Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Beta Shane Hollander, Not Kind to the Montreal Voyageurs, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Pack Dynamics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nesting, somewhere between established situationship and relationship, no tuna melts in this universe, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Collections:

invitation to: the cottage

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Words: 5,665 Chapters: 1/1

room rules

Summary

Barred from his own locker room after a game against Boston, Shane shows up to the Bears room instead, hoping for refuge.

He gets that and more.

Notes

hiiiiiii

NOTE RE CANON DIVERGENCE: they become exclusive post tuna melt instead of the rose thing and shane comes out to his parents+hayden, and then his team finds out and isn't very cool about it. blend of book and show but i’m using the marleau spelling because those were the vibes I got from him today.

this is 1000% self indulgent. i’m not aiming for total accuracy in real life hockey rules, a/b/o rules, or in canon. i would love to write more hr a/b/o so consider this my foot in the door i guess!

despite the divergence, if you'd like a timeline for reference, this would take place sometime around january 2017 after a boston home game against montreal!

hope you're all doing amazing! x not beta read (ha) (shane will get right on that)

It’s not his best idea. Not even a good one in any capacity, really. Certainly not one that’s going to hold up under scrutiny if he’s questioned about it later. 

But how much does that really matter, Shane thinks, if they’ve all decided he’s a traitor to them anyway? 

The Boston event center isn’t completely unlike their home rink in Montreal, enough that Shane can infer the general layout and smile at the right people to get to where he needs to go. He’s been here countless times on the opposite side of things, but never this intimately. 

Over his shoulder, he can still hear the roar of fans and press. They shouldn’t be allowed back here, but there’s always a chance—especially when Shane’s absence is going to be distinctly notable. He keeps his head down, hands shoved into his pockets, sweat still clinging to his undershirt, and keeps walking. 

He makes a couple more turns, the hallway lights dimming and the noise further away until finally, he reaches the team entrance of the home locker room. 

He’s never been more relieved to see that fucking Bear. 

Feeling somewhat like he’s committing a felony of some kind, Shane shudders in a breath and lifts his fist to knock. 

The thick door swings open inward, and Shane blinks up at Cliff Marleau, whose smile wanes just a little when he tilts his head. 

“Hollander?” he says. “What are you doin’ here?” 

It catches some attention. The rest of the room behind him which had previously been raucous with post-victory adrenaline dulls slightly, a couple of the guys not so subtly glancing over with furrowed brows. 

Shane swallows, makes fists inside of his pockets, rocks on his feet. 

“Um. Hi. Is—is Rozanov here?” 

Marly’s a nice guy, Shane knows. But he thinks his own eyes would narrow too if someone came to the opposing locker room straight after a loss asking about their captain. 

Marleau crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “What d’you want with Roz?” 

Several other Boston players wander into Shane’s line of sight behind Marleau’s shoulder, curious. Shane makes eye contact briefly with Carmichael and St. Simon and, despite the way he might’ve tried a bit harder to meet their eyeline on the ice, he lowers them now in a mix of respect and uncomfortability. 

Fuck. He shouldn’t have come here. 

“Nothing. I shouldn’t have—I should go. Sorry. I don’t know what I was…” 

Shane takes a step back, stumbles slightly as the realization sets in that he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Not with the way back to his own room flooded with press now. 

“Hey, woah. Take it easy there, dude.” Marleau reaches out before he can get too far and grabs his shoulder to steady him. “Where’s your team at?” 

Without thinking, Shane answers, “I’m not supposed to—I can’t be in there right now.” 

“You’re their captain,” he frowns. “Why are you not allowed in your own room after a game?” 

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m sorry, really,” Shane insists. He manages to free himself but not before the sound of clicking shoes and media-trained voices echoes down the hallway, and he freezes again. 

“Hollander,” Marleau says, “get in here.” 

Shane ducks his head again and slips into the locker room past where Marleau’s holding open the door, and it seals closed again behind them, the incoming noise shut out. His neck prickles with tension and all of the eyes he can feel on him, but he’s relieved, at least, to no longer be out in the open. 

“Can we do that?” somebody calls from the far corner, in that shameless, unfiltered sort of way that they do when there’s no one else around to hear. 

