for a long moment, something complicated moving across her face. She shakes her head slightly, smiles a little. “Blyat. You really are just as good as Ilyusha said, aren’t you, Shane Hollander?”

“I—no, I’m just, you know. Normal. I’m sure anyone would—”

“They would not,” Svetlana interrupts, pressing her hand softly against his where it lies on the table. “So thank you for your offer, and I promise I’ll keep it in mind. In the meantime, I’ll share my insights directly with you, but Ilyushenka can’t find out.”

Shane laughs, nodding. “It’s a deal.”

They exchange contact information, and finally notice that Ilya’s been gone a little bit longer than getting their drinks refilled should’ve taken. Shane looks around, craning his neck, and finally spots him at the bar, where he seems to be getting very aggressively hit on by two statuesque blonde girls.

It makes something ache in Shane’s chest, and he forcefully pushes it away.

Next to him, Svetlana scoffs. “Ilyusha, he comes across so smooth. These girls don’t know just how bad his socks smell, though, or they wouldn’t be so ga-ga for him, I think,“ she says.

It makes Shane grin. “They really do smell terrible, don’t they? I keep trying to sneak talcum powder into his sneakers to see if it helps, but we don’t see each other often enough for it to take away the smell, I think.”

“Oh, Shane Hollander, never change,” Svetlana says, putting one of her arms around his and leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment.

It feels nice.

Given the particular trajectory of his life, Shane hasn’t had much chance to be good friends with any women, and he thinks he understands now, Ilya telling him now and then how good it was to have someone like Svetlana around.

Over by the bar, Ilya says something that makes the two blondes laugh uproariously, which makes him look incredibly pleased with himself, and Shane feels simultaneous stabs of jealousy and a weird sense of joy. It’s always so good, to see Ilya happy, even when it isn’t or can’t be Shane making him happy.

It makes him remember Sochi, how miserable Ilya was, how badly Shane wanted to make it go away and how utterly incapable of it he was, for so many reasons.

He never wants to see Ilya look like that again, even though he knows it’s impossible.

Still, he looks down at Svetlana and quietly asks, “Is it—is it really very bad in Russia? For, uh…”

He trails off, tries to think of how to say it without being too obvious. But Svetlana seems to realize what he means, because she nods, looking sad.

“It’s very bad, yes. And getting worse,” she says.

They look at each other quietly, and simultaneously look back at Ilya, who has apparently roped in the bartender into his story. Much like the two blondes, the bartender looks completely mesmerized by Ilya, stars in his eyes.

“So if anything like what happened to me happens to him, he’d be in a lot of danger,” Shane says.

“Yes.”

Svetlana says it decisively, and Shane didn’t expect otherwise, but he still hates to hear it.

The thing is, while some things are better, while it’s not just Shane alone who’s out, the MLH is still full of good-old boys, and Commissioner Crowell is the worst of the lot.

And the worst thing is, they have leverage against Ilya that they didn’t have against Shane, or Scott Hunter, or Eric Bennett: his visa.

“Okay,” Shane breathes out. “Well, if it happens, we’ll do whatever is necessary. You marry him in the US or I marry him in Canada, and we just—we make sure he’s safe,” he says.

It’s more than a little crazy, but it’s what he can do, what they can do, to protect Ilya, if worse comes to the worse.

Svetlana looks up at him, her face entirely serious, and she nods. “It’s a deal,” she says, like a vow.

Suddenly, three glasses are clattering on the table, and Ilya is dropping one arm over Shane’s shoulders and one over Svetlana’s, and squeezing them both towards him.

“How are my two favorite people, huh?” he asks, grinning at them both. “Are you two done talking about hockey and ignoring me?”

The statuesque blondes and the flirty bartender are apparently entirely forgotten; the full force of Ilya Rozanov’s attention is back on Shane and Svetlana, like a spotlight. It’s intoxicating.

There’s nothing quite like being loved by Ilya, like being someone he considers to be his.

Getting to see not only the part of him that’s sexy and incredibly charming as he is infuriating—because Ilya does revel in being an asshole—but also the part of him that’s caring, and sweet, and sad, and little goofy, and, yes, that has really smelly socks.

It’s not something Shane will ever take for granted, even when some of it can hurt a little—like when Ilya’s attention is on someone else, which feels like being thrust into cold shade after basking in warm sunshine.

But that’s Shane’s problem to manage, to control, the fact that he wants more. Ilya gives him enough, he gives him so much already… to want more is greedy.

So Shane thinks maybe he can be like Svetlana.

Someone who loves Ilya very much and sometimes has sex with him and it’s okay. He is Ilyusha to both of them and Rozanov to the rest of the world, and maybe that’s enough.

Svetlana says something in Russian, low and sly, and Ilya barks out a delighted laugh, his chest rumbling underneath Shane’s ear where he’s still pressed against Ilya’s side.

Shane smiles too, a reflex, and decides that he needs to get serious about learning Russian.

A couple of weeks after the game against Boston and the restaurant opening, Shane is talking to his dad and he mentions, off-hand, that he saw one of his old McGill friends, James Taylor, and “... you know, his oldest son Mark is gay, and he sounds like a real catch.”

Shane hums and side-steps the comment, instead asking his dad about the new grill he bought.

His dad has talked about the gay or bisexual sons of nearly every person of his acquaintance since about 2010, a quiet but persistent campaign to get Shane to date a nice boy from Ottawa, or even Montreal.

Shane’s always ignored it—at first it felt like too soon after the outing, too much pressure, but more and more lately it’s been because, well. It’s not really a nice boy from Ottawa or Montreal he wants.

Not from Canada at all, as it happens.

He’s mostly set to ignore this last attempt when, while he’s in the middle of strength training with some of the guys, he overhears Dykstra dispensing allegedly wise romantic advice to a couple of the Belleville call-ups.

“Listen, if you want to get over your ex, the only way is to get with someone else.”

“That doesn’t sound like the best idea.”

“Would I, Evan Dykstra, ever lie to you?”

“I mean, yeah. You told us yesterday we could totally drink the blue Gatorade except that it was actually Hollzy’s and then he made us do bag skates.”

Shane smirks.

He hadn’t made them do bag skates for that long, really, but it was important for the call-ups to learn two things: first, to never believe Dykstra, and second, to never drink Shane’s Gatorade.

So this means Shane himself should absolutely also ignore Dykstra’s advice about trying to go out with someone else, but when he Googles it, it really does turn out that a lot of people agree. A few vehemently disagree, too, but Shane figures that’s normal.

The thing is, he’s tried a few things, with this Ilya thing.

He tried texting and calling Ilya a little less, but it only made them both totally miserable and had Ilya calling Shane at midnight two weeks ago, voice shaky, to ask if Shane was mad at him. So it was a no go—Shane wanted to handle the fact that he felt more than friendly feelings for Ilya, not to lose his best friend entirely.

He also tried visualization and meditation, but that just ended up with him remembering the last time they had sex in vivid detail and gave him an awkward boner while he was on top of his yoga mat, so. Also no go.

Which means that, perhaps, trying to go out with someone—maybe with Mark, the son of his dad’s friend from McGill—isn’t the worst idea.

Hey, dad, do you think you could send me the number of the guy you mentioned? Mark Taylor, your friend’s son

David Hollander
Of course, kid! I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from you. He’s a really nice guy! Number is 343-221-9976

Shane takes a deep breath, saves the contact number.

It feels odd—nerve-wracking, a tiny bit exciting, but there’s also an underlying sense of guilt he can’t quite shake.

He feels disloyal, and a bit dumb for feeling disloyal, and then like he should cut himself a break because he can’t help that he feels disloyal, it’s just how he feels.

The little spiral he sends himself on isn’t particularly conducive to coming up with an introduction text that doesn’t make him sound really weird, is the thing, so he just keeps the number in his contacts and doesn’t do anything about it for about a week.

Eventually, though, when he’s talking to his mom about an upcoming Nike campaign—they reached out after the photo shoot he did with Scott and Bennet, and she’s very excited about it because she never forgave Reebok after they pulled their offer when he got outed—she tells him to say hi to Mark from her, and Shane can’t put it off any longer.

His introduction text does make him sound pretty weird, but Mark replies quickly and they agree to get coffee next weekend, since Shane will have a string of home games.

He thinks about telling Ilya about it, because they usually tell each other nearly everything, but he can’t quite bring himself to.

He reasons that it doesn’t really make sense to tell him even before the coffee date, because what if Mark cancels? Or the date goes terribly? Or Shane comes down with some sort of illness the day of and he has to cancel?

It’s better to wait to tell Ilya until after it happens. If it happens.

It happens.

And it’s, well. It’s fine.

Mark is pretty good-looking—light brown hair, green eyes—and he’s an actuary working for an insurance company, and he really is, just like Shane’s dad promised, nice.

He keeps reassuring Shane throughout their coffee date, with things like:

“Wow, you’re so much hotter than in the ads you’re in, I didn’t think it was possible. But, like, obviously I didn’t just say yes because you’re hot.”

And:

“Oh, don’t worry, I told my dad to be really discreet, I want you to feel comfortable. Like, obviously you’re super famous but I don’t want you to think I said yes because of that.”

