Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Same Team Au, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Shane Hollander can let the soft animal of his body love what it loves as a treat, Dom/sub Undertones, Shades of touch starvation, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of dream team

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Words: 28,296 Chapters: 1/1

wild geese

Summary

In 2013 Shane is drafted to the Boston Raiders, the team where Ilya Rozanov has played for three years and is now captain. Shane is determined not to let his hockey crush on Rozanov impact his game, but as the season progresses, Shane has to admit that the hockey crush is turning into something more. If only Rozanov would stop touching him all the time, maybe Shane would be able to get a grip…

Notes

Yes, like the poem!
I don’t really go here. Please accept this humble offering and feel free to read through the bulleted caveats if needed:
-This fic is based off the show, including side characters, backgrounds, and appearances.
-Includes OMCs and OFCs, hand-wavey hockey, and hand-wavey Sochi Olympics
-They are 3 years apart in this, not the same age
-I understand that the general consensus for “same team” fics is to put them on the Centaurs, but I don’t know anything about Ottawa or The Long Game (I have it on hold at the library), so I put them on the Raiders. Sorry Yuna.
-Ilya’s English is at a level before the, “when did your English get so good” question. I also have a personal headcanon that he gets lazy with English when he’s flirting.
-I understand if book fans might be looking for more canon-based fics, so please click away if this is not your cup of tea!
*Includes brief mention of off-screen consensual teenaged sex.*
**Please do not repost anywhere. This is locked for a reason.**

During their first game of the season, Shane saw Ilya kiss a man. It was such a brief moment in the chaos of the celebration that Shane probably wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn’t happened right in front the bench. Shane’s hindbrain lit up in confusion, and the triumph he’d felt at seeing the goal was momentarily swallowed in a sea of other feelings. Had he seen that right? And why was he jealous? Shane looked down the bench and saw nothing but his teammates hollering their approval and pounding their sticks. 

“You beauty!” Ilya was crowing when Shane turned back to him. 

And Jordy, the guy who’d gotten kissed, looked like he did during every celly. 

It’s fine during a game, Shane thought to himself. Now that he was thinking about it, he’d seen guys on other teams in other games throughout the years do the same. But it had been such a shock to have it be Ilya, and to have it be right in front of Shane’s face.

 Though maybe it shouldn’t have been. He was Russian, after all, and comments like, “Europeans, eh,” came up when guys like Korhonen or Bastien did something a little odd. It was kind of like how goalies were also a little odd. Shane had gathered, by listening to this sort of thing, that Europeans were given a lot of leeway for acting strange. 

When he got home that night he googled, “are Russians considered Europeans,” and then, “Russian cheek kisses.” He was halfway through page two of Google Images when he paused, blinked, and then quit the browser.

“What are you doing, dude,” he said to himself, and went off to find something more useful to do. 

Shane did some laundry and read a few chapters of his book. But it was hard to keep focused on the pages. He kept thinking about what it might feel like, Ilya’s mouth against his skin. It was making him fidget where he sat on the couch. Shane thought about Ilya’s breath against his cheek, how tight Ilya’s arm would be around his neck, the warm press of Ilya’s lips. Would Ilya ever do that to Shane, on ice, after a goal? 

“God,” he muttered. “Don’t think about it.” 

Unfortunately, his brain did not listen. In fact, his brain proceeded to do the opposite over the next week. And once he’d exhausted all possibilities and angles of the cheek kiss, he moved on to real kissing, which was disastrous. Shane felt like the lowest of creatures, jerking off to mental images of his teammate and captain. But there he was, in the shower, before bed, in the morning before getting out of bed. He was depraved. It was a problem. 

Shane tried desperately not to bring his weird shit to practice. He’d had crushes on a couple team members before, when he was in middle school and high school. It was because they were good at hockey, Shane always told himself. And it had never been an issue because Shane knew the rules for acceptable behavior in any sort of team setting. If he had a crush, he tacked on a few more: he kept his hands to himself, he did not seek out the person for extra conversation, and he did not allow wandering eyes. He’d always been able to follow these rules.

But there was something about Ilya. Shane’s eyes had started to wander, big time. 

He would just be sitting there, tying up his skates, and then somehow find himself tracking Ilya from across the room. It was like magnets, or static cling, or something. 

It didn’t help that Ilya was so tactile. And while it was true that Ilya grabbed at everyone so long as they were on his team, the people he touched most were Marleau and, well, Shane. It wasn’t like he was counting, or anything. Shane already felt crazy without adding a tally count into the mix. But it was substantial enough (and Shane was paying enough attention) for it to be noticeable. 

Did it mean something, that Ilya touched Shane the most? It was too dangerous a question to ponder, what with the way his thoughts were going. Shane avoided looking into it.

In general, Shane didn’t like to be touched out of the blue, and definitely not by people he didn’t know well. But he was used to teammates being handsy. It was hockey, after all. 

Maybe if Ilya hadn’t been who he was, Shane would have weathered those touches with the same acceptance he had for everyone else on the team. But Ilya was Ilya, and even before getting drafted Shane had had a pretty giant hockey crush on him. It wasn’t long before instead of flinching away from Ilya’s smacks and pats and grabs, Shane was looking forward to them. 

There was a proprietary aspect to these touches that Shane liked well enough to not want to look into too closely. Since the pre-season, Ilya’d reach out for him, drag him along this way or that, he’d put his hands on Shane’s waist and move him out of the way. Sometimes during practice he’d hook Shane playfully with his stick and spin him around a few times. The best was when he’d put his hand in Shane’s hair and scratch a little. It was hard to focus on anything when that happened, and Ilya didn’t do it too often. Shane used to think about Ilya’s hands in his hair a lot, but then the cheek kiss happened, and Shane’s mental spiral into depravity had begun. He was thinking about many, many other things now.

Shane wasn’t a complete idiot even though he was kind of a pro at sneaking around in his own mind to avoid uncomfortable truths. After the first few jerk-off sessions he had to admit outright that the hockey crush had turned into a Crush, capital C. It was mortifying, but also inescapable. Worse, he couldn’t seem to get a hold on himself to stick to his well-tried rules. Shane’s eyes couldn’t stop following Ilya around. 

It didn’t help that the team had a running bit that Shane was the captain’s favorite. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be hazing this guy, not buying him ginger ale?” Marleau asked one night.

Ilya swung an arm around Shane’s shoulders and tucked him right up against Ilya’s body. 

“Shut your idiot face, Marleau,” he said, and Shane tried not to look too smug. 

“It’s hard to haze a rookie who’s so good at hockey, eh,” Hayden said morosely. “Maybe next season we’ll get someone who isn’t a child prodigy.” 

“I’m not a child,” Shane said, irked.

Hayden waved a hand, uncaring.

“Next year we can only hope the captain won’t develop a rookie obsession,” Marleau said, holding up a shot glass ostensibly to himself since no one else joined in, and threw it back. 

Shane stared at him, suddenly overcome with a vision of some new draftee stealing away all of Ilya’s attention. 

“Whoa,” Marleau said, holding his hands up. “Put those laser eyes away, Hollander.” 

“Pranks okay. No hazing,” said Ilya. “Is bad for team. Bad for winning.”

The guys in the booth all grumbled their acceptance easily enough and the conversation moved on after that. Shane tried to keep very still under Ilya’s arm, so that maybe he’d forget he put it there and Shane could stay, held like that, for as long as possible. 

It didn’t last too long. After a few minutes, Ilya squeezed Shane’s shoulder and then got up and disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor. No doubt he would meet a beautiful woman in there and leave. Shane tried not to look as morose as he felt. He could pick up too, if he wanted. He’d broken up with his girlfriend before training camp. 

Women liked Shane because they thought he was cute, or whatever. But women loved Ilya. The times Shane did go out with the team, Ilya always picked up. And the women he left with always looked like it was Christmas come early. The hot ball of frustration Shane felt in the back of his throat whenever he saw Ilya leaving was one of the reasons he avoided going out too much. Another was that he was underage in the States, and even though most places turned a blind eye when the team was out, he didn’t really like drinking.

“Good boy,” Ilya would tease, whenever Shane would join them in the booth or at the bar with his glass of ginger ale.

“Shut up,” Shane would say, and would try not to hear those words echoing in his head later that night when he was trying to fall asleep. 

But the biggest reason he didn’t frequent nights out with the team out at bars and clubs was the fact that, even though he could pick up, he didn’t want to. He didn’t like to hook up. And not liking to drink was one thing, but not liking to hook up was another thing. He’d never live that down if the guys found out. 

He’d had sex before, of course. More than once, even. The first time was with Eleanor Shepherd in junior year. He had known her since second grade and she was the kind of person Shane would always think of as a good friend, despite the fact they hadn’t spoken since graduation. Anyway, she hadn’t wanted to go into senior year a virgin, and Shane had figured that was as good a reason as any. He was tired of the chirps he’d been getting about himself too (made even more annoying because he knew for a fact many of those guys hadn’t had sex yet either). So he and Nelly did it. It was awkward but also kind of funny, because Nelly was funny, and Shane had liked it most of it just fine. There were some parts that made him feel a bit squeamish, but they were easy enough to ignore. Afterwards, Nelly had said, “I hope I start liking it more. You know. The more I do it.” And Shane had considered this. It was supposed to hurt girls, the first time, and even after that it was still hard to get them off, or so he’d gathered. 

“But what if you don’t end up liking it more?” he’d asked. 

He was kind of worried about that himself. Nelly had shrugged. 

“Then I’ll just stop doing it,” she said. 

She had been extremely self-assured for a teenager, which Shane had been jealous of. 

“Anyways, I like this part a lot. It makes up for it,” she’d said.

They had put their clothes back on and were snuggling, her body holding his. Even though he knew they were probably supposed to be doing it the other way around, it was too nice for him to try and switch. He’d liked the feel of her against his back, her arm slung over his waist, her hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, and how her knees crooked into his. 

So that was his first time and then, senior year, he’d started dating Jessica, who was his girlfriend up until training camp. After Jessica, he’d felt the need to hook up a couple of times early on, just to preventatively get the guys off his back. He hoped that as time passed they’d stop being so fixated on setting the rookie up with a nice girl and start leaving him alone. 

Even though Ilya did indeed leave with a woman that night, it had been a pretty good one. Shane thought about the way Marleau had implied that Ilya was obsessed with him a lot. It made something warm and bubbly form beneath his sternum whenever he thought about it, and he’d catch himself smiling at nothing like an idiot. He knew it wasn’t true, of course. Ilya was just being a good captain. He took the captainly duty of looking out for rookies just as seriously as he took anything else. 

—

That year Ilya was hosting the Halloween party. Shane gathered from some of the guys’ comments that this was kind of a treat. Ilya’d had one housewarming party when he’d bought the house last year and had hosted no other team functions after that. Shane was embarrassingly eager to see what Ilya’s house was like, down to what sort of dishes Ilya kept in his kitchen cupboards. It was that dire. 