Shane braces again, but the question doesn’t sound irritated. In fact, it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the ones in his own room. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know. We can play dumb,” Marleau answers, one hand on Shane’s shoulder to steer him inside, the other flipping off someone who’d insinuated that it wouldn’t be playing. Then, more calmly to Shane, “Roz is doing a presser. He should be back soon. Here, you wanna sit?” 

They cross the room toward what Shane can take an obvious guess is Ilya’s locker, a familiar t-shirt leaking out of the cubby at the top, his phone face down on top of it. They’d texted before the game, but even that hadn’t entirely been enough to ease Shane’s nerves the way it usually does. 

He sits down on the bench in front of it and wipes his clammy palms on his thighs. He hadn’t gotten to shower, and every piece of clothing touching him right now feels gross and heavy, weighed down with sweat and the subtle but unmistakable stench of anger and his own nerves underneath it. 

“Heads up, Hollander,” Marleau calls from his own locker. His instincts take over, and he raises a hand just in time to catch the bottle thrown his way. “Water,” he explains.  

“Thanks.” 

The tone definitely shifts in the room as Shane lifts the bottle and squirts some into his mouth, a few of the players who’d been boasting about winning glancing over sheepishly now. But mostly they all just continue with whatever they’d been doing, not ignoring Shane but not singling him out either. It’s… nice, in a weird way. 

Already, he can feel the buzz of anxious adrenaline lowering just enough to think properly. Ilya always scents at least a little of the rest of his team, evidence of how different they are from Shane’s. Knocking heads or swinging arms around shoulders, unashamed to be openly affectionate in ways that would have gotten Shane questioned before, and now would get him something much worse, probably. 

Shane used to tell himself that it was just different leadership styles, and that was all. But with the disgusted faces of Comeau and Drapeau still stained behind his eyelids, he thinks maybe it’s more than that. 

The room erupts again as the main door opens from the hallway, a brief burst of noise from the reporters, and if Shane hadn’t already known to expect him, he would know it was Ilya by the way his team reacts alone. 

They swarm all at once in a sea of cheers and half-naked enthusiasm, Ilya’s laugh nearly drowned out by the repetition of cap! cap! cap! as he wrestles his way out of the fray. Shane can only blink as he watches it all, the shoulder grabs and the fond ruffling of hair, wondering for a devastating moment if he’s been doing it all wrong all these years. 

He’s not jealous. It’s something else—the way they look at Ilya, the trust there. Shane knows instinctively that even if Montreal had taken the win tonight the energy in here would still be good, would be fuel instead of punishment. 

Shane’s given everything to his team. Led them to Cups, lended them his mentorship, made them better. He’s still the same man he was when he’d done all those things. His knuckles go white around the bottle in his hand. He can’t think any more about it right now. 

“You got company, Roz,” Marleau says with a light push to Ilya’s shoulder, and Shane looks up just in time to catch the split second of buffering Ilya does before his crooked grin morphs into concern. 

“Hollander?” he asks carefully, though Shane notes that he doesn’t necessarily seem afraid. 

“Sorry,” Shane rushes out as Ilya crouches in front of him. “I can’t go back and get my stuff until they leave, and I didn’t—I wasn’t sure where else to go that there weren’t cameras or fans. I’ll leave in a minute.” 

Ilya’s brow furrows. “What do you mean—you could not go back.” 

“To my room,” Shane clarifies, looking at his lap. He lowers his voice. “The showers, everyone changing, they didn’t want…” 

In front of him, Ilya’s face goes blank in a way that Shane has only ever seen in replays right before his fist goes sailing at someone’s nose. This time, it seems even scarier. 

“Tell me you are fucking joking.” 

“If it was a joke I wouldn’t be in your fucking room with your team around, Ilya,” he hisses quietly, eyes shooting around toward the few of his teammates that keep glancing over. 

Ilya stares at him for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw bulging every so often as he grinds his teeth. Shane wants to touch it with his fingers the way he does when they’re alone, wants to tell him not to hurt himself. Certainly not to do it over Shane. 

But they’re very clearly not alone here, and even if Ilya’s team seems generally much more accepting, Shane won’t risk Ilya potentially losing them the same way Shane can feel his own hold beginning to slip. 