And also:

“I saw you’re having a pretty great season! But don’t worry, we don’t have to talk about hockey, I bet you get super tired of talking about your work all the time—I know I do!”

The last part is the weirdest, for Shane, because he guesses normal people do get tired of talking about their work but, well, Shane isn’t particularly normal and if he could get away with it he’d probably talk about hockey even more.

Ilya almost always indulges him, and there’s a reason why he and Svetlana haven’t stopped texting since they met.

They even kiss at the end, when Mark walks him to his car, and it isn’t like fireworks go off in Shane’s head or anything, but kissing’s always nice. And it’s definitely better than it’s ever been with a girl, at least.

There’s nothing actually objectionable about the date, and Shane has an okay time, so he sees no reason to say no when Mark asks him out for dinner the next week.

It does mean, though, that he really does have to tell Ilya about it, because he knows Ilya will feel hurt if he finds out about it through Twitter gossip or something like that. People in Ottawa are generally pretty good about not taking pictures of Shane without him agreeing—they’re protective of him—but it’s still not out of the realm of possibility that his date with Mark will be talked about.

Hi! How did the car delivery go? I still think it was stupid to get another convertible but I do hope they ended up finding the color you wanted

Ilya Rozanov
car is perfect and very orange and i will make you drive it next time you’re here so you can see how much better it is than a stupid jeep or land rover

I am absolutely not doing that

Ilya Rozanov
you will see, i am very convincing shane hollander, you should know this by now. how are you? game against toronto looked rough yesterday

You know how it is, Dallas Kent can’t stop himself from being a complete asshole. But it’s okay, the team had my back

Ilya Rozanov
i have your back also. we play toronto in two weeks, kent will fucking pay

Don’t do something stupid, Ilyusha, it’s not worth it

Ilya Rozanov
is always worth it to me, shane. and anyway i’m stronger than kent, you know this. how was the rest of your week besides stupid kent?

Well, uh. I sort of went on a date? I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t get cancelled

Ilya Rozanov
oh

Ilya Rozanov
how you meet this guy?

Through my dad. He’s the son of an old teammate of his, from McGill

Ilya Rozanov
okay

Ilya Rozanov
he’s nice guy?

Yeah, he’s pretty nice. I had a good time

Ilya Rozanov
good

Ilya Rozanov
you deserve

Ilya Rozanov
i need to go to practice now, okay? but talk later

Sure! Have a good practice

Shane feels so relieved Ilya doesn’t seem to be mad that it takes him until he’s at practice the next day to realize how unlikely it is that the Raiders somehow scheduled a practice at nine pm… but by then it’s a little weird to ask Ilya about it.

Shane goes to dinner with Mark, and Mark doesn’t try to sneak any fries onto his plate or order a ginger ale on his behalf when Shane’s in the bathroom, but, well. They’re just starting to get to know each other.

They also have sex that night, and it’s… fine.

Shane had forgotten, or maybe he hadn’t really known that it turns out sex doesn’t always feel like you’re discovering your own body every time, like you’re larger and smaller all at once, being unmade and remade by someone’s hands on you.

Maybe it’s just sex with Ilya.

Shane feels a bit paralyzed about what to do—keep trying to go out with Mark and hope it’ll get better, try with someone else, stop trying at all—and normally he’d talk to Ilya about it, because he’s always been good when Shane’s stuck in decision paralysis, but it feels weird to do it about this.

Not that Ilya’s been bad about him and Mark. He’s asked about him over text a few times, even.

He’s been nice about it, is the only way Shane can put it.

Which shouldn’t feel weird but it does, because Shane is so used to Ilya being incredibly possessive of Shane’s attention.

(Last time they were at the All-Stars Game, the two guys from the Metros that were voted in—Hayden Pike and J.J. Boizeau—came up to Shane to say hello and how they really hated Shane hadn’t ended up in Montreal with them, and Ilya had been furious.

“Of course they’re sad you’re not a Metro, they still haven’t gotten back into the playoffs and you have a Cup!”

“They were just being nice, Ilya.”

“Well, they can go be nice somewhere else. You and I are going to kill dinosaur Hunter at pool.”

Shane did feel a little annoyed that he hadn’t gotten any of this nice reaching out immediately after the draft, and whenever the Centaurs beat the Metros he still felt a dash of vicious satisfaction, but Pike and Boizeau weren’t bad.

Ilya still herded him through all sorts of activities over the weekend that made sure Shane never really got a chance to hang out with them, though.)

It comes to a head in one of their weekly phone calls, when Ilya sounds totally normal about hearing that Mark invited Shane for a two-day getaway in the next three day break Shane has coming up.

Shane realizes that he doesn’t want Ilya to sound normal.

He wants Ilya to be jealous, to complain that Shane should be taking the break to go down to Boston and see Ilya, since the Raiders and Centaurs haven’t played each other in a bit.

So after he and Ilya hang up, Shane calls Mark and breaks it off.

He really should’ve known better than to listen to Dykstra. Nobody who listens to that much country-techno music should ever be considered a good source of advice.

As Shane walks up to Ilya’s door, he feels unusually nervous.

Regardless of where Ilya has lived—the smaller condo when he was a rookie that he almost flooded because he was terrible at laundry, and this nicer house out on Beacon, even his hotel rooms, as transitory as they always are—Shane’s always felt welcome, settled.

But this is the first time they’re seeing each other after the Mark fiasco, and Shane would be lying if he said that didn’t unsettle him.

It’s not that he expects that Ilya will be weird about it—he was pretty normal about it on the phone when Shane told him—but Shane can’t promise he won’t be weird about it himself.

So he rings the bell and while he waits for Ilya to answer, he knocks on the solid wood panel surrounding the door; it looks great and like it’s definitely holding up to Boston weather.

“Yes, Mr. Real Estate, your contractor advice was good,” Ilya says as soon as he opens the door and catches Shane examining the panels. “Now come in.”

He’s shirtless, wearing really weird looking black pants, and, fuck. Seriously, what was Shane even thinking, of course the Mark thing wasn’t going to work.

Shane toes off his shoes by the entrance, and the second he’s done, Ilya is kissing him.

There’s no tequila, metaphorical or real, there’s no prelude, but Shane kisses him back immediately, feels his entire body light up.

Ilya grabs him by the hips and walks him backwards against the nearest counter, asks, “Should we talk?” even as he’s hoisting Shane up by the thighs, and Shane says, “After,” because he thinks if he stops kissing Ilya right now he might die.

Ilya takes off Shane’s jacket, his shirt, and his hands are everywhere—squeezing Shane’s shoulders, his pecs, holding him close by the waist so he’s even closer. Shane moans, buries one hand in Ilya’s curls, lets the other roam the perfect, muscled expanse of Ilya’s back and they’re nearly plastered together, but it’s not enough.

“Ilya,” he gasps. “Ilyusha, I need you to fuck me.”

Ilya pulls back just slightly, rests his forehead against Shane’s, and Shane can see the blue-green is nearly entirely swallowed by his pupil.

“Okay. Okay, Shane,” he says.

Time slips and slides, hurricane-fast, molasses-slow.

They’re in Ilya’s bedroom and Ilya looks golden as a god on top of his navy sheets while Shane rides him, every atom of his body chasing more, more, more, wanting Ilya even deeper.

There’s nothing like this.

There’s nothing like the way Shane feels like he disappears and gets found again every single time by Ilya’s hands, his kisses.

“Was okay?” Ilya asks, almost muffled against Shane’s shoulder where he’s buried his face.

“Okay? I can’t feel my legs,” Shane says, smiling down at Ilya’s curls.

“I get washcloth in a minute,” Ilya says, burrowing a little closer.

There’s come and sweat all over them and Shane really does feel like he’s done a particularly intense round on the stationary bike—he wonders if he can count this toward his pre-game workout—but he can’t make himself feel too bothered.

“Take your time,” he whispers, closes his eyes.

He falls asleep.

When he wakes up again, Ilya is spooned behind him and he’s clean. The idea that Ilya carefully passed a washcloth across his thighs, his ass, his torso, so carefully that Shane didn’t even wake up, makes him smile.

He peeks behind his shoulder to see Ilya looking right at him already, eyes a little hazy with sleep but overwhelmingly fond.

“I’m hungry,” he tells Ilya, and as soon as Ilya opens his mouth to reply, Shane adds, “For food, asshole.”

Ilya laughs, delighted.

“You don’t fool me, Hollander, I know you are—what is word, like, always hungry? Sex hungry?”

“Uh…insatiable?” Shane offers.

“Yes, that is it. You are insatiable,” Ilya says, giving Shane’s flank a loud slap which doesn’t really hurt but does make Shane’s dick twitch. “But I feed you, I am great host. We’re having tuna melts.”

While Shane processes this, Ilya stands up and slips his weird black pants back on.

“Wait, why are we having tuna melts?”

It’s a pretty normal question, Shane thinks, but it apparently makes Ilya pause, fidget a little—he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“I remember David said he made tuna melt for you when you were a kid if you were upset,” Ilya replies, a little hesitant. “And, well. You break up with Mark, so I thought…”

Shane feels tenderness suffuse through him, this nearly unbearable gratefulness at the fact that Ilya is who he is, that he remembers random things that Shane’s dad told him probably years ago, when they met at an All-Stars Game or at some function. That he apparently thought Shane was upset and decided to fix it with mind-blowingly good sex and sandwiches.