He also wanted to see pictures. Pictures of Ilya’s family and friends, which Shane assumed might be all over Ilya’s house, like they were in Shane’s parent’s house. He’d seen one photo of his father back when the Raiders had drafted Ilya, but Shane didn’t know anything else about what Ilya’s family, or Svetlana, looked like. Svetlana was the one person Ilya talked about with some frequency, and Shane had gathered she was a childhood friend that split her time between the US and Russia. She hadn’t come to a game this season yet. Shane really wanted to see a picture of her. She was probably gorgeous and tall. The name Svetlana sounded tall, at least, and the women Ilya left bars and clubs with were usually only a little bit shorter than him. Once he’d left with a woman who was taller than him, which the guys found hilarious and Shane found so titillating that he’d had to duck out early to go home and jerk off. 

It was an understatement to say he was excited when the cab dropped him off outside Ilya’s house. Shane was in a slapped-together Nightwing costume. He’d used blue stick tape on a black turtleneck, paired it with black jeans, and gotten a generic mask from Party City. This was pretty much the extent of dressing up for him, nowadays. When he was a kid his mom used to hand sew all of his costumes because she said the stuff from stores was plastic garbage. But the last costume she’d made for him was way back in middle school. 

The house was all lit up and the door was unlocked. Shane walked in, looking with interest at the high ceilings and giant windows. There was so much glass and so little wall space that he had a sinking realization he probably wasn’t going to be able to see any family photos. 

“Batman!” Ilya called over the music when Shane walked into the kitchen. 

“Oh,” said Shane, looking down at his pathetic costume. “Well, sure, I guess. And you’re…” He scanned Ilya’s ensemble doubtfully. “Dracula?”

“Count Dracula!” Ilya said, flapping his cape. “Peasant!” 

He’d slicked back his hair and sprayed it with some sort of horrible black hairspray. 

“Nice,” said Shane. “Where’d you learn that word?”

“Come, come, you take shot,” said Ilya imperiously, ignoring the question and pulled Shane in under one arm.

Ilya drew Shane to the big island where there were bowls and bowls of candy and chips and many bottles of liquor. In order to pour the shots, Ilya let go of Shane, but stood close to him, shoulders pressed together. He smelled good, like he always did. Shane didn’t know anything about cologne; he just wore what his aunt bought him for Christmas. But Ilya smelled fantastic, and pressed close like this, Shane could get his scent on every inhale. It would be too embarrassing to ask him what he wore, but Shane wanted to, badly. 

Ilya said something in Russian as they clinked the glasses together. Shane downed the shot. It was vodka, of course, but very cold and smoother than he’d been expecting. 

“Not too bad?” Ilya asked, teasing. 

“It was okay, thanks,” said Shane. 

“Picky,” said Ilya. “I give you fancy brand.” 

“Oh,” Shane said, oddly touched. “Thank you.” 

“We do one more. Ginger ale boy says is okay.” 

Ilya winked at him and then busied himself with the bottle. Shane’s ears felt warm. Being the sole focus of Ilya’s regard was stronger than the vodka. 

The party went by in a blur and, for once, Shane ended up drinking more than he usually did. It was fun to have all the guys in one place and not have the pressure of a game surrounding them. It was also interesting to meet the kids and spouses and significant others that he’d heard about in the locker room, but there were a lot of them, and Shane usually wasn’t too good at remembering names or making small talk. He was lucky that most of the WAGs were genuinely sociable people who more than made up for any awkwardness coming from his end. 

And all throughout the night there was Ilya. He was a gregarious host, flitting from group to group, making sure the D.J. took requests, making sure no one’s cup went empty. Shane tried not to spend the whole party watching him and mostly failed. He looked so strange with black hair.

The party had reached a fever pitch when Shane went in search of the bathroom. The one on the main floor was occupied, and Shane hesitated, wondering if it was bad manners to go seek the one that would inevitably be upstairs in the more private area of the house. He hadn’t seen anyone go up there. But he really had to pee. Looking around, Shane decided that he’d ask for forgiveness later. 

Upstairs it was dark and echoing with the music coming from the main floor. He poked his head curiously into a couple of the rooms, which seemed like unused guest bedrooms. The windows were just as big up here as they were downstairs. Everything was modern and tastefully decorated. No family photos in sight. He found a little half-bath and used it quickly before stepping back out into the hall. He knew he shouldn’t be snooping around, but he really wanted to see Ilya’s bedroom. It would only take a minute and then he’d go back downstairs. He’d had just enough liquid courage to give into the urge to snoop. 

Shane stood in the doorway of what had to be the primary suite. The room was dark and he didn’t dare turn on the lights. But the bed seemed huge. Maybe it was a California king? Shane sighed. There wasn’t enough light to see anything and he was already pushing his luck up here. He turned around and ran right into Ilya.

“Fuck!” Shane said, spooked and stumbling. “I mean, sorry! You scared me!”

“Boo,” said Ilya, whose hands had come up to grip Shane’s shoulders, steadying him for a moment before letting go. “You nosy.” 

“I’m sorry, I was…” Shane began, but no excuses popped up in his empty brain. “I—yeah. Sorry.” 

“You ask, I give you tour.”

“You were busy! I needed the bathroom, anyway.” 

“Where your mask go,” Ilya asked, bringing up a finger to tap Shane’s right temple.

“Dunno. It was annoying,” said Shane, wrinkling his nose. 

Ilya laughed, a low, amused huff of breath.

“Picky. Nosy,” he said, and then also something in Russian. 

“What did you say,” Shane said, suspicious. 

“Like,” Ilya said, and then mimed picking up his feet, like he was moving out of the way of some small creature. 

“Underfoot?” Shane said. “You’re making me sound like a cat! Asshole.” 

But he was smiling. It was nice that Ilya had noticed he wasn’t downstairs and had come looking for him. Shane’s head felt pleasantly warm and all of his thoughts were few and far between. 

“You’re say, not me. Next year, you wear ears.” 

“I’m not gonna be a cat on Halloween, come on,” Shane said. 

He’d brought a hand up to slap Ilya’s shoulder, but then for some reason his hand had just stayed there. Shane blinked at it and squeezed. Ilya had really nice shoulders. He blew out a long, slow breath. 

“Hmm,” Ilya said. “You’re drunk, Hollander.” 

“Maybe a little,” Shane said. “Whose fault is that, d’you think?” 

“Oh, so this is my fault?” 

Shane blinked at him pointedly. His other hand had found its way onto Ilya’s other shoulder. Ilya was smirking at him. He looked so different in the Dracula costume.

“I don’t like the black hair,” Shane found himself saying. “Your normal hair is perfect.” 

The smirk bloomed into a genuine grin. 

“Wow, is no wonder you only drink ginger ale. Tell me, what else is perfect?” 

“Shoulders,” Shane said, because those were top of mind. 

Ilya said some things in Russian then, and then started to herd Shane towards the stairs.

“Okay Hollander, no more teasing. You’re being sweet, make me feel bad. Tomorrow, you’re sorry.” 

“I’m not sweet,” Shane protested. The only people who called him that were his mom and aunt. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Whoa, whoa!” 

Shane had stumbled on the stair. Ilya scooped him into his side and put Shane’s arm around his neck. 

“You’re not go on IR from my party.”

Shane laughed.

“That would be terrible!” 

They made it downstairs in one piece and then Ilya deposited Shane in the kitchen in front of a bowl of kettle cooked chips. 

“Eat something, drink water,” Ilya commanded, setting down a water bottle, and then went away for a bit. 

When he came back Shane had finished his water and had made decent progress through the bowl of chips.

“These aren’t a part of my diet,” Shane informed him. 

“Hayden and Jackie take you home.”

“Oh, that’s nice of them. I was gonna call a cab.” 

“No, they take care.” 

“Thanks,” Shane said, smiling up at Ilya, who was leaning sideways against the kitchen island, observing him. “This was a fun party. Thanks for having all of us over.” 

“Good manners,” Ilya said. 

Well, his mom would have been pissed if she knew he wasn’t thanking people for hosting. Then he remembered something.

“Shoot!” he said, smacking his forehead. “I forgot! I should have brought you a bottle of wine.”

“Halloween party. Not dinner party.”

“Still,” Shane sighed. “My mom says it’s polite.” 

Thinking about his mom made him think about responsibilities, which made him think about his diet. Shane propped his head up with an elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand. 

“I shouldn’t have eaten so many chips,” he said, feeling sorry for himself.  “Or drank so much.” 

“There he is! Ready to go, bud?” 

It was Hayden and Jackie. There was a flurry of goodbyes to the people in the kitchen, who Shane had not noticed until just then. Shane was passed around from person to person until he somehow ended up at the front door and Ilya was waving them out. 

—

As the weeks passed, it became clear to Shane that Ilya was a better than just a good captain. He was great. 

Shane had a reputation for not knowing when to shut up about hockey. After losses, he wanted to dissect every play that went wrong, the whys and hows of it. People tended to find that pretty annoying. Most guys just wanted to blow off steam after losing, but that wasn’t how Shane operated. It was how he grew up; after games he would talk through each period with his mom and dad until they all felt like they were on the same page about what had happened. If he couldn’t talk it through, the game would just sit there in the back of his head, driving him nuts. 

Before the September training camp, Shane’s dad had advised him to try and monitor how much input he was giving. “The coaches and Rozanov want you there, of course. But they don’t know you like we do. We know you overanalyze because you care so much, because you love it. But Rozanov might not appreciate it.”

“I know Dad, I’ll try to shut up.”

“I don’t mean it like that, kiddo,” David had said. “Your opinions are important. What you think is important. But try and gauge how receptive Rozanov might be to that sort of thing first, before diving straight in.”

“He’d be an idiot not to be receptive!” his mom had scoffed, who was still kind of irked that the siren song of Rozanov and the Raiders had pulled Shane away from her beloved Metros. “No one has hockey sense like Shane!” 

So he’d definitely kept a lid on it at the beginning of the season. But after the Halloween party, Shane couldn’t help himself. 

“Would you wanna talk about some ideas I have?” 

That day, Shane had followed Ilya out to the parking lot, trotting to catch up to him before he got into his ridiculous car and drove off.

Ilya cast him a sideways glance. Despite the chill in the air (they’d had the first frost a few days ago and the trees in the Common had turned all orange and red) he was wearing his puffer coat unzipped and had on a backwards hat. Shane swallowed and tried to stay focused. Ilya looked kind of fratty and the backwards hat should not be doing what it was doing to Shane’s insides. 

“Ideas,” Ilya was saying. 

“Yeah,” Shane said, shoving his toque onto his head. “I just think, well, first of all I should say that I’m not trying to like, take over your position or whatever, but I wanna talk about some things and—“

They’d arrived at Ilya’s car during Shane’s rambling and Ilya popped the trunk and tossed his gear bag in. After closing it, he crossed his arms and leaned a hip against it. 

“English words mess,” he said. “What you’re trying to say?” 

“Sorry,” Shane said. “I just don’t want to step on your toes. But I wanna talk about the line ups. And the power play. And we’re really struggling, playing defensively—“

“Ah,” Ilya said. “Rookie want to talk hockey with captain. You worry captain get mad.” 

“Yes,” Shane said. “I know it’s annoying but I really think—“

“Not annoying,” Ilya said. “We do lunch. Once a week. You say ideas. I say if ideas suck.” 

“Really?” Shane asked, almost absurdly pleased. “You’d do that?”

“Captain listen to team. Even baby rookies with big mouths.” 