Eventually Ilya takes a long, centering breath, and then he nods. 

“Okay. You shower here.” 

“What?” Shane blanches. “I can’t—” 

He stands, turning around to face the room. “Anyone here have a problem with Hollander using our showers?” 

A chorus of no’s bounces off the locker room walls, and it sounds different like this. Without hesitation. Ilya nods again, approvingly. 

“All of you will behave. None of you will bother him.” 

Another consensus of agreement rings out as everyone disperses back to their lockers, getting dressed, talking about plans, back in that sweet spot of not a nuisance nor a spectacle. 

Standing from the bench on still slightly unsteady legs, Shane glances off toward the showers. 

“I don’t have my clothes,” he tells Ilya. 

He steps over the bench and reaches into his own bag, pulls out a familiar looking t-shirt and comfortable sweats. Unbranded, Shane is relieved to find. At least he won’t have to do his walk of shame in a Bears jersey. Or worse, in a Bears jersey with Rozanov branded across his shoulders. 

Ilya tips his chin toward the showers. “Go.” 

Exhausted and a little overwhelmed by all of the day’s events, Shane holds the comfort of Ilya’s scent tight against his chest and goes. 

+

Soapy water circles the drain by his feet, fingers a little too harsh as he scrubs at his hair and skin. It all feels itchy, inescapable. Even when he tries not to let it, his mind wanders anyway. 

Not even six months ago, Shane could never have imagined himself telling anyone that he wasn’t straight. If not for Ilya, he might have been able to go years. Maybe he’d have kept it in until retirement. But then Ilya had happened, and even then, Shane was prepared to take what he could get. It was only after the weekend at his house that things changed, that Shane realized it was like that for both of them. 

They still don’t have a name for it, really. It’s not possible; at least not within the next few years. But acknowledging the want out loud had changed things between them, had made it something that was no longer so easy to shove into a box, compartmentalize, and ignore. 

So, he’d told his parents. And, after some careful thought, he’d decided to tell Hayden, too. Neither of them knew about Ilya yet, but that was part of the plan. Doing it on their own terms. 

And then J.J. found out, which wouldn’t have been a bad thing, on its own. But J.J. can be loud sometimes, more so after a few shots, and suddenly a private conversation overheard with Hayden was fodder for the whole table that’d decided to go out after the latest victory. Within the next twenty-four hours, the whole team knew. 

He’d talked to his coach, addressed it in the locker room with Hayden’s guilty eyes and J.J.’s stubborn hurt feelings and the rest of them looking at him like a stranger. None of that had been part of the plan. But he couldn’t take it back, so he’d done the best with what he could, and it hadn’t been brought up again. 

But, really, it’d never left. 

It’s in every interaction he has with them now. The shifting eyes and shoulder checks. The way they doubt him more often, insist on trying their own ways before they try Shane’s, even the ones that had always asked him for advice before. He’s always felt other than everyone else in the small ways, but this is—something else. It’s stifling. And it only seems to get worse. 

When the noise outside in the locker room quiets down and Shane’s been standing under the spray for too long, procrastinating, he makes himself stop the water and dry off. He dresses in Ilya’s borrowed clothes, scrubbing at his hair and taking a final moment to gather himself before he walks out. 

The room is only less than half full now. Ilya is there at the bench, typing on his phone when Shane approaches. He pockets it when he looks up, glances once thoroughly over Shane, and nods. 

“We are going to my house,” he says, and reaches for his bag. 

“Okay.” Shane tries not to be too obvious about how relieved he is. If there’s anything he could use right now, it’s to shack up at Ilya’s and ignore the rest of the world for a little while. 

And then Ilya adds with a gesture of his wrist, “All of us.” 

Shane blinks. 

“What.” 

He finishes with his bag, doing up the zipper and hiking it higher on his shoulder. “We cannot stay here. If I am under the same roof as your team any longer I will do something very bad.” 

“No, I know. But we—why is your team—? If they’re coming over, I should just go back to my hotel.” 

Ilya looks at him. “That is still under same roof as them.” 