“I promise I’m really not that upset, Ilya,” he says softly, biting down a grin. He doesn’t want Ilya to think even for a moment that he’s making fun of him. “But I definitely want a tuna melt.”

Shane gets dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt he left at Ilya’s place a while ago—he’s left enough clothes behind that Ilya’s designated one of his drawers as Shane’s—and follows Ilya to the kitchen, content to sit at the counter and drink a ginger ale while Ilya prepares tuna melts.

Ilya mutters the preparation steps to himself in a mix of English and Russian, and Shane is too endeared to let him realize he’s speaking out loud.

He’s also pretty glad to note he understands a fair amount of the words Ilya is saying, which means the Duolingo, Babbel, and YouTube videos he’s been watching to learn are paying off.

Once they’re ready, they take the sandwiches to the living room and Ilya puts on a re-run of the New York v Buffalo game from last night without asking—he knows Shane’s been looking closely at Hunter’s play this year, trying to determine if his hot streak is going to stick around for the post-season.

They exchange observations, shit-talk a little like usual, the routine familiar and comforting.

“What would be top three teams you would be okay to go to now, if you had to leave Ottawa?” Ilya asks, during the break between first and second period.

They’ve asked each other a million things about their careers, their preferences, but Ilya hadn’t ever asked Shane about trade options because he seemed to know, instinctively, that the topic was a sensitive one for Shane.

That even after all his years in Ottawa, after the support he’d had from the front office, from the coaching staff… there was still a part of Shane that was stuck back in June 2009, seeing other names be called one after the other instead of his, just because of one leaked photograph.

But Shane’s felt more comfortable since he led the Centaurs to their first Cup, since the roster started filling up with guys who hadn’t been on the team without him being their C. It doesn’t feel like the Centaurs will toss him away, anymore.

So he can think about trades with more distance, with strategy, even. And Ilya probably sees that, too.

“Because of the city? Or the team?” he asks.

Ilya tilts his head back and forth. “Both? You can pick more than three if you want.”

“City-wise, I wouldn’t mind Toronto or Vancouver, but I don’t love the teams. Especially Toronto,” Shane says, frowning. That locker room is bound to be completely toxic, going by what gets hurled at Shane on the ice by Kent and his cronies. “And I’m really glad Winnipeg have a team again.”

“Kent is shit,” Ilya agrees, nodding, before taking a big bite of his sandwich, finishing it in one go. “But Toronto is fun city.”

“Team-wise, I think New York is pretty cool, I also really like Pittsburgh,” Shane says. He takes a sip of his ginger ale, tells himself to just spit it out. “And, um. I’d go to Boston, too.”

Ilya’s grin grows a little like a rising sun, until it’s big and goofy and has entirely taken over his face.

Shane feels his cheeks heat, and he shoves Ilya with an elbow. “Shut up, you know you’ve built a great team,” he says, even though Ilya hasn’t actually said anything out loud.

“I’d go to Ottawa,” Ilya offers back after a moment, grin still bright, but his eyes serious. “You built great team, too.”

Shane smiles down at the remains of his tuna melt, picks up a crumb that made it to the floor accidentally. “And where else would you go?” he asks.

He figures Ilya would like New York for the city and the team, despite how much he bitches about Scott Hunter, and places like LA or Florida would also probably suit him.

But Ilya shrugs, says, “Just Ottawa. Only place I’d go.”

Shane looks back up, stares at Ilya a little open-mouthed. He’s not sure what he might do—kiss Ilya, confess how he feels, go down to his knees and give him a blowjob—but Ilya’s cellphone rings before he can decide.

Ilya glances at the screen, grimaces.

“Is my father,” he says.

Shane grabs the control, mutes the TV. “It’s okay, take it. I can take the plates back to the kitchen while you talk.”

Ilya swallows, looks quickly at the caller ID and back at Shane. “Stay?” he asks.

Shane nods, settles back into the couch, and watches as Ilya physically braces himself before answering: his shoulders straighten, his back tenses, his eyes narrow. It’s almost like he’s going into a battle he knows is already lost, and it hurts to watch.

But Shane promised he’d stay, so he won’t look away.

“Privet, papa,” Ilya says, low, forcefully composed.

Shane can sort of understand the beginning of the conversation—hello, Dad; we spoke yesterday—but Ilya’s brittle composure gives way to confusion very soon, though, and he starts asking questions too fast for Shane to follow.

The hand that isn’t holding Ilya’s phone is close to Shane’s thigh, clenched in a tight fist, and Shane hesitates for a moment before covering it with his own.

Ilya’s eyes shoot towards his, startled, and he takes a deep breath, tells his father that he’ll call back slowly enough that Shane can understand it again.

“Is—” Shane bites back the everything okay because it’s obviously not, pivots to, “What happened? Can I help?”

Ilya shakes his head slightly, his face half-frustration, half-despair. “He—he’s getting worse. Kept asking when I was coming home from school, asking where mama was. I need to call his nurse.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “Why don’t you do that, and I’ll get you some water, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

Before standing up, Shane reaches up, places a hand on the side of Ilya’s face and runs his thumb across his cheekbone. Ilya closes his eyes, leans into it, and, fuck. Shane would make all of this better for him if he could.

As it is, he can offer water.

He takes the dirty plates to the kitchen with him while he goes, tries to pick out what he can understand from Ilya’s call with the nurse—two people per shift, he’s too unstable now—and gets back to the living room with a glass of water and another can of Coke. Ilya could use the sugar, probably.

It takes Ilya a moment to come back, once he hangs up. Shane sees him shift his shoulders again, shake his head a little, like he has to remind his own body that he’s in Boston and not somewhere else. Not in Moscow.

Shane quietly offers him the Coke and Ilya takes a long drink before putting it down and turning to look at Shane again.

“Thank you,” he says.

“What do you need?” Shane asks.

Ilya seems to think for a moment, and then says, “Just. Come here.”

Then he shifts back against the couch and pulls Shane by the shoulder until he’s nestled against Ilya’s side, his face resting on Ilya’s chest.

The TV is still on but Ilya doesn’t turn the sound back up, so all Shane can hear is the almost hypnotic sound of the two of them breathing, nearly in tandem, and the rhythmic thump-thump of Ilya’s heartbeat.

Ilya starts moving gentle fingers through Shane’s hair, making Shane feel boneless, precious. He reaches out, places a hand on top of Ilya’s thigh, caresses it slowly.

The heat and tension between them builds in a different way than it did when Shane arrived earlier—it’s not an immediate, overpowering inferno, but a slow-heating fire.

It still lands Shane in the same place, though, completely certain that if he doesn’t put his hands on Ilya, he may die. He feels almost drunk on the haze of it, as he nuzzles Ilya’s cock, feels Ilya reach in through his t-shirt, touch his bare back, and then Shane is on top of Ilya, shirt off, and they’re frotting against each other with abandon.

Shane kisses every inch of Ilya’s face, his neck, and Ilya kisses him back, blue-green eyes wide and dazed and adoring, and it’s just frotting but it feels like one of the most intense things they’ve ever done together.

Which is maybe why when Ilya moans, “Shane, fuck,” Shane can’t stop himself.

“I love you,” he gasps against Ilya’s mouth.

And then, promptly, wants to fucking die.

He leans back, feeling immediately cold, and stares down at Ilya in shock.

Ilya blinks up at him once, twice, like he’s only just processing the words, and Shane can’t do this, he can’t be here, half naked, dick out, while Ilya gently lets him down.

“I—I mean,” he stutters out, heart racing so fast he swears he could probably look down and see it try to run away from his own fucking chest. “Fuck, I need to go.”

His breath is shaky and he doesn’t in fact know if his legs are going to hold him when he stands up, but he has to try, he has to.

He can’t get up, though—Ilya is holding him too tightly.

“Hollander, you are having panic attack,” Ilya says, and the unexpected sound of his last name, Ilya’s steady hands gripping Shane’s sides, they help Shane calm down the tiniest bit, enough to take a breath, and then the next.

Ilya is breathing along with him, clearly telegraphing for Shane breathing in and breathing out, and the steady rhythm is something to follow until Shane feels a little more in control.

Ilya notices, gaze moving quickly across Shane’s face, and one of his hands moves from Shane’s hip to his chin, holding Shane’s face steady so he can look at him in the eyes. “Shane. I love you, too. You are my best friend, one of most important people in my life. You know this. I—I hope you know this. So, can—can you explain why you panic?”

Shane swallows.

There’s no real going back, he has to tell Ilya how he’s been feeling.

He knows Ilya will notice if he lies, even if he prevaricates, and he’s pretty sure it could do more damage to their friendship, to who they are to the other, than telling the truth.

So he does.

“I do know you love me, Ilya,” he confirms, trying hard to maintain eye contact with Ilya. It’s really hard, but it’s important, Ilya’s too important. “And I love you, too. But I’m also—well, I’m also in love with you.”

Ilya opens his mouth, blinks once, twice, closes it again.

His eyes are a pool of green-blue transparent enough that Shane could dive into them, and there’s a hint of wonder in them, but just as much fear. Maybe more fear than anything else.