There were several things he could take umbrage with from that sentence, but Shane was too happy to complain. He beamed at Ilya. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “We go now. You pay.”

“You’re the one with a sports car!” Shane said, but he was laughing. He would pay for a thousand lunches as long as Ilya would listen to him. 

His parents were really pleased when they heard about the lunches. Yuna especially. It had taken her a while to get over the disappointment of Shane not playing for her favorite team (and Shane suspected there was probably some of that still lingering). But the Raiders were buzzy, and basically as soon as Shane had been drafted, she was up to her eyeballs in brand opportunities. There was better money for those sorts of things in the US, or so she said. 

“He’s right. Captains should listen to their team, even rookies,” she said. “I’ll have to send him a gift basket for the new year. You know, Russians don’t do Christmas gifts like we do. They do gifts on New Year’s Eve instead.” 

Shane privately thought the idea of gift baskets and Ilya Rozanov were incongruous. But it was no use arguing. 

Every week after that they’d been doing lunch. It was mostly Shane monologuing about whatever had been on his mind hockey-wise that week. But Ilya shared ideas too, when he wasn’t busy teasing Shane, or kicking at his feet under the table, or razzing him for whatever substitutions he’d have to ask the waitstaff for to accommodate his diet. 

It was unexpected, and better than Shane could have hoped. Of course Ilya wouldn’t have gotten the C if he weren’t the right man for the job. Still, Shane hadn’t thought the two of them would be anything more than coworkers. But as the weeks passed, Shane thought that they were probably more than coworkers now. Ilya Rozanov had become a friend. 

The fact that, by November, Shane had fallen half-way in love with Ilya and all-the-way in lust with him was irrelevant. It was just another unsightly part of his personality to hide away. No one would ever know and he’d still get this: Ilya, smiling at him, Ilya teasing him, Ilya being there and listening, and Ilya’s friendly touches. It was more than enough. 

—

Though the lunches were good and Shane was getting more accustomed to Boston and to living on his own, the season itself had gone downhill quickly after that first win. No matter how they strategized, no matter what they practiced, the losses kept coming. They were playing hard, but it was entirely defensive and they had barely anything to show for it. 

It didn’t help that Shane got a high stick to the helmet during the first game in November. It came out of nowhere. Shane was flat on his back on the ice before he really knew what was happening. The pain began as a dull pounding at his left temple and cheekbone and then quickly became something sharp and spikey. Shane was able to get up and skate off, but he was pulled from the game and immediately taken to get imaging done. To say he was pissed would have been an understatement. Luckily, the scans showed no fracture, which meant Shane could get cleared to play sooner and that was all that mattered to him. He spent several days with his left eye swollen and several more days moping around his apartment waiting to get cleared to practice. The team had gone on a road trip without him, and Shane watched every game avidly from his living room, feeling like his soul was wherever they were, on that rink, and not in his body on the couch.

Ilya was amazing to watch, as usual. He could be such a bully on the ice, but his skating was like flying and his hands were silky soft. The team won a couple games on that road trip and Shane was champing at the bit to get back in there. 

After the roadie, Shane was cleared. Upon his entrance into the locker room, the guys that were there already got one look at him and hooted. A group of them gathered and herded him further inside, clapping his back and cheerfully telling him he looked ugly. (They weren’t wrong, necessarily. The bruising had gone a strange green-yellow.) But Shane brushed them off. There was really only one person Shane wanted to see.

“Shane,” said Ilya, standing up from the bench.

Shane went to him eagerly, his whole body suddenly as pulsing and hot as the lingering bruises across his temple and eye. It had been too many days since he’d seen Ilya in person. 

“Poor face,” Ilya clucked, putting both hands to Shane’s cheeks. 

Shane blinked up at him and tried not to look too happy. Ilya’s thumb was brushing, just barely, back and forth under the fine, bruised skin of Shane’s leftover black eye. 

“That looks gross,” said Marleau, peering over Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane grumbled. 

He should pull away, but something happened when Ilya’s hands were on him. It was like he turned into a tranced snake, held in stasis and unable to move until those hands were gone. He’d missed this: Ilya’s hands and Ilya looking at him, when he’d been cooped up at home. 

Ilya pursed his lips for a moment and then pulled away, shaking his head.  

“So bad,” he said. “We kill Florida.”

“Nice,” said Marleau. “The whole state? Count me in!”

Shane was put back on the line up after that, and they lost the next four games. To say it felt shitty would be an understatement. He’d had all of these visions after he’d gotten drafted and knew he was going to be on Rozanov’s team: they’d click right out of the gate, winning games left and right. They’d have the best record in the MLH that season for wins to losses. Shane would win the Calder. They’d win the Cup. 

Obviously they were just fantasies. Obviously Shane knew reality would be different. Nothing in life ever went perfectly. There were ups and downs, you won sometimes and lost sometimes. But it was so frustrating to know how much potential the team had and to not see it come to fruition. Shane had all of this terrible, huge hope roaring within him and to have it smothered down to whimper game after game was getting to be unbearable. 

After that fourth loss, Shane had done some press. The questions were predictable, and he was answering them on autopilot for the most part. But then the last one came in and hit him worse than that high stick. 

“How do you feel about these losses stacking up on top of being out due to injury? Being a Japanese-Canadian, you’re paving the way for others like you, does that add an extra layer to these failures and roadblocks? Do you think you’re living up to people’s expectations?” 

It was a pretty shitty question, but it wasn’t like he could call them out on it. Shane had blinked and tried to get a hold of his thoughts. He’d said something rote about working hard for the team, for the fans, and for any kid who looked up to him and then escaped to the showers. He’d cleaned up and gotten changed into street clothes in kind of a numb trance. The question was still ringing in his head.

Was he living up to people’s expectations? Probably not. 

Logically he knew that this all wasn’t on him. Logically he knew that the majority of the season still lay ahead, and there were plenty of future games where he could, and would, prove himself. Hell, the Olympics still lay ahead. But logic wasn’t at the forefront of his mind right then. Logic had been overcome by a sick feeling in his gut and the intense pounding of his heart. 

Shane got to his car in the parking garage and found that his hands were shaking when he went to unlock it. They were shaking so much that the keys shook out of his hand and fell on the ground.

“Fuck,” he said. “Goddamnit.” 

He stared at the keys on the dirty concrete. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. If the tears didn’t fall then it didn’t count and he wasn’t crying. He glared down at the keys and took huge, whooping deep breaths. 

Sometimes when things were consistently going wrong, the littlest inconvenience would make him snap and he’d have an internal meltdown. The keys were lying there, taunting him. 

Don’t cry, he told himself. Don’t. Stop it. Not in the fucking garage where anyone— 

—A car a few spots down chirped and its lights flashed. Shane whirled around, heart rabbiting. It was Ilya, keys in hand, duffle slung over his shoulder. He paused in mid-step.

“Hollander,” he started, and then narrowed his eyes. “You…”

“I’m fine,” Shane said hurriedly. 

He ducked down and quickly scooped up his keys. But he must not have sounded very convincing because by the time he was upright again, Ilya was in front of him, setting his duffle down on the ground.

“Hey,” he said. 

“No, no,” Shane said, embarrassed and pissed and overwhelmed.

He felt something climbing up the back of his throat, a scream or a sob, and he viciously swallowed it back down.

“I’m just mad,” he said. His voice sounded bad. Shaky and kind of high-pitched. “The losses, you know. I wish I could do better—” 

Shane stopped talking in surprise, because just then, Ilya had hooked a warm hand around the back of his neck. It was so instantaneously grounding, that touch, that all the trapped breath in Shane’s lungs expelled in one shuddering exhale. 

“You are having panic attack?” Ilya demanded to know. 

“No, I’m. I’m just a little stressed.”

“We don’t win. Okay. We will get there. Is still early in season.”

“I know, I know but…” 

Shane trailed off and then groaned. It was all too much. And how could he explain to Ilya, the various layers of the pressure he was under? The pressure he put on himself, the pressure from his mom and dad, the pressure from being who he was and what he was and all of it? Ilya was a foreigner, so maybe he would understand. But English was still iffy for him sometimes and how could Shane explain it in a straightforward way, when it still felt so convoluted to him and he was the person living it? 

There was a gentle push at the back of his neck, and then Shane’s forehead was being guided down to Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Just breathe,” Ilya said. “Talk later.” 

His voice was so low and quiet, but it was right next to Shane’s ear and it felt like it was almost inside of him. 

“God,” Shane said, strangled, and fisted his hands into the sides of Ilya’s coat. “Fuck, I’m sorry. This sucks.” 

“Shh, breathe.” 

Ilya had made a safe, dark space for Shane against his shoulder. His hand was still on Shane’s nape, keeping him there. It was exactly what he’d needed. How could Ilya have known? How was he so good at this, being there for other people? And he was here, instead of heading home and dealing with the loss (however he usually dealt with losses), all because Shane couldn’t keep it together.

“You…I’m fine,” Shane mumbled. “You should go home. You—”

But a firm squeeze on the back of Shane’s neck silenced him. 

“Shh. Breathe,” said Ilya, and there was a finality in his tone that brokered no arguments. 

Shane sagged further and let Ilya take more of his weight. 

“Thank you,” he said, and relied on Ilya to hold him together until the waves of terrible feeling subsided. 

Once they had, Shane pushed back on his own two feet and gave Ilya what he hoped was a convincing smile. Ilya crossed his arms, surveying Shane with an intent, concerned expression. 

“Thanks,” Shane said. “Sorry. Obviously I know I’m not the only one who’s upset about the losses. I promise I can handle this. And I can do better.” 

Ilya pressed his lips together, like he was trying to hold something back. But then he blew out a breath and shook his head.

“Maybe I bring you home. We talk.” 

“No, please. I’m okay. Really. I don’t need a babysitter.” 

“Not for babysit,” Ilya said. “For talking. We talk at lunch, this helps you.” 

“Sure, but I don’t think…” Shane began.

“You be good and get in car,” Ilya said, bending over to pick up his duffle bag. “Or I bully you.” 

“Jesus,” Shane muttered, flushing hard, his whole face suddenly hot. He’d almost just had a panic attack and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help but be affected by the way Ilya handled him.

Even more than that, maybe even worse than that, Shane wanted desperately to let Ilya drive him home and to talk through everything with him. To hand over some of this pressure, to let Ilya help him carry it. But it felt so selfish and pathetic. 

“Come,” Ilya said, gripping Shane’s elbow and tugging him forward. “My car. Leave yours here. Get tomorrow.” 

“I can drive! I had a freak out, my arms didn’t fall off!” Shane protested, but Ilya was not to be deterred. 

That was how Shane found himself folded up into the passenger seat of Ilya Rozanov’s ridiculous two-seater sports car. He’d given Ilya the address of his apartment and now they were barreling down the city streets, the car humming loudly through the plush leather seats. 

“You drive like a lunatic,” Shane said.

He was clutching onto the door handle, meanwhile Ilya was driving one-handed. Or rather, one-wristed, which he had slung carelessly over the top of the wheel. 

“You have big wet eyes, like cow,” Ilya countered. 

“What!?” Shane squawked. 

“Is good,” Ilya said, nodding. 

“A cow! Ilya, that’s not ‘good.’” 

“Okay, like seal.” 

“No—wait—how do you know what that means in English,” Shane demanded, distracted.