“Well, yeah. I have to go back at some point,” Shane nearly laughs, but it comes out more exasperated than anything. “They’re my team, Ilya.” 

“Yes. And tonight you need pack. Not team.” 

The word, for some reason, feels like a blow to the chest. Shane swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. 

“I don’t have that.” 

“You have mine,” Ilya says patiently, then turns for the side door. “Come. Marly got your bag.” 

Shane stumbles off after him, whispering loudly. “Wha—how?” 

“Pike came by to give it to you. But he could not stay. He is not welcome here like you are.” 

He follows Ilya out into the hallway. “Oh.” 

“They are watching both ends of the hallway for us. We can leave through the back. They will follow after.” 

Sure enough, when he and Ilya hurriedly cross to the other side of the corridor, Shane spots the tail end of Hammersmith’s salute waving them off. From the opposite end, he can hear Marleau’s booming laugh echo in charming distraction. 

It’s nice. Nice enough that Shane’s eyes burn, a little. He tells himself it’s just the wind as they step outside into Boston’s crisp evening air. 

“You won,” Shane points out as they slide into the front of one of Ilya’s fancy sports cars. He’ll have to come back for his later. He doesn’t think it would go over well to mention now that he’s a little hesitant to walk to his car alone. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. 

“Shouldn’t you be going out?” 

He shrugs as they pull out of the lot and onto the road. “We do this sometimes. No big deal. Good to mix things up.” 

Shane wants to ask what this is, but he thinks it’s already achingly clear how different they are. He spends a lot of his time finding ways to get out of going out with his team after games. And if they manage to wrangle him out anyway, he’s usually more busy planning how he’s going to leave than enjoying his time celebrating. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. He hasn’t been invited in weeks. 

When some of Ilya’s tension seems to have eased, he reaches across the center console for Shane’s hand. It’s easy to tangle them together, more than it should be since it’s not something they’ve ever done before like this. Shane manages a bit of a smile as he watches Ilya’s thumb trace the wave of his knuckles. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

Shane’s throat clicks. “You—you trust them?” 

“Yes.” 

“They’re going to ask you questions. I’m already surprised they haven’t accused me of misconduct for coming to your locker room. I shouldn’t have—that could have gotten you in trouble. Still might.” 

“They trust me.” Ilya squeezes his hand. “If I tell them you are safe, they will think so too.” 

It’s terrifyingly simple. Shane tries to remember if he’d had that trust too, even before all of this. When it comes to strategy and technique, unflinchingly. But anything else? Any cracks, any humanness, that’s always been a risk. 

He’s not so sure he wants to be in a room like that anymore. 

Several other cars pull into Ilya’s behind them when they arrive, and Shane fights the instinctive impulse to hide or come up with an excuse for being seen here. But no one seems to think much of it, shouldering up the front steps and roughhousing in Ilya’s driveway until Ilya whistles at them and they all fall into somewhat of a cohesive line. 

They’re no better with the door unlocked, spilling into Ilya’s foyer and tumbling down the hallway. He and Ilya end up at the rear while Shane toes off his shoes at the entrance, and with the rest of them distracted, Ilya reaches out to press a thumb to the finicky corner of Shane’s mouth until it earns him a smile. He darts a kiss to the same spot, Shane’s face burning all the while, before leading them further into the house. 

The rest of his team has stopped in a dogpile at one of the hall closets, and Shane realizes it’s one he’s never even really noticed before. He’d figured it was just coats or extra storage, but with it thrown open wide and stuffed with reaching hands, he sees tall shelves stacked with blankets, pillows, and—this isn’t just a linen closet, Shane realizes belatedly. 

“You keep nesting stuff here?” he turns to ask Ilya. 

Leaning against the wall beside him, Ilya only shrugs. “They like it, sometimes. None of us are very good at it, but—” 

“Hey!” one of the rookies pops their heads out of the closet to protest. “That’s, like, a super offensive stereotype, Cap!” 

He rolls his eyes, but his grin gives away his fondness. “Yes, yes. Sorry, Sebbin. Your nests are very pretty.” 

The heat from earlier stains Shane’s cheeks again. He idles off to the side by Ilya while the others ravage the closet on their way to the living room, unused to something so intimate being treated so casually. Then again, it isn’t like Shane has much experience with it. 