“What—what this mean, exactly?”

And Shane is committed to saying the full truth, now, there’s no other way around it, but he doesn’t think he can do this while he’s on top of Ilya with half his ass and his dick out. So he shifts back, pulls up his pants, and climbs off Ilya’s lap.

Ilya seems to realize Shane won’t run away now, so he lets him and pulls up his own pants, too, and Shane settles next to him on the couch, one leg folded and one on the ground.

“It means—it means that I want something more, with you,” Shane starts, slowly picking out the words, forcing himself to give verbal shape to what he’s barely let himself properly dream of. “Something real, like, an actual romantic relationship. An exclusive relationship.”

Shane sees Ilya swallow hard, sees how the fear has almost entirely taken over, and he also sees the minute shift of his shoulders—Ilya preparing to brace himself, again.

It makes him reach out, take Ilya’s hand in his, and say, “It doesn’t mean we, like, put out a press release, tell everyone in the world. I don’t want that right now, I’d never do something that would put you at risk. It would be—it would be about us, about you and me.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Why now?

Shane pauses, shrugs. “I guess I just—I can’t pretend that I don’t like you as much as I do, anymore. That I don’t want more. I tried to stop, went out with Mark—” Ilya’s hand squeezes his hard, then, and Ilya’s brows furrow they way they usually do when he hears something he doesn’t like. “—but it didn’t really work. I mean, I didn’t exactly mean to blurt it out like this, I kind of wanted to make a plan about how to tell you, but…”

“I dickmatize you?”

Shane sputters out a laugh, the tension between them breaking like the crest of a wave. “What? No! Who taught you that?”

“Marley,” Ilya says, a pleased grin.

“You didn’t dickmatize me. Anyway, it was just—intense,” Shane says. And then adds, “Ilyusha, I don’t need—I don’t want you to answer right now, okay? I know it’s big. I know it’s not easy, because… well, because Russia. So I don’t want you to say yes just because it’s me who’s asking.”

Because Ilya’s done that, basically since they met. Made room for Shane in his life, gone out of his way to support him, defend him, protect him.

And it would kill Shane, if Ilya somehow agreed to this just because he loves Shane so much without actually wanting it himself.

“But it is you who is asking,” Ilya says softly, glancing down at their joined hands.

“I know. But it has to be you who decides, because of you. Because of what you want, or don’t.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand, leans close so he can look at him directly in the eyes. “No matter what, we’ll still be friends, okay? This isn’t—you don’t have to be in a relationship with me for me to care about you.”

“Okay,” Ilya says after a moment. “I promise I think about it.”

Shane nods, and then fits himself back into Ilya’s side, turns the volume of the TV back on.

There’s a shaky sort of tension in the air, still, like they’re both all-too aware that something fragile and delicate could break if only they breathe wrong.

But they watch the rest of the game in silence, watch New York win, and before Shane leaves Ilya’s house that night, he hugs him hard by the door.

Ilya hugs him back even harder, whispers, “I think about it. I will.”

A couple of weeks later, the entire Cens locker room is buzzing, and Shane feels on edge.

They’re at an away game in Montreal, which hasn’t ever stopped feeling like a particular kind of gauntlet for Shane, and their new social media guy pops in to tell them that the entire cast of the X Squad movie is in the audience, because they’re apparently filming in the city.

“And, Shane—looks like Rose Landry is wearing a Hollander jersey,” Harris says with a wink.

It’s a bold move, considering it’s a Montreal home game, and Shane actually really likes Rose Landry’s acting so it’s exciting to hear, but when Bood goes, “Oh, Rose Landry, Cap…” Shane rolls his eyes.

“I’m gay, Bood,” he says.

“I mean, I know, Hollzy, but—so gay you can’t go for Rose Landry?”

“That’s pretty much what gay is, yep,” Shane replies, and when Bood opens his mouth again, Hazy hits him upside the head with one of his gloves.

So, yeah, to say Shane’s on edge for the game is no exaggeration.

They manage to win, though, which does wonders for Shane’s mood, and when the X Squad cast go down to the locker room afterwards they invite both teams out to a bar. Everyone’s excited enough that Shane can’t bring himself to say no, so they head to a restaurant that J.J. Boizeau recommends.

“Don’t fight and, whatever you do, don’t you dare end up in the tabloids tomorrow,” Shane tells the team, before they walk inside.

He orders a ginger ale, despite the bartender’s incredulous stare, and thinks about how early he can tap out.

“That was one hell of a game, Shane Hollander,” a voice says. Shane turns to see Rose Landry sitting down next to him. “Have a fry to celebrate—they’re really amazing, but I can’t finish them or I won’t fit into my costume tomorrow.”

And so starts one of the weirdest nights of Shane’s life, where he and an Oscar-nominated actress spend about two hours talking about team rankings in the AHL and ECHL and sharing a plate of, admittedly, really good fries.

At some point, Miles Jones joins them and blatantly hits on Shane, which makes Shane sputter a bit until Rose looks at him closely and says, “I think he’s not available, babe. Right, Shane?”

Shane nods, because “not available” is maybe the closest he can come to describing what he and Ilya have, and it’s fine. They keep talking.

By the end of the night, Shane has Rose Landry’s phone number, and probably a pretty good friend.

The next day, though, back in Ottawa, he shows up to practice to find his stall plastered with tabloid print-outs: pictures of him and Rose laughing together at the bar.

Bood sidles up to him and drops an arm around his shoulder.

“So. Do you make yourself do bag skates for breaking the rules or what, Cap?”

Shane huffs out a laugh, shakes his head.

He does do bag skates, though—a rule is a rule.

Ilya Rozanov
Link: Shane Hollander and Rose Landry are total BFF goals!

Ilya Rozanov
this is buzzfeed lie, yes? WE are bff goals

Ilya Rozanov
shane?

Sorry! I was finishing a run

And yes, Ilya. I like Rose a lot and I think we’re becoming good friends, but you and I are best friends always. No matter what

I promise

Ilya Rozanov
ok

Ilya Rozanov
good

March 2017

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
Last-minute starting line up change in the San Jose v Boston game, Rozanov is out.

Deadspin @Deadspin
Breaking: Raiders’ Ilya Rozanov not playing tonight in California, allegedly for “personal reasons” | Click to read more

Shane gets the news twice.

First, as a rumor.

“Huh, looks like Rozanov’s out for the game against San Jose,” Bood says, because he has every news alert notification known to man.

Shane glances up sharply from taping his stick.

“Does it say why?”

He and Ilya haven’t been able to talk much and haven’t seen each other since that day in Boston because the Raiders are off on a long stand of away games in the Western Conference—the time difference and the distance have been a bitch.

Still, Ilya would’ve told him if he was injured.

Bood shrugs. “Just that he’s not in the line up, Deadspin says personal reasons?”

Shane can feel his heart start racing, and he drops the tape, for once in his life not caring that his ritual is going to be interrupted because personal reasons isn’t great, and if Ilya hasn’t texted him, then Shane’s calling Svetlana.

But there it is, the little red dot in his notifications.

So the second time, he hears it directly from the source.

Ilya Rozanov
papa is dead

Ilya Rozanov
in plane now, about to go to moscow

Ilya Rozanov
am okay. will still win scoring race

Ilya, I’m so sorry. I know it’s really complicated with your dad, but I can’t imagine how hard this is

I’m here to talk whenever you need, okay? I’m here always

Shane stares down at his phone for one minute, two, three, but no new text from Ilya is incoming. He probably texted Shane just before take-off, Shane can so clearly picture the flight attendant exasperatedly asking Ilya to turn his phone off.

Fuck.

This is going to be so hard on Ilya, in every way. The funeral, dealing with his brother, dealing with Russia in general… Shane doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what he can do.

What’s the playbook for when the shitty homophobic father of your best friend who you’re also in love with dies in a foreign country where you might get arrested if you let slip that you’re in love with him?

Shane can’t write out a bullet point list for it, can’t plan his way out of it, can’t make it better through sheer, dogged force of will.

All he knows is that he desperately wants to be right next to Ilya, more than anything.

So he presses call, and tries.

“Why do you look like shit?”

Ilya’s voice is hoarse and he looks like he hasn’t slept in two full days, the skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion, his hair disheveled in the way it only gets when Ilya can’t stop running nervous fingers through it.

He’s still, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Shane has ever seen, even through the small phone screen.

He huffs out a wet, frustrated breath. “I was up all night, talking to Farah and Gignon and everyone else I could, trying to get an express visa so I could get to Moscow, but there was no way. I really wanted to be there, Ilya. I’m so sorry.”

It stings, it sticks in his throat, that he can’t be there physically for Ilya, can’t hug him or run a hand through those messy curls—he can see, even through the screen, the sheer tension Ilya is holding himself with, and Shane hates that he can’t be there as a place where the tension can break.

Ilya’s eyes soften. “Lyubimyy... you don’t need to be sorry. I don’t think it would be safe here, anyway, for you, and—”

“And what?”

“And it helps me get through all of this, knowing I can go back to you,” Ilya says, after a moment, soft and a little tentative. “I—I can go back to you, yes?”

Because they haven’t really talked, not properly, after that day at Ilya’s house.