“I go to aquarium, rookie year. Video spot. Fans like.” 

“Huh,” Shane said. He’d thought he’d seen all of Ilya’s YouTube Raiders stuff, but he hadn’t seen that one. He would definitely be looking it up online later. “Anyway, I think you should stop comparing me to animals.”

“Is good,” Ilya insisted. “They’re tell me, ‘ooooh Ilya I’m so sad,’ then I know what you say is bullshit.” 

“I don’t sound like that,” Shane grumbled. His ears felt hot.

“‘Oooh, my cow eyes, so big, so wet,’” Ilya crooned, teasing.

Shane felt a smile betray him.

“God, shut up. I’m glad I’m like an open book to you.” 

It wasn’t fair; he couldn’t read Ilya’s face for shit sometimes. 

“No,” Ilya disagreed. “You say what you’re thinking people want. Not what you’re want. So I’m not know. And English is very bad language.” 

“Yes, your opinion on that has been made clear. Many times.”

You couldn’t spend more than an hour with Ilya and not hear at least one complaint about English’s deficiencies. 

“You chirp me? Feel better?” 

“Yeah, I feel fine. I feel,” Shane sighed and watched the street lights flying by. “I feel like an idiot actually. I freaked out in the parking lot. And now my captain has to drive me home like he’s my mom.” 

“Now you’re chirp yourself?” 

“I guess,” Shane said. “I deserve it.” 

“Sometimes freak out in car park. It’s okay, Hollander.” 

“If you say so,” Shane grumbled.

Privately, he thought he would never live this down. Ilya probably thought he was so pathetic. 

“Never call me ‘mom’ again,” Ilya said. 

“Right,” Shane said. 

When they got to Shane’s building, Shane tried and failed to send Ilya on his way. Ilya parked in one of the guest spots in the garage (there was rarely any street parking) and doggedly followed Shane into the lobby and up to his unit. It was surreal, having Ilya in his apartment. Shane pulled two Gatorades out of his fridge and then followed Ilya as he nosed around the space. 

“I’m renting with the option to buy,” Shane said, trailing him. “My parents say it would be a good investment just to buy it now, but I’d rather wait and see how the season goes.”

“You think you get traded after few losses,” Ilya said. 

“No, I don’t think that,” Shane said, coming to stand a little bit behind Ilya. “But I’d say it’s more than a few losses at this point.” 

Ilya was peering at the framed photos Shane had on the wall of his living room. Mom had hung them up when he’d moved in. There were three photos of the three of them, Mom, Dad, and Shane, at Christmases across the span of his childhood. One where he was barely walking, one where he had braces (in middle school), and one from last year. 

“Cute,” Ilya said, nodding to himself. 

“Oh,” Shane said. His ears felt warm. 

Ilya turned and saw Shane holding the two bottles. He grabbed one and cracked it, taking a few giant swigs and then twisting the cap back on. 

“Do you want to, uh, sit?” Shane asked, jerking his head towards the couch. 

Ilya flopped down in the corner, against the arm. He put his Gatorade on the coffee table and then watched Shane, expectantly. Shane sat, a little gingerly, and fiddled with his own Gatorade bottle, still unopened. 

It felt like he’d been sent to the principal’s office, if the principal was an extremely hot, self-assured, talented hockey player and also the captain of Shane’s team. 

“So. Freak out in car park. Why?” 

It was clear Shane wasn’t going to be able to escape or avoid this, so he resigned himself to telling the truth. He set his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Like I said, I just feel like I could be doing more. We could be winning. I see the potential. I know you see the potential. But we’re not clicking yet. And people are expecting us to click. When I got drafted, they were expecting—”

“People?” Ilya interrupted.

“Yeah, people. The fans, the staff, the owners. My parents. All the kids who…who look up to me. Us, I mean. Us.” 

Ilya was looking at him like he was beginning to understand something. Shane didn’t know what he was reading on Shane’s face, or what he was putting together. 

“You do press, after game,” Ilya said. 

“Yeah.” 

“Tonight, little bit different. What they ask?” 

“Usual stuff,” Shane said.

“I don’t think so.” 

Shane gave up on his Gatorade and put it on the coffee table. He pulled his knees up and slumped over onto the back of the couch, resting his cheek there. He felt so drained. If he shared this with Ilya and Ilya didn’t understand, it would be so disappointing. But his gut was telling him not to just brush this aside. Ilya seemed genuinely concerned, and Shane wanted to trust him.

He did trust him, really. 

“No, it really was the usual stuff. I just…I hate when they ask about…me,” Shane said. “I know it’s ungrateful. I know how privileged I am. But it’s like…I wish they just saw me the same as all the other players. Like just a human. But instead they see this added layer and they won’t let it go. It’s good for sound bites, for internet clicks. But I’m a person. I’m not a sound bite or a page view.”

“Ah,” said Ilya. “They ask about how you’re Asian.” 

Shane blinked at him and lifted his head. He hadn’t realized Ilya had noticed if and when he was doing press, let alone what questions he was getting.

“You heard that?”

“Not tonight, but they ask before.” 

“Yeah, well. I mean, it’s important. You don’t see a lot of Asian guys in this sport. When I was growing up, there was no one who looked like me playing really good hockey. And now here I am. So somewhere out there, there’s a little kid who’s looking at me and seeing himself. The better I can do, the further I can go, the more I can show that little kid what’s possible.” 

Ilya was watching him so carefully, his eyes flitting all over Shane’s face. 

“Stress,” he said, holding a hand parallel to the floor. Then he stacked his other hand on top of it. “More stress.” 

“Yeah, it’s layered. And the race thing, well, I kind of wish it wasn’t a big deal. But I know it is, and I know why it is. I just wish…” Shane trailed off and shrugged. “I guess I wish I was stronger, and didn’t let it get to me so much.” 

“You strong,” Ilya said. “Maybe, not feel so much now. But every game, every media scrum, every interview and fan meet. Getting stronger and stronger. Team support you. I support you. Yes?”

“Yes, you’re…you’re great,” Shane said, and then wrinkled his nose.

There was an embarrassing undercurrent of confession in his tone. 

Ilya smiled a little. 

“I try, keep trying,” he said. “We try together.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. 

He took in a deep breath and then heaved it out. He felt a lot more settled. Shane hadn’t expected Ilya to get it so quickly. But he had. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “We talk about freak out in car park. Now, talk about game. Play by play. Make list for practice.”

He beckoned his hand imperiously, as if a king on a throne, obviously teasing just a little. But those words were like the cool, damp washcloths Shane’s mom used to lay on his forehead during childhood fevers. It felt like care, like being cared for. Someone was there who knew him, who knew how to help him through this, easing some of his pain, and letting him know he’d feel better soon. Shane closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a swell of gratitude and relief. Then he opened them and nodded. 

“Well first of all, my face off,” he began. 

—-

Ilya had been so nice, that night. Admittedly, he’d gone above and beyond the responsibilities of a hockey captain. Shane thought about Ilya being there like that for any of the other guys on the team and couldn’t really imagine it. But it was conceited to think he was somehow special, or an exception. Maybe beneath Ilya’s brashness, his cockiness, the sly way he deflected from his personal life, maybe beneath all of that there was a really empathetic guy. 

Shane thought about all this during the next practice. He was watching Ilya from the boards. Ilya, who was mercilessly stick-jabbing Hayden away from the goal and smiling with malicious glee. 

Well, maybe not really empathetic, Shane privately amended. It was probably just the fact that none of the other guys had meltdowns in the parking lot, and Ilya had been so surprised he’d gone into a fugue state. 

Shane was kind of worried that he’d messed things up between them, and that Ilya would decide he needed a break from Shane’s crazy. But before practice Ilya was the same as he’d ever been. When he’d come up and put his hand on Shane’s shoulder in greeting, it had felt like a benediction. Shane had smiled too wide and put on his gear in a relieved daze. 

As they approached Christmas, things started to turn around. They’d been working hard in practice for several months now, and the team was coming together. Passes were connecting, the guys were connecting, the coaches and Ilya were connecting. And so was Shane. An electric undercurrent had started humming during their games. They started scoring. They started winning. 

This was what Shane had wanted, what he’d dreamed of since he was a kid. Playing professional hockey, playing good—no—great professional hockey. Putting points on the board, winning games for the team, for the fans. Clicking with the team, with his lineys. When he’d gotten drafted and thought about playing with Ilya Rozanov, this is what he’d imagined: working together, winning. In other areas of his life he felt so awkward, so disconnected from the flow of humanity that everyone else seemed to just intrinsically understand. But on the ice all of that fell away. He belonged, when he was playing hockey. He made sense. He was good. 

Shane had never expected to feel that way anywhere else but on the ice. But as the practices and games came and went, and their weekly lunches stacked up, Shane was starting to feel like that, or something akin to it, when he was with Ilya. 

It wasn’t like all of the sudden he became a socializing god, but Shane didn’t feel the need to always rehearse things in his head before he said them to Ilya. Ilya made him feel like he could say what he wanted and, sure, he’d get chirped or teased if it was weird, but there was no undercurrent of malice, no cruelty. Ilya seemed to genuinely like what Shane had to say. Ilya was interested. 

Ilya didn’t do the thing where a person was nice to your face but actually didn’t like you at all. Shane had seen Ilya interact with people he didn’t like, and he wasn’t nice. When needed, he was civil. But he didn’t pretend to like people and definitely didn’t pretend to be nice. So Shane could trust the way he acted. If he didn’t want Shane around, he’d stop asking. If he didn’t like Shane, he wouldn’t be smiling at him and chirping him and touching him. He wouldn’t have been so kind, talking Shane down out of his meltdown.

Which wasn’t to say that Ilya was a straightforward person. There was clearly stuff he was dealing with beneath the public “player” persona that he didn’t talk about. Shane really wanted to hear about that stuff. But the few times he tried to push a little with his questions, Ilya always deflected. Shane would ease up then, not wanting to ruin what he’d been able to build with Ilya as time passed.

The winning was doing nothing to help soothe Shane’s infatuation. Instead, it just kindled it further. He was far gone over Ilya, depressingly, embarrassingly far gone. He was still trying his best to hide it, and though he knew he was slipping up, it didn’t seem like the team was registering anything out of the ordinary. The chirps about rookie favoritism hadn’t lessened, but they also hadn’t morphed into anything truly suspicious. What he felt for Ilya was gravitational: something completely invisible to everyone else, but inevitable, weighty, and inescapable nonetheless. 

He was almost relieved when the short holiday break arrived. Being home for Christmas might reset his brain into something more like normalcy. He was actually kind of counting on this, because the Olympics, which had been looming nebulously in the distance for some time, were now only a little over a month away. And he needed his head on straight for that.

By the time Shane flew in, his aunt, Emiko, had already come up from New York City. It was the sound of her and his mom’s laughter that welcomed Shane and his dad home as they walked through the door. Shane smiled, hearing them. Aunt Emi was one of the reasons he’d been so jealous of people with siblings as a child. Yuna and Emi were so alike and so clearly got each other. Being in a room with them was wonderful. Being in a room with them at Christmastime was even better. 

“There’s my sweetheart,” Emi said, clapping her hands together when Shane walked into the kitchen. “And future Olympian!”