Neither of his parents do it, and he’d never had a reason to learn. His old girlfriend made them before they broke up after he left for the draft, but they were always this sacred, secret thing that Shane knew happened but wasn’t allowed to actually see. Which was fine, he supposes. They hadn’t been serious, and he wasn’t offended by it at the time. 

But he hadn’t realized how much he wondered about it until now. What it might be like. He’s sure that Ilya’s been a part of plenty before, but Shane doesn’t really give off enough scent to be of much use in that way so there’s never been a chance of an invitation, and he’s never considered just making his own. 

“Is always here,” Ilya tells him over his shoulder, quieter. “I wash it. If you want to use, ever.” 

Shane looks down at his socked feet. “Have you ever used it with any—?” 

“No. Only pack.” Just for a moment, warm breath touches the side of his neck as Ilya’s voice drops further. “Would be nice. Something like that, just for us.” 

It’s a stubborn task after that, getting his feet to keep moving to the kitchen. 

Shane is suddenly very aware of why he’s only ever seen Ilya’s cupboards practically bare. He stands at the island and watches his teammates ravage whatever’s left, rummaging through the pantry, the cabinets, the shelves in the fridge. 

Ilya shoulders through them all to get to a smaller cooler built into the cabinetry where several drinks are chilling, and pulls out a familiar can of ginger ale. He sets it on the countertop and slides it in a clean line toward Shane on the opposite side to the tune of Hammersmith narrating it as if it were a play-by-play, the granite a sheet of ice. The can is pleasantly cool in Shane’s palm. He cracks it open, along with a smile for good measure. 

From there, it’s a mad dash to the living room for what Shane learns quickly has several so-called ‘good seats’ that they all fight to claim. He feels a vague sense of alarm watching very strong, very grown men pushing and shoving and bickering, a little like he’s worried for both Ilya’s delicate table lamps and for everyone’s health with the amount of junk food being passed around. But every time he looks over at Ilya he’s perfectly calm and undeniably fond, so Shane bites his tongue and drinks his ginger ale instead. 

The television flicks on as somebody flips off the overheads, turning on the lamps the way that Shane likes. Ilya steps carefully over the rookies who have curled up in the space between the couch and the coffee table, shooing two other players from the sectional. They grumble but ultimately acquiesce, leaving two wide cushions near the end empty. 

Ilya drops down onto one, taking one of the unused blankets for himself, and then looks up at Shane and says, “Come here.” 

Shane freezes for a moment, glancing around the room. 

“I’d take him up on that if I were you, Hollander,” Marleau encourages from the armchair. “Roz gives the best cuddles in the league.” 

“High praise, Marly.” Ilya drawls. “It does not count as cuddling if you cling like oversized koala while I am trying to run away, by the way.” 

“Hey, fuck you, man. I thought we had something real,” Marleau pouts, but it turns into a grin as several of the other guys offer to take Ilya’s place. 

It was engineered distraction, Shane realizes as Ilya looks back at him, holding out a hand. “Come,” he says again, just for Shane. 

With the others involved in their own conversation, Shane takes the same pathway, apologizing to the rookies as he steps around them to get to the couch. He has to pull his legs up onto the cushion so they don’t hit the guy in front of him, his folded knees resting against Ilya’s thigh. Ilya drops the blanket on top of them, and no one is any wiser about it. 

Another argument breaks out over what to watch, cans popping open and bags crinkling, someone with a mouthful on the other side of the table complaining quit fuckin’ hogging the good blanket, Carmy while they flip through their options. 

Subtly, Ilya’s arm rests on the back of the sofa, his hand lifting to circle the back of Shane’s neck. It’s not a particularly bold move, not since Shane doesn’t actually have whatever biological trigger it is that makes it a claiming gesture, but he feels it all the same. It’s always been like that, with Ilya. Like the actual biology part of it doesn’t really matter. 

He presses with his fingertips, the right kind of pressure that never fails to unwind some of the stubborn knots of tension in his neck. He knows Ilya can feel the thump of his pulse, the hitch in his breathing. 

This, even though no one’s paying them any attention, is the most open they’ve ever been. 