And they have to, they have to talk about what Shane said and what Ilya thinks and where they can actually go from here, if they really can go from best friends to more. To boyfriends.

But there’s only one possible answer that Shane can give right now.

“Of course you can. I’m always here. Ya vsegda zdes’,” Shane says, hoping his still very basic Russian isn’t betraying him.

The small, hopeful smile Ilya is sporting seems positive, anyway.

“Your Russian is getting very good,” he says.

Shane rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not, Svetlana keeps correcting me over voice notes whenever she helps me practice,” he says. “But I’m trying, I promise.”

Shane asked Svetlana for help because doing Duolingo and Babbel can only go so far, and she actually corrects him, unlike Ilya who just keeps insisting his accent is perfect. It means some of Svetlana’s best hockey advice comes in Russian, but it’s a pretty good motivator, overall.

Ilya looks at him quietly for a moment, something fragile in his eyes, the corner of his mouth trembling ever-so-slightly.

“What is it, Ilyusha?” Shane asks softly, the tone of his voice the one he uses when he and Ilya exchange secrets, when they talk to each other when they’re in bed, lying like parenthesis, opening up to each other the way they’ve been unable to stop since that long, long ago night at a hotel gym.

“I—don’t think I want to come back here at all, after I leave,” Ilya replies, sorrow dripping from every word.

Considering Ilya’s only been in Moscow for a few hours, Shane can only imagine just how shitty those hours were.

There’s always been this tension in Ilya, when talking about Russia. Shane’s always been able to tell how much he loves it, how inherent it is to so much of who Ilya is… but it’s hard to love something that won’t love you back, that can’t.

Shane should fucking know—he was already on the thinnest fucking ice, not being white. And then that photograph… He’d spent years pushing himself to be the best, leaving everything and anything by the wayside that wouldn’t help him get there, and even then, it wasn’t enough. Every day since the leak, Shane’s had to prove himself three times over, and he does it because he won’t be pushed out of the ice by people who are worse at hockey than him for who he is, and who he fucks. He refuses.

And yet, there’s a part of him, one he barely ever dares to acknowledge, that will always want for Boston or Montreal to have picked him anyway. A part of him that will always want an apology, a redress that is never, ever going to come.

So there’s no easy answer, for Ilya. As much as Shane wants to just say So fuck Russia, just come back and stay here, it’s never going to be as simple as that.

What he offers Ilya, in the end, is, “Do you want to tell me about it? About Moscow, what you’ll miss?”

Ilya blinks at him for a moment.

“I don’t know if I can in English. I’m—my brain is tired.”

“So tell me in Russian,” Shane says.

And Ilya does.

Eventually, they switch from video call to a regular call because Ilya decides he wants to walk to some of the places he’s telling Shane about, and that’s how Shane spends the next two hours.

With Ilya’s lilting voice in his ear, managing to pick out maybe one word in eight, seeing Moscow through Ilya’s eyes.

The next couple of days, while Ilya goes through various bureaucratic and fairly aggravating-sounding tasks to get everything ready for his father’s funeral, Shane feels like he’s sleep-walking through daily life.

Moscow is seven hours ahead of Ottawa, so Shane often gets a good morning text from Ilya while he’s about to go to sleep, a flurry of updates and increasingly creative insults aimed at Ilya’s brother while Shane is sleeping, and they can only manage to properly talk when it’s around noon for Shane; 7 pm for Ilya.

It’s disorienting and not nearly enough—Shane still feels overwhelming frustration at the fact that he couldn’t get a visa in time to be there.

Still, he thinks he’s mostly handling it, keeping it together. Until, at practice, Bood puts a heavy arm around his shoulders and looks at him earnestly.

“Cap, I know you pride yourself on being steady, always putting your head down and working hard, but… you’d tell us if there was something wrong, right?”

Shane frowns. “What? Why would something be wrong?”

“Because Tanner just fucked up a drill for the third time in a row and you haven’t threatened to murder him yet!” Bood exclaims, despairing.

Shane glances over at where Tanner Dillon is on the ice, and, sure enough, he is in the absolutely wrong position, despite the fact that Shane has gone over this particular play with him five times.

Fucking Dillon.

“I’m just… I’m worried about Ilya,” Shane says, with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I thought I was holding it together a little better. I really didn’t mean for it to affect practice.”

Bood squeezes Shane a little closer with the arm he still has over his shoulders, and it really shouldn’t make Shane feel comparatively small given his height and sheer muscle mass, but then again, Bood is a giant even for MLH standards.

“No, hey, bud, you don’t need to be sorry,” Bood says. “We decided we shouldn’t ask you about it when we heard about Rozanov’s dad because you probably were already super worried, but maybe we should’ve. I mean, he’s your best friend, Hollzy—you’re allowed to be a little distracted worrying about him.”

“I tried to go to Russia so I could be there for the funeral,” Shane confesses.

Bood raises his eyebrows. “No shit. I mean, I guess it’s not that surprising, though. You give one thousand percent to everything in your life, Shane. Of course you’d give one thousand percent to your best friend.”

Shane glances around at the rink, at this place where he found a welcome and a home when he thought the rest of the hockey world was ready to throw him away. This team that he’s built into a champion, but which had his back before they ever raised a Cup together.

If he can’t say it here, he won’t be able to say it anywhere, he doesn’t think.

“I, uh. I actually want him to be more than my best friend,” he tells Bood. “I’m sort of really in love with him.”

“Oh, shit, wow,” Bood says softly, and then pulls Shane fully into a hug.

“Um. Why are you hugging me, Bood?” Shane asks, muffled against Bood’s giant fucking shoulder.

“I’m just so happy for you, Hollz,” Bood says. “Love is love is love, you know? And I’m so happy that my Cap’s in love.”

Shane tries to pull back from the hug, but Bood hugs him a little harder and sort of shuffle dances with him on ice.

“Boys, we do have a practice going on, you know?” Coach Wiebe says mildly. “And why is Boodram crying?”

Shane sighs. “Sorry, Coach. He’s having a moment because love is love.”

“... Right,” Wiebe says after a moment. “Not gonna unpack that. We’re running power play drills now, okay?”

Shane nods, and skates to get into position, Bood a weird giant limpet still half-hugging him. It’s a pretty good leg workout.

“I want something more with you, too, Shane,” Ilya says, as soon as Shane picks up his call.

They don’t usually talk when it’s so early in the morning for Ilya and so late at night for Shane; the way Ilya’s voice sounds, Shane doubts he actually went to sleep at all. Shane only picked up because Ilya’s number is one of three that can get through his do-not-disturb.

“I—Ilya, what do you mean? Are you okay?” he asks, blearily reaching towards his nightstand to turn the lamp on.

“I am okay,” Ilya says. Then, after he sighs loud enough that the phone crackles with the sound of air, “I mean, no. I am probably bad. I—I couldn’t sleep last night, after funeral. So I walked to the place where mama is buried.”

“You walked alone to a cemetery in the middle of the night?” Shane exclaims, sitting up properly in bed.

“I am over six feet tall and over 200 pounds, Shane,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smirk on his face. “Yes, I walk alone to a cemetery in the middle of the night.”

“Sorry, right. I just—I worry,” Shane says.

There’s silence across the line for a beat, two.

Then,

“I like that you worry,” Ilya says, voice a little hoarse. “That you worry about me. I—this is what I think about, walking to mama’s grave. That for so many years, since she is gone, my family don’t worry, they don’t care. They just want more. Always more from me.”

“I’m so sorry, Ilya. You deserve better, you really do,” Shane says, meaning it down to the bone marrow.

“You help me believe that,” Ilya tells him. “You and Sveta, you both are all I really have left. That’s why I go to mama. I go to say goodbye, because I want you and me, Shane, and I can’t have you and me and come back to Russia.”

“Ilyusha,” Shane breathes out. “We—we can be discreet, okay? I don’t want to put you at risk. I don’t want to take away your chance to go back to Russia.”

“You aren’t taking anything, Shane,” Ilya says. “I’m make the choice. I told you before, when we talk, yes? I really don’t think I want to come back. And also—”

Ilya stops, and Shane listens to him breathing down the line for a few seconds.

“What is it?”

“Shane, if I have you for real, to keep, then fuck discreet,” Ilya says in a rush. “You didn’t choose for everyone to know you are gay and it was so unfair, what happen to you. But you refused to hide. So I don’t want to make you hide this.”

Shane starts blinking fast, but he feels the hot rush of tears in his eyes regardless.

“Can you—Ilya, I need to see you. Can we switch over to video?” he sniffs.

A FaceTime request pops up immediately, and Shane clicks accept to see that Ilya is as watery-eyed as he is.

“You are so beautiful,” Ilya says. “I think I would maybe kill someone over just your freckles, you know?”

“Shut up,” Shane replies, roughly running a knuckle under his eyes to try and catch the tears. “You fucking asshole, I really love you. You’re so fucking beautiful, too. Fuck, when are you coming back?”

“I love you, too, Shane. Am in love with you, too,” Ilya says, his blue eyes serious and wide and sincere, and Shane feels like his heart is about to beat right out of his fucking chest. “I come back in four days.”