She had been more excited to find out he was going to the Olympics then she had been when he got drafted. There had been a lot of shrieking over the phone, and exclamations about various athletes he might be able to meet. 

“How was the flight?” Emi asked as she put her arms around him and patted his back. 

“Okay,” Shane said. “How was yours?”

“In the past, thank God!” said Emi, who had to take propranolol before security. 

Shane had wondered, when he was younger and saw so many of his classmates with their big Christmas get togethers, whether his was kind of sad. It was so small, just the four of them. But now he knew that a lot of those big families were full of tense anxieties, strained relationships, and arguments. His Christmases were never like that. They were quiet at times, sure, but they were restful and happy and Shane wouldn’t trade them for the world. Shane would get a few good workouts in during these off days, and afterwards they would spend time together, playing games, cooking, telling stories, maligning every hockey player currently on Yuna’s shit list, and watching Christmas movies (Emi was like a honing beacon for finding these on basic cable, like she had a sixth sense). Inevitably David would drag Shane along on his Christmas Eve shopping spree, which he claimed was necessary since inspiration didn’t strike until Santa was imminent. It was pretty chaotic, but Shane couldn’t blame his dad. Yuna always said she didn’t want anything besides the family together under one roof. 

Emi was easier to shop for. She was a lawyer who liked nice things and could afford them herself. But she loved tchotchkes and trinkets, and Shane had passed through enough random cities on roadies to collect some for her by Christmas. As she pulled them out one by one, she made Shane talk about where he bought in and what else he’d done there, “EXCLUDING hockey.” It was a shameless ploy to get him to talk more about himself, which he hated doing. But it was Christmas and he played along. The stories could be a part of her present too. 

All in all, it was a wonderful holiday and Shane returned to Boston feeling grounded, happy, and ready for the few games slated before the flight to Sochi.

—

“So, uh, how’s, how’s your father?” 

It was their first lunch back after Christmas, and Shane was trying to get something out of Ilya about his holiday, which he had spent in Boston. But Ilya seemed grumpy. He made a noncommittal sound and ate the final bite of his sandwich. Shane watched him chew and swallow.

“And your brother? How’s he doing?” 

“Why you’re ask? Boring.”

“It’s not boring,” Shane insisted. “Not to me. I’d like to know anything you want to tell me.”

Frankly, what he would like was to climb into Ilya’s head and root around in there for a few days. Shane wanted to know everything about him. He wanted to sit up there and feel what it felt like for him to skate, to shoot, to score on the goal, what it felt like for him to be happy, to be sad. Did it feel the same for him as it did for Shane, or did it feel completely different? (Was it certifiable, that he wanted to do something like that? Did other people feel this way?)

“Father boring. Brother boring. Nothing to tell.” 

“When I told you all that stuff about being a role model for Asian kids, did you think that was boring?” 

Ilya scoffed. 

“That is important.” 

“Yeah, it’s important because it’s important to me. So what’s important to you is also important! I should probably stop saying that word. But do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Ilya leveled him a considering stare. 

“I mean, I know you keep your family stuff private. I don’t want to push you. But I’d like to know, if you want to tell me. I’d like to be there for you like how you were for me.” 

“Okay, Shane,” said Ilya. “Okay.” 

“I’m just asking because it was Christmas, and the Olympics are right around the corner, you know? Like, you’re gonna be seeing them soon, right? Will your dad and brother come to see you play?”

“My father, yes, brother maybe.” 

Ilya sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Okay, well, it seemed like that was as far as he was going to go. Shane heaved a sigh and nodded. He should cut his losses. If Ilya didn’t want to open up to him, then fine. 

But then, after a few moments of silence, Ilya spoke.

“My father? Police. My brother? Police. Father, very old-fashioned. And I’m worry, worried,” he corrected himself. “About his thinking. His memory. I talk to him on phone and he’s confused, little bit. Sometimes. I don’t know,” Ilya shook his head. “Maybe is nothing.”

Shane sat for a moment, just processing. He was honestly shocked that Ilya had told him so much. He didn’t really know how to respond, he didn’t have any practice for this.  

“Oh,” Shane said. “I’m, I’m really sorry to hear that. Did something happen over Christmas?”

“He calls me, thinks my mother is there.” 

“But she’s…” Shane trailed off, uncertainly, watching Ilya’s expression as closely as he dared.

Ilya was looking down at his sandwich wrapper, fiddling with a piece of shredded lettuce. 

“Yes, dead,” said Ilya. “After little bit, my father is normal. But for little bit, he’s thinking she’s alive.” 

“Jeez,” Shane said. “That’s gotta be really, really tough, Ilya. I’m sorry. What will you do? Can he see a doctor?” 

Ilya shook his head and glanced up at Shane with a crimped, humorless smile. 

“It will have to get worse. Much, much worse. Before doctor.” 

Shane nodded. He felt so useless. Unable to come up with the right thing to say to comfort Ilya, unable to get up and put his arms around him like Shane wanted to. Maybe he was putting too much stock into this, but it felt huge, that Ilya had opened up even this much. Shane wanted to acknowledge it but knew he couldn’t. It would probably spook him. 

“Well maybe, I mean maybe it’ll be a good thing, to see him at Sochi? In person you might be able to get a closer read on what’s going on.” 

Ilya gave him a tight smile, more like a grimace, and nodded. 

“Listen, I’ll stop asking about him, if you want,” Shane offered. 

Ilya shrugged and then leaned forward, plopping his elbows on the table and rubbing his hands through his hair, head bowed. 

“Is okay. Maybe not ask about a lot. Only…” Ilya lifted his head and flicked his eyes up at Shane and a real smirk curled at the edges of his mouth, warming his features. “Cheat day.”

Shane smiled, relieved that Ilya hadn’t shut him down completely. 

“Sure, I get it,” he said. “Once every few weeks.” 

Ilya’s concerns about his father did not affect him on the ice. After Christmas they were on fire seemingly right out of the gate. But the second game back was when it happened. Finally.

First came the series of near-perfect moves. Shane sent the puck to Hayden’s tape and then darted out to clear ice. Hayden snapped it to Ilya and Shane was open. Open, open, here, here, he was screaming in his head. Ilya knew with one quick glance. In a precise movement of his stick, the puck was sailing to Shane who nudged it in past Miitka and the horn blared. 

Within seconds Ilya was crashing into him.

“Fucking perfect, Hollander,” he was hollering. 

He’d gotten both arms around Shane’s neck and then was smacking a kiss just under Shane’s right cheekbone. And Shane…Shane was near incandescent with happiness. The rest of the guys piled on them then, but through the whole celly it was Ilya right up against him, radiating joy and howling with triumph. 

The mood at the bar afterwards was electric. Shane felt similarly buzzed. He’d played great, gotten a hat trick, and Ilya had kissed him on the cheek. On ice. On TV. There would be tape of it. Shane was going to get his hands on that tape and he was going to watch it over and over to his heart’s content. 

“The only ginger ale you’re getting tonight is in whiskey gingers,” Marleau said, setting down a near-overflowing well glass in front of him. “Cheers to that fucking hat trick, man. I’d probably hate you if you weren’t on my team.” 

“Thanks, you’re all heart,” Shane said. 

He found the whiskey ginger to be decently palatable, decided to throw his diet to the wind, and had about three of them before Ilya showed up in a cloud of his wonderful cologne, wearing his hair styled back off his forehead. Shane loved when he wore his hair like that. 

“Cap! Cap! Cap!” chanted the guys at the table.

Ilya came up and stood behind Shane, putting his hands on his shoulders and shaking him a little. Shane was grinning like a loon. 

“How many he’s had so far?” Ilya demanded of the group. 

“One for each goal,” Marleau crowed, and waved his own drink in the air. 

Ilya’s hands came up to either side of Shane’s face and tipped his head all the way back so that his crown was resting against Ilya’s stomach. Ilya loomed up and over him, peering down into his face. 

“Hmm,” he said. “Okay, yes. He’s pink. I go get shots.” 

He righted Shane’s head by a firm push to the back of it, and Shane had to sit still for a moment, feeling dizzy and very hot around the collar. 

After Ilya menaced him into taking the shot, the night devolved. Shane drank way too much. Somehow he ended up on the dance floor with Marleau and JJ. Somehow he was in an argument with Hayden about the end of Inception. Somehow he was talking over the music to a woman about fly fishing. Somehow he was in the bathroom and there were no more paper towels so he had to dry his hands on his pants. 

Shane stumbled out of the bathroom and tried not to be irritated by his damp jeans. His hands were clean and that was what mattered most. The jeans would dry soon enough. Maybe he could take another shot and then he wouldn’t even care. He should find Ilya, who was the procurer of shots.

Ilya! His sodden brain immediately fixated on the name. Ilya had kissed him on the cheek! Shane smiled. It had felt just as amazing as he’d imagined it would. If he’d turned his head, they would have been kissing for real. 

“Hey, sloppy,” came a voice and then an arm around his shoulder. 

Shane turned and found Hayden there, grinning at him. 

“I think I should take you home, eh, bud?” 

“Home?” Shane said. “But I want Ilya.”

Shane shrugged off Hayden’s arm and eeled his way through the crowded dance floor, which was usually where Ilya ended up on a night out. Ilya liked dancing and he was good at it. His body seemed to find the rhythm so easily. Shane didn’t know how he did it. Logically he knew each song had rhythm but his muscles didn’t seem capable of finding it and following it. The lights were flashing and pulsing, making Shane have to squint a bit, trying to focus. Trying to find him. Then, in a blast of light, Shane saw his hair. He was dancing with three women, but he wasn’t touching any of them. So it wouldn’t be rude to interrupt. Shane made his way up to him and put out a hand. He’d meant to grab Ilya’s wrist, but Ilya was moving and instead Shane somehow had hooked a clumsy finger through Ilya’s belt loop. 

“Hi, rookie,” Ilya said, turning to him and slinging his arms around Shane’s neck.

Shane went hot all the way from his toes to his hairline. They were hugging! Basically. Ilya was still moving to the beat and Shane was standing there like an idiot. But Ilya’s arms were around him.

“You want to dance with me?” Ilya said.

He was talking really close to Shane’s ear so Shane could hear him over the pulsing music. 

“I can’t dance,” Shane mumbled. 

He wanted to put his head down on Ilya’s shoulder, and didn’t know what was stopping him. So he did it. It was so nice. Ilya smelled so good. He was overly warm, kind of sweaty, but it was different than Shane’s damp jeans. This was a good kind of dampness, one that Shane wanted to press his whole body up against. So he did that too. 

“Whoa, whoa, rookie.”

Ilya shifted and somehow got Shane’s face into his hands. The lights were flashing, throwing shadows and spotlights across Ilya’s face. Shane squinted at him. He wanted to put his head back down where it was darker and less chaotic. 

“What’s happening?” Shane complained. 

Ilya pursed his lips and then nodded. 

“We go now.” 

“Well, okay,” Shane said, and allowed Ilya to basically frog march him towards the exit. 

“Rookie drunk, we go now!” Ilya was calling over his shoulder. 

Shane turned, listing a little unbalanced, and saw Hayden and Marleau waving them off. 