“This is good, yes?” Ilya asks in a murmur. 

It takes a minute to find his voice. 

“Yeah,” Shane nods. “Thank you.” 

This, too, is something he hadn’t realized he liked until Ilya. His own household growing up hadn’t been particularly touch-centered aside from hugs at family functions and pats on the head or shoulder for his accomplishments. It was fine. Shane had taken after his parents, none of them much engineered to crave that sort of thing. 

Ilya is the complete opposite. Some of it’s biology but a lot of it is just him, Shane thinks. For someone Shane knows is capable of breaking a nose with his bare fist without significant effort, Ilya has always been tactile, and he’s always been intuitive about it. Knows when to offer a hand up and when to keep someone down. When to touch Shane just like this, with careful fingertips at the back of his neck, and when to wrap them around his throat instead when he presses him into the mattress and doesn’t let up. 

It’s unlocked something in Shane he hadn’t been certain he was ready to find out was there. He’s gotten spoiled with touch now, learned to crave it. He’d figured his designation would be an advantage, but if anything, he thinks it might actually make everything worse. 

His body doesn’t naturally remember things—scent, touch, comfort—the way that other designations do. Things fade quicker, bleed out of his system faster. Without anything to block it, Ilya might smell like him for days after spending a night together. Shane is already nearly back to smelling only of himself by the time he gets back to the hotel. 

It makes him even needier, in some ways. Even if he doesn’t think Ilya minds. Means he has to stay longer, press harder, let himself fall deeper just to feel satisfied, just so that his biology doesn’t forget what his mind knows after he walks out the door. 

One day, maybe, they’ll have the time to do that. It’d be nice. 

Shane watches the movie they put on intermittently, aware that it’s nearly past curfew but strangely unbothered by it. It’s difficult to be anything other than relaxed with Ilya’s fingers working their way up into his hair, the lights dim and noise lower now, the soft blankets, the scent here so much different than the one in his own room earlier. 

When the movie finally ends no one puts on another, turning instead to gather around the coffee table. Shane listens as they move through topics, sharing stories about their families, girlfriends, and their plans for the upcoming off-season. 

The only person from his own team he’s ever talked about anything other than hockey with is Hayden and sometimes J.J., and he can’t even remember the last time he’d offered something about himself in return. 

“Okay, look,” one of the guys who’s been darting eyes at Shane for the last few minutes announces. “I’m just gonna say it.” 

Shane’s shoulders draw up, and he subtly tilts his head away from Ilya’s hand. 

“I don’t know the full story. And I know we’re supposed to hate you or whatever, but that bullshit aside, you’re a fucking legend. Everybody knows that. And any team that acts like it’s not a fucking privelage to have you playing on their side is probably one that doesn’t deserve you doing it.” 

Forcing his held breath out, Shane blinks. “Oh. That’s—that’s really kind of you to say,” he tells Ilya’s teammate. “Thank you.” 

“I know they drafted you. We get it. Seriously, we’d lose our shit if we lost Roz,” Marleau adds. “But if Montreal’s not gonna appreciate what they’ve got…” he trails off with a shrug. “I’m just saying. There’s other places that would.” 

It’s almost another hour before everyone stands up to start leaving, and Shane feels oddly disarmed,  having survived a social situation that for once hadn’t felt like pulling teeth. Everyone is nicer than Shane expected, very clearly comfortable around their captain. Not in the same way that Shane is, but. It’s good. Different, but really good. 

Shane idles by the island as Ilya finishes saying goodbye to everyone, checking the phone he’s been avoiding looking at for the last few hours. He responds to a text from his mom confirming upcoming plans, scans through a couple of emails at the top of his inbox, and then finally opens the texts from Hayden when he can’t avoid them any longer. Shane tries to formulate a polite, neutral response, but it doesn’t come. 

He’s still looking down at the screen when Ilya comes back, alone this time, and wraps both arms around him from behind. He dips to press a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, then the side of his neck. 

“Stay tonight,” he says. 

“I shouldn’t,” Shane sighs, locking his phone and setting it on the counter. “I’ve already missed curfew. They’ll talk.” 