Shane thinks about his upcoming games, the Raiders’... there’s no Ottawa-Boston matchup in what’s left of the season, but rather a punishing ramp-up for both of them because the playoffs are closer and closer.

Anyway, a single day or a single night wouldn’t be enough.

“Come to my cottage this summer,” Shane says decisively. “As soon as we’re done with playoffs.”

“What if is until June?” Ilya asks, haughty. “I visit you with the Cup?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Come on, asshole, we both know neither of us are taking it. We’ll make it to the playoffs, sure, but your two goalies are a mess, and we’re weak at center again, so…”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya grumbles. But then he looks at Shane intently. “You are sure you want me to come? Cottage is your special place.”

Ilya had been witness to many, many moments of Shane going crazy over the building plans for the cottage over the years, his arguments with contractors, his bragging about the well water.

He’s also never stopped making fun of Shane about the documentary, but he seems to always remember way more details about it than Shane does, so Shane always feels a little suspicious about it.

“I want you to come. I want you there so badly, Ilyusha,” Shane says. “Will you?”

“Okay. Okay, Shane,” Ilya replies. “I’m coming to the cottage.”

May-June 2017

MLH @MLH
Round 1 of the 2017 playoffs is done! Get ready for Round 2, to see all teams advancing click here

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
With Boston and Ottawa out in the first round, the East looks like it’s a dead-heat between New York, Tampa, and Pittsburgh. TSN updated playoffs bracket HERE

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
Hollander and Rozanov are out of the playoffs, which means both Marek and Wysh have to go back to the drawing board for their bracket. Is this Pittsburgh’s year? San Francisco’s? Or, dare we say it… New York’s?

“Are you feeling okay, honey? You’re unusually, uh—calm, for this time of the year,” Yuna asks, looking at him with concern.

Shane’s having lunch with his parents at their usual restaurant in Ottawa before driving to Lanaudière to his cottage, their end-of-season tradition.

And, listen, it’s not that Shane is fine with being out of the playoffs.

He’s an elite hockey player in the MLH, of course he’s never going to want to be out of the playoffs. It’s just that for the first time ever, summer doesn’t mean just training and waiting around for hockey to start again, and for Ilya to text him at weird hours and eventually come back from Russia so they can train with Scott Hunter or whoever.

This time, it means spending time with Ilya with no other excuses or reasons; it’s just because they want to spend time together.

And this time, it means spending time with Ilya as something more than best friends.

So, yeah. Shane is upset over being out of the playoffs, but definitely not as upset as he would have been any other year.

“I’m okay, mom,” Shane says. “I’m just looking forward to relaxing a bit.”

“And you’re sure about heading to your cottage so early? I know it’s rough to be out soon, kid, but I don’t think you should beat yourself up about it. You shouldn’t be out there alone for so long,” his dad tells him, looking at him with concern.

“I won’t be alone,” Shane says immediately, and then forces himself not to wince when both his parents perk up. They still hold out some hope that Mark the nice guy from Ottawa makes a comeback. “Ilya’s coming.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” his mom says, the does Shane finally have a boyfriend demeanor shifting to the more normal Shane is very intense about his Russian best friend mode. “Are you two doing another training program? Make sure to take a few pictures, video, it does really well on your socials.”

“We’re not doing a training program,” Shane says. “I mean, we might. Train. But, uh—I invited him so we can—so I—so we can just be?”

Shane hardly knows what’s coming out of his mouth—he really doesn’t want to explain to his parents that Ilya and him have been having sex since their first All-Star Game but as friends, only Shane caught feelings and now he’s pretty sure Ilya’s the love of his life and now he’s hoping Ilya telling him you and me when he was in Moscow means the same.

But his parents must understand something, because they turn to look at each other, Yuna’s eyebrows raised, his dad smiling slightly, and then they look back at him.

“That sounds really wonderful, honey,” his mom says. “We’ll be heading up to our place up there in about a week, it would be great if the two of you can come for dinner.”

“I’ll make the pasta Ilya likes,” his dad adds, looking incredibly pleased and like he’s already forgotten who Mark from Ottawa even is.

Shane clears his throat, because he doesn’t want to cry in this restaurant. It would really throw off his routine if they had to find a new one because he’s too embarrassed to come back.

“Yeah, uh. Thanks. We’ll definitely try to make it for dinner when you’re there.”

He takes a long drink of ginger ale, thinking he’s safe to go back to his salmon, when his mom says,

“You know, Uniqlo would be thrilled to do a Pride collection with the two of you.”

Shane groans. “Mom!”

“What? You know that Ilya loves their shirts for the cold. And their jackets.”

The moment Shane parks in front of his cottage, it finally truly hits him that Ilya is coming.

That Ilya is coming and that they’ll finally talk about what they could become, that they might finally kiss and have sex as something more than friends. That Ilya is coming and he might just stay.

The panic that threatens to overwhelm him when all of those things hit at once can only be held at bay by the most trusted of Shane’s routines: making a plan with a checklist.

By the time it’s time to pick up Ilya at the airport, Shane has bought three back-up towels, two additional full sets of sheets, a 24-pack of Coke, too many Slim cheddar flavored popcorn to count, and even Doritos, because Ilya mentioned they were a snack he liked back when they were like, nineteen years old. He also bought Ilya water shoes, because Shane’s certain Ilya didn’t buy any for himself despite the packing list suggestion Shane sent him two weeks ago, and Shane refuses to let their time at the cottage be ruined because Ilya cuts himself with a rock if they go swimming in the lake.

Shane is waiting at arrivals at least twenty minutes before Ilya’s plane lands, and if this were Montreal or Vancouver, people would probably be crowding him already, asking for an autograph. In Ottawa, however, people remain fiercely protective of him and his privacy, because he’s theirs, the hometown boy who stayed, the hometown boy who got them their first Cup, his sexuality be damned.

So they watch out for him in ways he doesn’t even expect—he actually catches someone stopping a guy with a Metros hat from approaching him out of the corner of his eye.

He’s not sure how much the unspoken bubble of privacy is going to hold once people realize he’s waiting to pick up Ilya Rozanov, though, because their friendship seems to fascinate everyone, but Shane doesn’t care.

He hasn’t seen Ilya in so long; he refuses to waste even a minute.

And when Ilya finally steps out of the arrival’s gate, looking unfairly fucking beautiful in a black tank that makes Shane think truly pornographic things about his shoulders, Shane knows he made the right choice—the smile on Ilya’s face when he catches sight of him is a little bit like the sun rising.

“Hollander, I could have rented car, you didn’t need to pick me up,” Ilya says when he’s finally in front of Shane, his grin completely belying his words.

Shane rolls his eyes as he reaches for Ilya’s bag and starts wheeling it towards the exit, knowing Ilya will follow. “You would’ve rented a Spyder or something and would’ve ended up stalled in one of the smaller roads.”

“This is slander, Shane, I am best driver, you know this,” Ilya argues, walking close behind him. “Also I can take my own bag.”

“I absolutely do not know this, no,” Shane says. “And you’re my guest, Roz, so get over it.”

Ilya’s quiet after that, and Shane glances back, worried that maybe he was too harsh only to find Ilya blushing ever so slightly and looking reluctantly pleased.

Perfect. Shane’s winning this cottage vacation thing already.

Shane planned to give Ilya a tour, show off the synthetic ice rink, the jet-skis… The second the door closes behind them, though, Shane drops Ilya’s bag and turns to kiss him against the door.

The feeling of Ilya’s body against his is never something he takes for granted—the strength, the warm muscle, the few places where the muscle and sinew gives way to unexpected, tender softness.

They’ve had sex many times, seen each other naked for years now, but there’s always been a part of Shane that felt he couldn’t exactly take as much time as he wanted to just admire Ilya’s body. It felt a little too much like something he couldn’t have, a little too much like something that would have given Shane away.

But now he doesn’t stop himself.

He takes hold of Ilya’s bare shoulders, kisses the thin skin between his neck and his collarbone, lets another hand move to the top of Ilya’s ass—squeezes.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya moans, his own hands restlessly moving across Shane’s back. But then he pulls back slightly, evades one of Shane’s kisses, and asks, “You—you don’t want to give me tour, Mr. Real Estate? Show off your well?”

“What? A tour—” Shane stutters out. He can feel how hard Ilya is against him, so the reticence is unusual. Maybe Shane’s being a little too forward, but there hasn’t really been a time since they started this, with real or metaphorical tequila, that Ilya hasn’t immediately kissed Shane back, or impatiently taken off his clothes. “Are you okay? We don’t have to…”

Ilya presses close again, peppers two, three clumsy kisses across Shane’s face.

“No, no, of course I want,” he says urgently. “Is just, I have never been boyfriend. I want to do a good job, not just sex.”

Shane feels nearly overcome by tenderness, incandescent with just how much he loves Ilya, how much he likes him. How much that single word encapsulates exactly what he wants.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, clearing his throat after his voice cracks half-way through the word.

Ilya tilts his head, his brows furrowing slightly. “I mean, yes. I think so, probably,” he replies seriously.

And Shane, Shane has to kiss him.

He pulls back after a moment, looks into Ilya’s eyes. “You know what your first job as my boyfriend is?”

“What?” Ilya asks, eyes wide and attentive.

“To let me suck your dick and then get hard again so you can fuck me,” Shane says.