Outside, Shane’s ears rang a bit, unused to the quiet. The air was freezing and the road was wet, reflecting the orange from the street lights. They had to wait for a cab. Ilya leaned against the brick wall of the building and lit a cigarette. Shane put one shoulder to the wall to steady himself, facing Ilya and watching him smoke. Ilya’s free hand was between them. He’d worn some sort of silk patterned shirt, the cuff of which was sticking out of the sleeve of his coat. Shane, fixated, plucked at the material. It was smooth and thin. Probably expensive. 

“Can I sleep at your house?” he wondered. “This shirt feels nice.” 

“You crazy lightweight, Hollander.” 

Shane looked up from where he’d been watching his thumb run back and forth against the silk cuff. 

Ilya blew out a cloud of smoke into the night. The smell was acrid but also kind of pleasant. 

“Sorry,” said Shane. “I haven’t been drinking vodka since kindergarten like you.” 

He giggled to himself and Ilya cast him a sideways glance. His mouth was upturned even as he brought the cigarette up to take another drag. 

“Bad chirps,” he said. “How I’m better at chirps and cannot speak English?”

“Your English is great!” Shane protested. 

Ilya shook his head and said something in Russian. The cab came then and Ilya put the cigarette butt out on the ground. Shane scrambled into the car and scooted across to sit behind the driver. Ilya got in after him and gave the address of his house. Shane waited for him to request another stop, but he didn’t. 

“Wait, really?” Shane asked, delighted. 

“Shh,” Ilya said, patting his knee. “Quiet time.” 

Shane beamed at him and then turned to watch the night spill by out the window. 

“Thank you for letting me stay over,” Shane said when they got into the house. 

He toed off his shoes and left them to the side of the front door. 

“You puke, choke on puke, die. Very bad for me. I’m keep watch.” 

Shane made a plaintive sound.

“No, gross,” he said. “I hate throwing up. I’m not gonna throw up. No way.” 

Shane followed Ilya into the kitchen and watched as he grabbed a couple water bottles from the fridge and a big, plastic bowl from a bottom cabinet. 

“Upstairs,” Ilya commanded. 

Shane followed him. 

“What’s that for? Popcorn?”

“You sleep with this. Puke, not on my guest bed. Puke in bowl.” 

“I am not going to throw up,” Shane told him, trying to enunciate clearly. 

Ilya made an uncaring noise. He led Shane into one of the guest bedrooms and put the bowl on the bed and the water bottle on the nightstand. 

He opened the nightstand drawer and Shane’s brain went to a really crazy place before he saw that what was actually in the drawer were spare toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, bar soap, etc. 

“Puke here,” Ilya said, pointing to the bowl. “Or in there,” he said, pointing to the en-suite. “Bathroom. No bed.”

“Whatever,” Shane grumbled. 

He was probably the drunkest he’d ever been that season. But it was mind over matter, and he certainly was not going to throw up. He went over to the nightstand and pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste. 

“Sleep,” Ilya said. “Don’t wake me up early.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. “Thanks again.” 

Shane woke up early the next morning. He usually didn’t sleep so well after drinking and last night was no exception. Luckily the bowl remained clean and empty and he didn’t feel too nauseous. His head hurt and his body felt off, but as far as hangovers went, he could deal with it. Shane got dressed in the clothes from last night and checked his phone, which was nearly dead. He had a few texts from some of the guys, razzing him about cock-blocking Ilya last night. His mom had texted about getting dinner the next time they were in Ottawa, and his dad had texted about the fact that he should have a call with the financial advisor. Shane ignored all of them and quietly made his way downstairs. 

Ilya wasn’t awake yet and Shane felt like it would be rude to leave without at least telling him good morning and apologizing for inviting himself over. His memories from last night were pretty blurry, but he had a sense memory of his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder and the loud, pulsing music of the club in his ears. He hoped he hadn’t made too much of a fool out of himself. 

Down in the kitchen, the early morning light was pouring in through the giant windows. Shane, feeling nosy, opened Ilya’s fridge and poked around in it. There was normal stuff, like eggs and butter. He had a lot of condiments and containers of half-eaten takeout food. He had tons of Gatorade and bottles of water. Shane snagged a blue Gatorade and wandered into the living room. Ilya had a TV that was probably wider than Shane was tall, but Shane didn’t want to turn it on and have the noise wake up Ilya. There were a few books on the coffee table, obviously meant to be just decorative. Shane picked up the first one and began to look through it. He was on the third book when Ilya came into the room, looking grouchy and rumpled. 

“I think you left,” he accused. 

“Uh, no,” Shane said. “That would be rude. I wanted to thank you again for letting me stay over. And sorry for kind of forcing the invite on you.”

Ilya flapped an indifferent hand. 

“Who cares. I have many rooms.”

“If you say so,” Shane said. “I’ll get out of your hair now, though.”

“You stay, eat something. Face green, little bit.” 

“I feel okay,” Shane protested. 

“Listen to captain,” Ilya said. And Shane couldn’t really argue with that. 

Ilya made serviceable, if a little over cooked, scrambled eggs and toast. He also made black tea and Shane watched, fascinated, as he stirred a spoonful of jam into it. 

“You want?” he asked, waving the spoon. 

“I’ll just have it black. I shouldn’t eat a lot of sugar,” Shane said. “Thanks.”

Ilya shrugged and slurped his tea obnoxiously. 

“Mm,” he said. “Sweet. Good.”

Ilya’s hair was kind of a mess and it made him look fluffy. Shane ducked his head to hide his smile. 

“So what do you usually do, on off days like this?” Shane asked after finishing his last bite of toast. 

Ilya shrugged.

“Work out, watch TV, play video game, make food. Call Svetlana, maybe. Relax.”

Shane nodded. 

“Why. What you do.”

“The same.”

“Oh? You call Svetlana behind my back? How you’re get her number?”

Ilya was leaning over the counter on both elbows, a playful grin on his face. Shane laughed and shook his head. 

“Not that part. But the rest of it.”

“Relax? Shane Hollander?”

“I can relax!” 

“Okay, you prove it. We go watch TV. Hang out.”

Ilya jerked his head towards the living room and then padded out of the kitchen. 

“Oh,” Shane said. 

A warm feeling was blooming in his sternum. Ilya wanted him to stay. Ilya wanted to hang out. Shane got up and followed, trying not to look too eager. He’d let himself stay for just another hour, and then he’d leave.

They ended up playing BioShock, and one hour turned into two. Shane kept trying to convince himself that he should be leaving, and then allowing himself just another few more minutes. 

“You so bad!” Ilya crowed. 

Ilya had discovered the embarrassing (for Shane) reality that Shane sucked at video games but was just as competitive about them as he was about hockey. Ilya found this hilarious. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Shane said, smashing the buttons on his controller. “God! Fuck! Fucking fuck this!”

His avatar KO’d and Shane shouted wordlessly and resisted the urge to fling the controller at the TV. 

“I think I need a break or I’m gonna have an aneurism,” he said, trying to regain his composure and carefully setting the controller on the coffee table. 

“What’s ‘aneurism,’” Ilya said. 

“Like, my brain’s gonna explode, or something,” Shane said. “I’m actually not too sure what it really means, medically.”

“You just say anything. Not know what it means. Say anyway.” 

“Well, people understand the sentiment. Uh, the general meaning.” 

“‘Sentiment. Aneurism.’ I bring to tutor.”

“You have a tutor?” Shane asked, smiling. 

He was imagining Ilya working through an English grammar exercise book. 

“How else I’m learn? Team can’t explain why ‘you’ and not ‘you’re,’ why ‘I’ and not ‘I’m.’ Russian not have ‘the, the, the.’ English all the time, ‘the.’ Why? Team can’t explain. So annoying.” 

“No, I get it. I guess I didn’t really think about it. Sorry.” 

“I’m captain. Need to get better. Give better interviews. Communicate.”

He said the syllables of the last word carefully and not without a hint of derision. 

“Sure, yeah, that’s smart.”

Ilya leaned across the small distance between them and bumped his shoulder to Shane’s.

“Need to get better for chatty rookies.”

“Hey, I’m probably helping you by being chatty,” Shane said. 

He privately thought that Ilya’s accent and English grammar mistakes were endearing, especially the way he used contractions where they weren’t needed, or the wrong contractions where they were. But if Shane had been in Ilya’s place, he would have been studying everyday to try and achieve fluency as fast as he could. Press was difficult enough even in his first language. 

“Yes, you help. You can help more, help teach me, if I say wrong thing.”

“Really? You’d want me to do that?”

“Help me get better.”

 “You’re pretty good. I mean it. If things were the opposite and I was in Russia, trying to learn Russian in only a few years, I’d be way worse at it than you.”

“No, you probably learn in one week. No accent.”

Shane gave him a doubtful look. 

“Bonjour,” said Ilya, pointedly. 

Shane waved a hand. 

“That’s different. I learned French in school.”

But he liked the idea that Ilya thought he was smart, and good at languages because Shane thought the exact same thing about Ilya. It must have been really hard, coming here at eighteen and being thrown into everything all at once. Shane remembered how alone he’d felt that summer, after his parents had helped him move in and left, and he didn’t even have to worry about learning a new language. 

“Besides not liking the language, do you like it here, or do you miss Russia all the time?” 

“Russia…I go back for summers. Speak real language. But here we play hockey. I’m not miss Russia during season.”

“‘I don’t miss Russia during the season,’” Shane corrected, and then watched Ilya’s face. 

Had he actually meant it when he’d asked Shane for corrections, or would he get annoyed? 

“I don’t miss Russia during the season,” Ilya parroted, with emphasis.

Shane smiled at him encouragingly. 

“The,” said Ilya, rolling his eyes. “Always the.” 

“I guess it’s probably good you don’t miss it during the season. I’d miss my parents. I mean, I do and I’m still in the same continent as them. But maybe you don’t really, I don’t know, miss your dad or brother?”

Ilya shook his head. 

“I told you. They boring. We not close. I send money. That’s it.” 

“Right,” Shane said. “I didn’t mean to make this a cheat day.” 

He tilted his head and Ilya laughed a little bit, getting the reference. 

“No, is okay, cheat day. We do. Order cheeseburger for lunch.” 

Ilya had reached over and squeezed Shane’s knee while he spoke. Shane looked down at his hand there, transfixed. He imagined it sliding up a little, higher, onto his thigh. He was kind of obsessed with Ilya’s hands. Shane’s pulse spiked. This is why you should have left earlier, he mentally berated himself. If Ilya touched him like this, after hanging out like this, after sleeping in his house, Shane was afraid his own self-control was going to snap. He desperately, desperately wanted something he couldn’t have, and if he let himself stay here for any longer, he might slip up and Ilya would find out. As it was, he was already staring at Ilya’s hand and hoping it would move up, just a little further. His mouth went dry and his ears went hot. 

“Um,” Shane said, dragging his eyes away. “But…um…I was thinking that I should go.”

He was suddenly overwhelmed with the tidal wave of want coursing through him. Ilya, in the sunlight, in his beautiful house, cooking food for Shane, teasing him for sucking at video games, telling him about learning English. Smiling, laughing, teasing Ilya. His beautiful eyes, in the daylight. How comfortable he was, at home. How unguarded. How open his expressions were. 