“They do this already,” Ilya argues. “They will talk anyway, and you will put up with it. Only difference will be you do this after we make shitty nest and I fuck you very nicely in it, or you do it after boring night alone in hotel room wishing I was there.” 

“Tempting,” he teases, knowing that he’s already going to say yes. He’s far too tired to drive back now, and he doesn’t want to make Ilya get out again either. 

Even a handful of months ago, it’s not something he’d ever have considered. Team always came first, and he’d never regretted it. But now… his eyes drift toward the phone on the counter again, swaying a little in Ilya’s embrace. 

“I should at least answer Hayden.” 

“If you want to,” Ilya shrugs. 

“He brought my bag.” 

“It is the least he could have done.” 

“I can’t expect him to wrangle the whole team for me by himself. I don’t want to make him a target either.” 

This time, it’s Ilya that sighs. He kisses his shoulder again, then unravels his grip around Shane’s waist. “Go call your friend. Then we go to bed.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees. He turns around to lean against the island, watching Ilya clean up some of the trash from earlier. “Ilya?”

“Hm?” 

“Thank you. For this. Today. I didn’t know that I…” he hesitates. “That I needed it so much.” 

“Everyone needs comfort sometimes,” he says. “But you, maybe, need more right now. I think they made it clear, but you are welcome. Any time. With or without the team here.” 

Shane swallows thickly. “That means a lot.” 

“Is nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing,” he frowns. “It’s pack, Ilya. That’s not nothing.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I’m saying it wrong, I think,” Ilya backtracks with a furrow in his brow, drying his hands at the sink. “I mean—feels like no big deal, saying it to you now, because I have already thought about it.”

“Oh.” Shane’s chest feels warm. “For how long?”

“Longer than I should, probably.” 

He watches as Ilya halfheartedly finishes tidying up the kitchen, but when he goes to pass through to the living room, Shane grabs his wrist before he can and pulls him in. 

“Hey. You’re a really good captain,” Shane tells him. “You’re a good man, Ilya. A good alpha.” 

Ilya stares at him openly for a few seconds, and Shane can see him fighting between making a joke or accepting the praise. Eventually he rips his gaze away, shiny now, and sniffs. 

“Blyat. Too many feelings, Hollander. Go call Pike.”  

Shane laughs. “What happened to everyone needs comfort sometimes?” 

“Not me, of course. I am big and strong and do not need this.” 

“Right,” he says flatly. “That’s why you want to nest.” 

“Nest is for you!” 

He rolls his eyes, pushing Ilya in the shoulder toward the stairs. “Go start on it.” 

“You do not want me to wait?” 

“No.” Shane bites down on a grin, turning away to grab his phone off the counter. “I’m going to have to re-organize whatever you put down anyway, so. Save us some time on the first draft.” 

“So mean, Hollander,” Ilya gasps, caging him in against the island. “Cannot believe I let you order me around this way.” 

“I think you like it,” Shane accuses, tilting his head to the side. 

Ilya nips his shoulder. “I think you are correct.” 

It’s terribly easy to slide their mouths together, and Shane sinks into it like a stone in water. It’s the first time he and Ilya have been truly alone all day, and even though it was unexpectedly nice having the team over, he couldn’t do this with them here. 

“You know you are also good captain, yes?” Ilya says when he parts from his mouth. He rubs at the back of Shane’s neck again. “Good man. My very smart, very talented beta.” 

“I—I do know that. Logically. I just…” Shane exhales, dropping his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “I think I need to be good tonight in a way that nobody can take away from me. You know?” 

Ilya hums, kissing the top of his head. “I will make nest now. Come and find me when you are done.” 

“I won’t be long,” Shane promises, and watches him go. 

He looks down at the phone in his hand, hovering a thumb over the call button on Hayden’s contact. As the line rings, he brings a hand up to rub at the spot on his neck Ilya’s hand had vacated moments before. 

Tonight, you need pack. You have mine. 

Shane smiles into the empty kitchen, still ringing with the echo of laughter and conversation. Distantly, he can hear Ilya moving around upstairs, gathering and preparing things for them. Tomorrow he’ll have to go back, but. 

For tonight, staying sounds like a really, really good idea.