Ilya’s mouth drops open. “Wow, romance is dead already,” he says, but his voice is delighted.

“Shut the fuck up and take off your pants,” Shane says, stepping back and grabbing Ilya by the hand to lead him to his bedroom.

It’s just been too fucking long.

The days that follow are a distillation of everything Shane’s desperately wanted for months, maybe even years, and forced himself to ignore.

There are things that have always been there. The comfort he’s always felt with Ilya, the jokes, the conversations, the edge of competition and push-and-pull that’s always been part of their friendship—playing MLH 14 and fighting over who gets to be the Metros, daring each other to run faster, racing each other in jet skis in the lake.

But now, when Shane wants to, he can lean over and kiss Ilya, can hold his hand, can rest a head against his shoulder or Ilya can put his head in Shane’s lap, and there’s no need to do it under the cover of tequila or Shane’s sexual bucket list or anything except what it is: that Shane is Ilya’s, and Ilya is his.

Officially calling each other boyfriends seems to trigger an even deeper sweetness in Ilya, too—like the word has erased whatever remaining barrier there might have been in expressing his affection.

Ilya’s always hugged Shane, draped a proprietary arm around his shoulders whenever they were around other people, but now the arms go around Shane’s waist, the hugs turn into cuddling on the couch, the meandering conversations and teasing into kissing and sex.

There’s also just the sheer pleasure of time.

They have time to nap, and to play videogames, and to give each other blowjobs and then nap again.

To head to the synthetic ice and play equally disastrous goalie to each other—they keep leaving the net to fight over the puck—and to grill too many burgers and try to follow recipes for healthy banana muffins that end up with having sex on the floor of the kitchen with very little regard to the fact that as professional athletes they should really not be doing that to their knees.

There’s no ticking clock, no practice or games to run off to, and it begins to strike Shane, just how hard it’s going to be to go back to that once these four weeks are over.

Ilya seems to have his own set of worries, because one very early morning, Shane reaches across the bed and instead of meeting warm skin he finds empty sheets. It makes him blink his eyes open and frown—considering how late they ended up sleeping last night, after Ilya rimmed Shane for such a long time Shane actually cried, Ilya should be dead to the world.

A glance out the window reveals that he’s perched on one of the rocks near the water, smoking.

So Shane gets out of bed, wincing at the feeling of the cold wooden floor against his feet, and grabs one of the blankets he keeps in a basket in the corner of the room. He makes his way to the kitchen and prepares two cups of coffee, grateful that the machine he has doesn’t require much more than clicking two buttons to deliver the hot beverage, and carefully walks towards where Ilya is sitting.

“Hey,” he says softly, handing over Ilya’s coffee and putting his down for a moment so he can cover Ilya with the blanket. “You okay?”

Ilya puts out his cigarette and takes a sip of coffee, stares out at the lake for a beat longer, and then looks back at Shane.

“I had a dream about my mama last night,” he says.

Shane breathes in sharply, immediately all-too aware of the gossamer delicacy of the moment. Even after all these years, Ilya hasn’t shared much more about his mother other than the fact that she’s dead.

When they were younger, Shane thought it might have been a question of trust, or maybe of delineating the depth of their friendship away from certain topics that were too intimate. But Ilya has shared so much of himself with Shane over the years, recklessly and absolutely, somehow certain Shane would keep that kernel at the center of Ilya Rozanov safe, and Shane had. He always will.

So the avoidance of the topic, Shane came to understand, is rather because talking about it hurts Ilya.

Looking at his face now, Shane thinks it also scares him.

So, as carefully as he can, Shane leans a little closer, lets the weight of his arm press against Ilya, and asks, “Do you want to tell me about her?”

Ilya blinks, looks down. Shane can see him swallow hard, can feel the slight shift in his shoulders—he’s preparing to be brave.

“She was so funny, and so beautiful,” Ilya starts, haltingly. “She was the first who took me to the ice, the one who picked me up when I fall.”

Shane can see it, in his mind’s eye—a little boy with a riot of blond curls, a woman with his blue-green eyes laughing, reaching to help him stand again. He wants so badly to reach back into the past, to hug the little boy, to somehow make it so the woman never left.

“But she was so sad,” Ilya continues. “She was so sad, and my father, he was not patient. I tried to cheer her up, tried to be better at hockey, to learn how to cook pelmeni for her, but—” Ilya shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “When I was twelve, I found her. She swallowed too many pills, and—and my father just said is accident. But I know it wasn’t.”

Shane can’t stop himself, he puts down his cup of coffee, reaches up to hug Ilya, pressing Ilya’s face against his neck. He feels the hot tears Ilya can’t hold back and suddenly, viscerally, wants to crack open his own chest, let Ilya inside, keep him safe forever so nothing can hurt him again.

“Thank you for telling me,” Shane says.

“Sometimes I think maybe I get sad like her,” Ilya says, ever so quietly, into the crook of Shane’s neck. “It scares me.”

One of Shane’s hands moves up to Ilya’s hair and he buries it in the messy curls, holds Ilya even tighter.

“Thank you for telling me,” Shane repeats, soft, tender. “We can make a plan if you want. Maybe… maybe find someone you can talk to?”

Ilya is silent for a moment, and then he burrows closer to Shane, says, “I want.”

They stay like that, holding each other, until the sun fully rises over the water.

A few days later, Shane’s parents invite them over to watch Game 7 of the Cup Final at their own cottage.

Shane knows this is his mom’s idea of a “low pressure” activity for Ilya’s first interaction with them as Shane’s boyfriend and not just as Shane’s best friend. Of course, given the way Ilya likes chirping at Scott Hunter even when Scott can’t hear him and the way Shane’s mom loves yelling at the refs, Shane isn’t too sure it’s going to be low pressure at all.

Ilya needles Shane into attempting a second version of the banana muffins, because “Is so rude to show up empty handed, Hollander,” and this time they actually finish them without abandoning the batter half-way through to have sex.

By the time they make it to his parents’ place, Ilya is visibly buzzing with a mixture of nerves and bravado the like of which Shane can only remember seeing on the day of the draft, a detail he’d registered back then in the haze of disappointment and anger he was trying to swallow down.

He guesses that, from a certain perspective, Yuna Hollander is as intimidating as the MLH Draft.

“Shane, Ilya, welcome!” his dad says, immediately pulling Ilya into a hug that has him staring at Shane over his dad’s shoulder, clearly startled.

Shane smiles, feeling so incredibly warm at the sight, that he doesn’t realize his mom is right by his shoulder until she speaks.

“I did wonder just about, when you told us, if this would work,” she says quietly. “But the way you look at him… I’m so happy for you, Shane.”

“Thank you, mom,” Shane says, clearing his throat.

Ilya looks over at the sound and his brow creases with concern at whatever Shane’s face is doing—he probably looks like he’s about to cry, he can feel tears pushing against his waterline—but Shane smiles, shakes his head slightly, and Ilya relaxes and turns back to the conversation he’s having with Shane’s dad.

“I made the pasta you like,” his dad is saying. “We have extra parmesan, too.”

“We brought banana muffins,” Ilya offers back.

Shane’s dad looks a little confused, but he says, “That’s great, son,” and Ilya looks like he won the lottery.

So they eat, and then they congregate around the TV in the living room to watch the game with banana muffins, wine for Shane’s mom, vodka for Ilya and his dad, and a beer for Shane because he’s feeling a little daring.

“I can’t believe Scott Hunter’s going to win Stanley Cup,” Ilya grumbles, when it’s three minutes until the third period ends and New York is up 4-1. Stranger things have happened in hockey, but it looks pretty much like a done deal.

“He’s had a hell of a season,” Yuna says. “His game has been really fearless.”

“Yes, but it should be Shane or me,” Ilya says, biting into a muffin angrily. “Or Shane and me.”

Shane frowns, because that almost sounds like… before he can say anything, though, the final buzzer sounds, and the New York Admirals are officially the 2017 MLH Cup Winners.

Ilya is right that it’s annoying to watch someone who isn’t the two of them celebrate at center ice—it was even a little annoying when it was Ilya and not Shane—but it’s still pretty amazing to see the families pour onto the ice, Hunter’s boyfriend included among them without question.

Hunter skates over to him, kisses him, and one of the commentators says, “And that’s Scott Hunter’s partner, Kip Grady—apparently they met over smoothies, can you believe it Don?”

“Well, you never know, James. It’s a great night for Scott Hunter, for the Admirals, and for hockey. After the difficulties Shane Hollander faced at the start of his career, the fact that we now have a Cup-winning captain kissing his boyfriend in center ice—well, all I can say is love wins.”

Ilya scoffs at that. “What? No, we are love wins,” he says, gesturing between himself and Shane. “We are love winners, we have two MLH Cups between us! We should just do hard throw, see how Scott Hunter likes that.”

Shane is torn between laughing and kissing Ilya, because, fuck, he loves this ridiculous man, but the last bit has him frowning. “Hard throw? Oh, you mean hard launch.”

“Yes, is what I say,” Ilya replies with a shrug.

Because of course he does.