Shane felt like his heart was two seconds away from climbing up and out of his throat and prostrating itself at Ilya’s feet. He wanted this to be his life, everyday. He could imagine it so clearly, it would be so wonderful. But he was deluding himself, lulling himself into a daydream fantasy. 

He had to get out before he did something incredibly stupid, like spill his guts to Ilya and ruin their friendship forever. 

“Hollander? You freeze up.” 

Ilya had shifted closer on the couch, and was looking into Shane’s face with concern. His hand was still on Shane’s knee. His thumb was now rubbing it, back and forth. 

“Um, uh, nothing,” Shane said, grasping at any excuse. “It’s just, I have errands to do. Grocery shopping, and stuff. And I’ve been here a while. Don’t want to overstay my welcome. So I’ll just go now.” 

He’d been twisting his fingers together as he spoke, and Ilya moved his hand from Shane’s knee to Shane’s hands, stilling the movement. God. He always touched Shane exactly right, in ways that Shane didn’t know he wanted to be touched. Just the press of his hand, like this, made the pulse roar in Shane’s ears. Shane was going to do something crazy if he didn’t get out of there.

He pulled his hands away and stood up.

“Thanks for uh, everything. But like I said, I’ll just head out now,” he said, and hurried to the front door. 

 “Hollander—Shane,” said Ilya, following him.

Shane tried to shove his feet into his shoes, but Ilya got a hand around his wrist and was turning him around. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Ilya said.

He looked either concerned or irritated, or maybe both. His brow was furrowed. The sunlight was making his eyes look like the ocean. Shane’s stupid heart wrenched in his chest.

“I’m gonna go,” he muttered, twisting his wrist out of Ilya’s grip. 

“Shane, hey, calm down,” Ilya said.

He put his hands on Shane’s shoulders and squeezed. 

“Talk to me.” 

Shane squirmed, staring down at the floor. He wanted to stay. He wanted Ilya so bad he could feel it everywhere—in his pulse, in the back of his throat, in the palms of his hands.

“Could you just stop it, then?” Shane said, and then winced. His voice sounded so miserable.

“Stop what?” 

Shane sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t start. If he started it would all come out and he’d ruin everything. 

“Hey, stop what?”

Ilya put his hand to Shane’s cheek. It was too much.

“Stop that! Stop that!” he said. “Stop touching me, please.”

“Shane,” said Ilya. 

He was still staring at Ilya’s socked feet, but Shane refused to look up from the floor. He didn’t want to see the pity that would surely be on Ilya’s face. Didn’t want to see the kind rejection, the apology. God, he was such a pathetic loser. His face was burning. 

“Shane,” Ilya said again. 

There was a crooked finger under his chin and a thumb pressed to the point of it, tipping his head up. Shane jerked his chin away and then finally met Ilya’s eyes, frowning. 

“That’s exactly what I mean! You’re too—it’s too…I don’t know…it’s too… It’s confusing me. I know you don’t mean anything by it, but I can’t help myself. I’ve tried and I can’t help it!” 

Ilya blinked, taking in the outburst, parsing through it. Then, slowly, he said, “You think I don’t mean anything…”

“You touch everyone on the team. I know it doesn’t mean anything,” Shane said. 

He was back to looking at the floor. 

Ilya tsked. 

His hands slid down to either side of Shane’s neck, his thumbs, pressing just in front of the hinge of Shane’s jaw, tipped Shane’s head up again. 

“I touch the guys like this?” he said. “You’re thinking this?” 

Shane looked between Ilya’s eyes. He was so serious. There was no pity there, no apology. It was hard to think straight; Shane’s thoughts were churning just like his emotions, and on top of all of that, Ilya’s hands were on his neck. It was probably true that he didn’t touch the guys exactly like this…but also he had never touched Shane like this before either, with his thumbs just so, beneath Shane’s jawbone. 

“I don’t…I…I told you I’m confused,” Shane said.

He’d hooked his hands over Ilya’s wrists, meaning to pull him away, but instead he was just holding on. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Sorry for confused. I’m thinking you’re understand because you never push away.”

“I don’t want to push you away!” Shane exclaimed. 

That was the whole issue! His hands tightened, instinctive, around Ilya’s wrists, and something shifted in Ilya’s expression. Maybe his eyes brightened, like he’d heard something he was looking for, or he was happy. Shane wished he knew what it meant for sure. 

“So you do like,” he said, and scritched his fingers against Shane’s nape. 

“Well yeah,” Shane said, goosebumps rushing across his skin. “Too much. That’s why you should stop. So I won’t keep getting confused.”

Shane’s eyes had been stinging, and he blinked several times to try and clear them of the sensation. He didn’t know what his face was doing, but Ilya seemed to like what he saw there. 

“Here,” Ilya said. “I don’t do this with team.” 

He rubbed his thumbs gently against Shane’s jawline, leaned in, and kissed him. Shane went rigid in shock. What the fuck, Shane thought, the words bouncing around his brain. It felt like the top of his head was going fly off. 

Then, one of Ilya’s hands moved around to the back of Shane’s neck and squeezed there, grounding him. It was so settling and so like Ilya that the rising panic Shane had been feeling dissipated. What was left was Ilya’s lips against his and the wonderful smell of him all around and his warm hands on the side of Shane’s face and on the back of his neck. Shane made some sort of animal sound against Ilya’s mouth and for a long moment, lost himself. 

After some amount of time, Ilya pulled back and gazed at him, eyes searching. Shane didn’t know what he looked like, but Ilya seemed to find what he wanted. He was ducking back in when Shane put some pressure on his shoulders. Ilya paused, waiting for Shane’s cue. 

“But…but…wait I,” Shane said, dazed, trying to regain his faculties. “I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to do things like this.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. 

“Ah, no,” he agreed. 

“So, then,” Shane said, and swallowed.

So then, they should stop. The rules…well, there was no explicit rule against kissing your teammate, but it was so obviously taboo that it didn’t need one. So he needed to follow the rules. He always followed the rules. 

But—Shane had never felt like this, his whole body lit up. No, it was more than his body. It was his mind and his essence too, all blazing and buzzing and wanting and…and…Shane had so many questions he wanted to ask: Do you really want this? For how long? Is this real? Are you teasing me? Do you actually like me, like this? What do you want me to do and how should I do it? How can I be good for you? Can we do this forever?  

He couldn’t know Ilya’s answers to those questions, but he knew his own. And in that moment Shane made a selfish decision. A decision that was completely and wholly just for himself. He put his mouth against Ilya’s and kissed him again. 

He had never felt like this before. Abruptly he realized that this is why people hooked up all the time. This is why people fucked strangers and had one night stands. Because it felt this good. Ilya was all over him now, demanding and tender. He kept positioning Shane’s head exactly how he wanted, with a hand on his jaw. His other hand was roaming all up and down Shane’s torso. Shane had gotten both hands into Ilya’s hair and was loathe to move them. But then he thought about getting a hold of Ilya’s dick and immediately switched tactics. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya said, low and pleased, when Shane shoved his sweatpants out of the way and took him in hand.

“Shit,” Shane gasped, lowering his head to see, his forehead skidding against Ilya’s mouth. “God.”

He was hot and thick in Shane’s grip. Shane’s mouth watered and it was instinct to go to his knees. 

“Fuck,” Ilya said again, when Shane got his lips around him. 

He hadn’t really known what to expect, only that he wanted to try it. He definitely hadn’t expected to love it. But he did love it, he found. He loved having Ilya in his mouth and looming above him, surrounding him and in him, the sound of his harsh breathing in Shane’s ears. 

And then it got even better because Ilya’s hand found its way into Shane’s hair and tugged and Shane’s body jolted like a live wire. He made an obscene, strangled sound around Ilya’s dick and shuddered before refocusing. He could have stayed down there, happily, for hours and hours. But too soon, Ilya put his hands under Shane’s upper arms and urged him to stand up. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Was it bad?”

“No,” said Ilya, and rubbed the knuckle of his pointer finger against Shane’s slick lower lip. “Too good. I don’t want to come by front door.”

Shane felt a surge of pleasure. Too good? Him? 

“I’m gonna put you in my bed,” Ilya said. 

“Okay,” Shane said. “Hey, that sounded really fluent.” 

“Not talk about English now.” 

Shane’s cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. Ilya said something in Russian and then swept in to put a quick, closed-mouthed kiss mostly against Shane’s teeth. Then he grabbed Shane’s hand and tugged. 

Ilya got him upstairs, in bed, and naked in a few scant, perfunctory minutes. It was clear by the efficient movements that Ilya was done wasting time. He flung Shane’s pants and shirt somewhere behind him, and the thought of them lying rumpled on the floor was a vague irritant in Shane’s mind until Ilya got his mouth on him and Shane couldn’t think of anything else besides heat, wetness, and suction. 

He came embarrassingly fast, and worse, right into Ilya’s mouth with no warning. 

“Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry I didn’t know I’d do that. I would have told you…”

His face was on fire. Ilya snaked his way back up Shane’s body and then hovered. He looked pretty smug. His mouth looked crazy. As red as the jam he’d put in his tea that morning. Shane stared. 

“Your first time with a man?” he asked. 

Shane nodded. He was panting. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to close it. 

“We see how many times I can make you come.” 

“Jesus,” Shane said, squirming. 

Ilya set out on his experiment with the same determination he had on the ice. Shane had not known, could never have imagined, what it would actually feel like to be the subject of Ilya’s single-minded focus in this way. There was no shyness, no hesitation. He put Shane’s limbs exactly how he wanted them, he touched Shane exactly how he wanted to, and he made Shane come. After the third time, Shane could only lay there, brain spilling dopamine everywhere like an overfull bucket, and hope Ilya would show him mercy soon enough. The sides of his temples were wet. He hadn’t known he’d been tearing up. 

Ilya had come across Shane’s stomach while staring at Shane’s face, and then flopped out onto his back, breathing hard. 

“You kill me, Hollander. I’m dead.”

“You’re dead?” Shane wheezed. 

He didn’t even have the energy to finish his thought. Instead he panted up at the ceiling and felt the sweat cooling on his skin. He was in deep, deep shit. This was the sort of thing he could become addicted to, obsessed with. As it was, he’d already been obsessed with Ilya before all of this. He had probably never felt this good in his whole life, maybe not even when playing his best hockey. It was an alarming thought, and one he quickly pushed to the back of his mind to never examine again.

“So,” Shane said, when his blood had stopped racing in his veins. “I guess you, like, uh, hook up with guys too?”

He winced after the words were out. The answer was stupidly obvious. But Ilya didn’t chirp him.

“Yes, I like both,” he said.  

“Oh, okay,” Shane said. “I’ve only ever been with girls before this.”

“Yes, you say after I make you come in one minute.”

“It wasn’t one minute, asshole,” Shane said.

But his dignity was already in shambles and Ilya was going to be smug about this for weeks, Shane could just tell. 

They lay, quiet, for a few minutes. He was in Ilya’s bed. Ilya had had his mouth on Shane’s dick. If pre-season Shane could see this, his eyes would fall out of his head. No wonder all those women who left bars and clubs with Ilya looked so happy. They probably knew better about what was in store for them.

But Shane had not known. At those times, Shane had thought what they were getting was something similar to what he’d gotten during his own pathetic, early-season hook ups. He’d thought that was how it was for everyone, and they were just exaggerating in movies and on TV. He was such an idiot. 