Because this is Ilya Rozanov in a nutshell: a man who loves so completely, so loudly, that he can decide from one moment to the next to befriend a scared eighteen year-old in a gym because he’s entirely too affronted by the way he’s been treated for being gay, and, just like that, become the most important person in his life. And when that scared eighteen year-old grows up, and falls in love with him, he decides to love him back with everything he has, even if it means facing slurs on ice, even if it puts his visa at risk, even if he can’t ever go back to his country.

Shane turns to exchange a look with his parents—his dad is smiling, a little teary-eyed, and his mom looks like she’s already thinking of an Excel sheet they need to pull up.

So Shane leans across the couch and kisses Ilya—it’s a short kiss because his parents are right there, but Shane can’t help himself—and says,

“Okay. Okay, but we need to wait a bit, Ilya. We need to make sure you’re safe, yeah? Your visa is tied to the Raiders, and we need to make sure they wouldn’t put you in jeopardy if we go public.”

Ilya bites his lip, looks a little shifty.

“Ilya, what did you do?”

“Well, I am restricted free agent starting next season,” Ilya starts, fidgeting slightly on the couch, one of his hands going up to tug at his ear. “So I ask Gignon to see if maybe there was option to move. I didn’t want to say unless it was sure thing,” he adds quickly, like he’s worried Shane might be angry.

Shane feels like he’s going to pass out.

He thinks back to that day at Ilya’s house, when Shane blurted out that he loved him. Thinks about the conversation before, about trades, about Ilya saying that the only team he’d move to would be Ottawa.

“Ilya, did—did you ask Gignon to see if you could come to the Centaurs?”

But Ilya lifts a shoulder. “You keep saying you need depth at center, and Boston—Boston needed goalie. And prospects.”

Because the Raiders’ roster is getting old, yeah. And with Hazy in goal, the support of the goaltending coach, their back-up has gotten so much better but barely has any chance to play, not when Hayes is healthy—and he’s basically always healthy.

It makes sense.

It’s insane.

It’s the best fucking thing Shane’s ever heard.

“You’re coming to Ottawa?” Shane asks, feeling like just saying the words might call down some terrible calamity on them, because he wants it so fucking much.

“Yes, contract just needs to be approved,” Ilya says seriously. And then he grins, that shit-eating, rabble-rousing grin that Shane loves just as much as he’s learned to dread. “But I only come if you agree to hard throw.”

And Shane can’t help himself, he kisses Ilya again, and this time it’s not a short kiss, not even with his parents in the room.

Even with a contract signed with the Centaurs, Shane and Yuna convince Ilya to wait before coming out as a couple.

The trade hasn’t been officially announced yet, and the last thing Shane wants is for Crowell to throw up a stink with accusations of tampering just because Shane and Ilya are together.

He’s also asked Farah to put together a really solid package on Canadian immigration law and pathways to citizenship for Ilya, because he wants to make sure nobody can threaten to pull Ilya’s visa if he goes on IR or anything of the sort once he’s playing for Ottawa.

Ilya pouts, but he looks overwhelmed with feeling when he sees Shane and Yuna sitting at the cottage’s dining table with two laptops open and a tablet, Gignon and Farah on speaker phone and two Excel tables between them.

Shane glances up, worried, and drags him to their bedroom to make sure he’s okay.

“Am okay, solnyshko,” Ilya promises. He runs a soft knuckle across Shane’s freckles, smiles. “I just don’t know how to believe is real sometimes, how you love me. How much.” He leans closer, kisses Shane soft like a feather. “Two Excel tables… I am so loved, Shane Hollander.”

In the end, a new scandal overtakes the MLH before they enact step one in the first Excel table: a disgruntled employee is in the middle of a bitter, bitter divorce, and among the reams of discovery demanded by feuding lawyers there are years of internal league correspondence which get leaked.

Within the leaks, there are emails from 2009 sent directly from Crowell to all MLH teams after Shane was outed suggesting not only that they shouldn’t pick Shane first or second in the draft, but maybe not draft him at all.

There’s also some pretty vile overall language on all diversity initiatives in the league, from Pride Nights to Vancouver’s First Nations jerseys to, of course, Shane’s own Hockey is For Everyone.

And all hell breaks loose.

MLH @MLH
Commissioner Crowell has been suspended pending investigation, and Deputy Commissioner Jones will be taking over his duties ad interim. The MLH is committed to ensuring hockey is for everyone. Read full statement here.

TSN Hockey @TSNHockey
#MLHLeak fall-out continues: Crowell under investigation while players and fans call for accountability and the League tries to regain public trust.

Ottawa Citizen @OttawaCitizen
Shane Hollander jerseys reach all-time high in sales, sell-out despite five restocks in a row #WeStandWithHollander #CentaursStrong #HockeyIsForEveryone

Montreal Gazette @mtlgazette
Serious questions facing Metros GM and front office after #MLHLeak: did Montreal lose out on a dynasty because of discrimination?// Questions sérieuses pour le GM et la direction de Metro après #MLHLeak: Montréal a-t-il perdu une dynastie à cause de la discrimination?

Puck Daddy @YahooPuckDaddy
Boston was probably always going to pick Rozanov because he jived best with their style, but we would not want to be any of the GMs from the teams that passed on Hollander after them right now…

Broads on Hockey Podcast @BroadsonHockey
Well, shit. Being right has never felt more awful. We can only hope the #MLHLeak will lead to meaningful change across the board so no kid ever has to experience what Shane Hollander had to. We’ll be dropping an episode to discuss tonight, find us wherever you listen to your podcasts #WeStandWithHollander #CentaursStrong #HockeyIsForEveryone

Shane gets a request for a call from Deputy Commissioner Jones, and he makes him wait until he has Farah, his mom, and one of the MLHPA guys on the phone.

“Hi, this is Shane Hollander,” he says, and his voice is calm, but his hands are shaking so much that Ilya takes Shane’s hand in his, places a whisper of a kiss on his knuckles.

“Breathe, Shane,” he mouths.

He’s sitting so close he’s almost on Shane’s lap, he’s refused to move an inch from Shane’s side since the leak.

“Shane, thank you for taking my call,” Jones says. He has the voice of a man who hasn’t slept in twenty hours and has faced down about fifteen different crises, which Shane guesses is about accurate. People keep dredging up worse and worse shit in the emails. “You might have read the statement the League put out, but I wanted to call you personally and offer our deepest apologies, as well as our assurance that we are taking this very seriously. We are committed to making the MLH a place that is truly free of discrimination.”

“Thank you, Deputy Commissioner. I appreciate your call, and your personal assurances,” Shane says. He glances to the side, meets Ilya’s gaze—fierce and loving and entirely supportive—and squares his shoulders. “Assurances aren’t enough, however. I invited my agent, Farah Jalali, as well as the MLH Players Association, so we can discuss how to make sure these assurances lead to concrete changes and real protection for all players.”

The call takes nearly four hours and Shane still feels like they’ve barely scratched the surface. Still, on the table are standard non-discrimination clauses in all player contracts, a policy against retaliation, mandatory training, and that’s not nothing.

“What did you think?” Shane asks Ilya.

Ilya grabs Shane by the nape, pulls him into a long, wet kiss.

“I think you’re a fucking wonder, Shane Hollander, and I’m so lucky you’re my boyfriend,” he says, after pulling back.

“Good. Because I’m pretty sure we can hard throw now.”

Image descriptions: Six pictures of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. The first picture is the two of them in the handshake line of World Juniors, seventeen years old. The second picture is a selfie in a hotel gym, badly lit, eighteen years old. The third picture is their first All-Stars Game, Ilya kissing Shane’s cheek after a goal. The fourth picture is Shane hugging Ilya after the Raiders’ Cup win. The fifth picture is Ilya hugging Shane after the Centaurs’ cup win. The sixth picture is Shane kissing Ilya’s cheek in front of a lake in Shane’s cottage.
shanehollanderhockey and theilyarozanov sometimes you’re lucky enough and your best friend turns out to be the love of your life #LoveWinners #HockeyIsForEveryone
Liked by rose.landry, cliffmarleuuuuu and 1,542,762 more

“I still can’t believe you made us use that hashtag.”

They’re sitting together on top of the rock by the lake since it’s become Ilya’s favorite place, watching the sunset over the water.

“Is true, isn’t it?” Ilya says. “We are love winners, Shane Hollander, and next year we’re winning the Cup together. And the year after that, and the year after that.”

Shane leans against Ilya’s shoulder. “Yeah? And you don’t think all the other teams will have something to say about it?”

Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head, then tilts his chin up to kiss his lips.

“You know what Boston media ask Marley once my trade was announced?” he asks, after he pulls back.

“What?”

“Why he didn’t become my boyfriend so I would stay in Boston,” Ilya replies with a delighted grin. “They all know we are unstoppable now, malysh.”

Shane huffs out a laugh, helpless in the face of Ilya’s smile. And then he pauses. “Wait, what did Marleau tell them?”

“That you are too hot, so nobody else stood a chance,” Ilya says, shrugging. “Is true. You are the only one for me, Shane Hollander. No other would do.”

And Shane, Shane has to kiss him for that.

Chapter End Notes

To say I never expected this fic to get this long is an understatement, but I had a really amazing time writing this version of Shane and Ilya. I really, really hope you enjoyed it, too!!

In case you feel like sharing, fic is rebloggable here!