“No girl has ever made me come three times before…” Shane said eventually, mostly to himself. 

There was a realization crystallizing in his mind’s eye, one that should have probably been obvious before but was only now making itself known. 

“You like bossy.”

Shane made a considering sound. 

“My girlfriend was plenty bossy.” 

“In bed?” Ilya asked, sounding intrigued. 

“Well, no. But everywhere else.” 

“Ah. So.”

“You think it felt so good because you were bossing me around?”

“Mm,” said Ilya. 

“Maybe,” said Shane. 

But maybe it was because Ilya was a man. Or maybe it was because Ilya was Ilya.

—

Shane was determined not to act any different afterwards. The revelations he’d had could not be made known—not to anyone. Ilya also wasn’t acting any different, which was a relief. Shane had worried that Ilya might be stand-offish, or maybe he’d regret what they’d done. But Ilya was the same as he’d ever been and Shane…

Shane was irrevocably changed? Or something. Mostly he just wanted to have sex with Ilya again. Specifically he wanted Ilya to fuck him. But he couldn’t figure out a way to ask for it and it didn’t seem like Ilya was going to. They had lunches and went to practice and played games and went on another road trip or two. The month of January was quickly passing and Ilya did not make another move. 

Maybe Ilya was fine with a one-and-done thing. Maybe Shane was too boring for him or there was no more curiosity. These thoughts put Shane into a pretty terrible mood for a certain span of time. He was snippy with his mom on the phone and had an attitude during practice. He even took a few stupid penalties during games. He had a series of extremely uncharitable thoughts about Ilya being a whore and fucking the whole team as well as the entire general population of Boston, and then had to give himself a mental slap in the face for being such a jealous freak. Get over yourself, he said. Like you’re the first person to have an unrequited crush. Grow up and focus. If it never happens again, at least you had it once. 

—

But then, in February, only a few days before they were set to leave for Sochi: 

i come over?

Shane stared at the text as his heart rate began to climb steadily until it was racing in his ears. Ilya wanted to come over. Here. Why? For what? Shane knew what he hoped for, but it felt so greedy. Maybe Ilya just wanted to play video games and shoot the shit. Well, so be it. Shane would take what he could get. 

Ok, he sent back.

1 hr, Ilya said. 

Shane’s fight or flight kicked in and he spent the hour pacing around his apartment, catastrophizing and chewing the ends of his hoodie strings ragged. 

Ilya knocked on the door and Shane opened it immediately, stepping aside to let him in. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” said Ilya. 

He took off his puffer coat and hung it on the rack of hooks on the wall next to the door. Shane stared at him. Ilya had been thinking about this before he’d even texted. He’d been thinking about Shane and being at Shane’s apartment. He wanted it enough to ask. And now he was here. Shane couldn’t know for sure what Ilya’s goal was, coming over, but Shane knew what he himself wanted. He had worked himself into such a state that he’d probably end up asking for it if Ilya didn’t. 

Ilya walked a circle around the living space, as if making sure everything was where he’d remembered. Then he sat on the couch. Shane trailed him and then stood a little to his left, looking down at him. 

“Um, so what do you want to do,” Shane asked, heart in his throat. 

Ilya looked up at him and then patted his lap. Deliberately. Twice. 

Shane went hot, face flaming, desire flaring through his bloodstream. What did he mean? Straddle him? 

“You mean…” Shane said.

Ilya patted his lap again.

“Come here,” he said. 

Shane clambered, kind of awkwardly and too eager, into a straddle. He placed his hands on Ilya’s shoulders and refused to be ashamed by the fact he was already getting hard. It was difficult sometimes to meet Ilya’s gaze, but Ilya was staring at him with hot eyes and his hands had come to rest on Shane’s hips. He wanted Shane here. He was holding him, keeping him, right where he wanted him. The world had narrowed completely down to just them two on the couch. 

“I thought maybe we wouldn’t do this again,” Shane said.

“Yes,” said Ilya. “Is bad idea.”

“Right. And the Olympics are basically tomorrow.” 

Ilya smiled, it was a little rueful.

“Really bad idea. After first time, we not do again. With stranger is risky, but with teammate is risky and stupid. Maybe big mess.” 

“Right,” said Shane. “But you texted me.”

“Yes. Because I’m not thinking about good idea. I’m thinking about how many times I get you to shoot off. I’m thinking…” He paused and tilted his head to the left and to the right. “…I want to fuck you.”

As he spoke, his hands had slid around to Shane’s ass. On the last three words he grabbed two handfuls of his glutes through his sweatpants and spread him, just a little bit. Shane went dizzy with how fast all of his blood drained from his head down to his crotch. He squirmed and gripped Ilya’s shoulders tight.

“You want?” Ilya asked, searching Shane’s face. He had a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he already knew.

Shane swallowed. 

“It’s a bad idea. But yeah. I really want you to fuck me,” he said, and then lowered his mouth down to meet Ilya’s.

“Yes,” Ilya hissed, and kissed him back fiercely. 

They made out on the couch for longer than Shane had been expecting. It was so incredible that he kind of forgot about the end goal. Ilya was a fantastic kisser, so good that he overrode all the sort of gross parts of kissing that Shane’s brain sometimes fixated on when it was happening. Shane lost his hoodie and t-shirt, and with wordless demands made Ilya pull off his own. After, Shane pressed against him, loving the skin to skin and the bliss that was Ilya rubbing his hands all up and down Shane’s back. 

Finally, Ilya pulled away. He had to stop Shane from chasing him with a hand on his jaw.

“Lube,” he said. “Condom.” 

“Bedroom,” Shane said. 

And then, there he was, living through the reality of his own well-worn fantasies. Ilya in his bed, about to fuck him.

Obviously when compared to his own fingers it was going to feel different with another person. But this wasn’t just another person, this was Ilya. It was Ilya’s fingers and Ilya watching his face so intently, Ilya checking on whether he was still okay and Ilya pushing in, stretching him to his limits and then fucking him so well that his brain turned into a soup of pleasure chemicals. Shane was drooling but he couldn’t close his mouth. He couldn’t stop making all of these horrible, embarrassing sounds. He was going crazy. He was coming. Untouched. 

“Yes,” Ilya hissed, fucking into him deep and good and giving him something to clench around. “Yes, you come on my dick. Just like that Shane, fuck. So good. You’re so good.”

Shane heaved a huge, shuddery sigh into the mattress and then blissed out. 

When he gathered enough wits to open his eyes and pay attention to his surroundings again, Ilya was lying at his side, staring at him. 

“Ugh,” Shane grunted. 

His tongue felt too big in his mouth and his eyes and ass felt sore. The rest of his body was thrumming and hot. 

“Okay?” Ilya said. 

“Okay,” Shane said. 

It was probably the biggest understatement he’d ever made in his life. His mind had been blown. 

“I can’t move,” he said. “The bed is gross.” 

“Don’t move,” Ilya told him. “Ignore the bed. Rest.”

Shane dozed in and out for a little while. Ilya went and showered and then came back wearing his clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and Shane rolled onto his back, looking up at him. Ilya put a hand on Shane’s forehead and rubbed the side of his thumb up and down the bridge of Shane’s nose. He had never been touched like that, in that specific way, in his life. Would this be how it was with Ilya? Ilya, collecting every single one of Shane’s lingering firsts? Well, Shane would give them all to Ilya, gladly.

“Okay?” Ilya said.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’m gonna shower.” 

He sat up and Ilya moved his hand away. 

“After the Olympics, will we do this again?” Shane asked, peering sideways at Ilya’s face. “Even though it’s a bad idea?” 

“You want?” Ilya asked. 

Shane turned to face him, full on.

“Yeah,” he said, maybe too honest.

But Ilya nodded.

“Then we will do this again.” 

—

They had mutually decided not to talk to or text each other in Russia. It was already confusing to not be playing for the same team, they didn’t need anything else on top of it. It sucked, but the general splendor of the Olympics quickly superseded any moping he might have done. 

That was before Russia’s terrible game with Latvia, though. Shane was too far away in the arena to see anything besides Ilya’s tiny figure down on the ice, but Shane knew Ilya’s body by heart at this point, and he could tell, even from far away and even in his gear, how devastated Ilya was by the loss. They had decided not to text, but surely this could be an exception, right? If Shane had been in Ilya’s place, he wouldn’t have minded a check-in text.

So he sent one.

But Ilya didn’t respond. 

He sent another.

Ilya didn’t respond.

Shane tried not to worry about it but was largely unsuccessful. When he wasn’t focusing on his own team or engrossed in watching other games, Shane mostly wondered about Ilya and what Ilya was doing at that moment. He wished he could know where his dorm room was and go and see him. It was clear by now that Ilya wouldn’t respond to any messages, so the only way Shane would be able to find out anything was to corner him in person. 

He got his chance when he wasn’t expecting it: at the men’s solo figure skating finals. Seeing Ilya lingering at the edge of the upper ring was a shock, the sight of him rang through Shane’s entire body as if he was a struck gong, reverberating. He was moving, giving some excuse as an after thought to the guys he was with, before he’d even really thought about it. It was instinct, to go to him.

Ilya looked different. It was something about the way he was holding his body, tense and drawn inward. It wasn’t what Shane was used to. 

“Hey,” he said.

He kept his distance, feeling a little unsure. Ilya turned his head, threw a glance at Shane, and then said, “Not here.”

“No, right,” Shane said. Duh, he didn’t say. What did Ilya take him for, a complete idiot? “No I…I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Ilya crossed his arms.

“Go away, Hollander.” 

“Are you okay? You didn’t answer my text so—”

“No, I didn’t answer your boring text, now will you go,” Ilya snapped.

Shane took a step back. It would have been kinder if he’d slapped Shane across the face.

“Okay,” Shane said, and then, in order to prevent himself from saying anything else, spat out, “Fuck!” 

He stalked away, his entire body smarting with outrage and hurt. Just because Ilya was stressed or, or whatever he was, didn’t give him the excuse to act like a total jackass. Shane had only been trying to check in. It wasn’t like he was going jump him in front of Putin. If Ilya had just responded to his texts then Shane wouldn’t have had to try in person…

But Ilya’d made himself perfectly clear. He wanted nothing to do with Shane at all. At least, not in Russia. 

It should have been at least a little vindictively satisfying, then, to know that Russia completely out of medal contention. But it wasn’t satisfying at all. 

Shane refused to let himself spiral with grim determination. He was at the Olympics and he was going to make the most of it. He went to see what events he could with the remaining time, and had some good fun with various Team Canada members during dorm room hangouts and cafeteria meals. 

By the time they flew back to the States, Shane felt like he’d had a pretty enjoyable first Olympic experience overall. But he was more than ready to get back to playing with the Raiders. There was a thought forming in his head, one that he was trying to skirt around so as not to jinx anything: they probably had a path to the Cup. He couldn’t face the thought directly because he was too superstitious, but it was back there all the same. 

Therefore he ignored it for something bigger and more pressing: Ilya. When he thought about Ilya, a certain queasiness took over the pit of his stomach. There were a lot of things Shane wanted to say to him. 

—-

It was clear, after a few minutes into the locker room before their first practice back, that Ilya was going to pretend like nothing had ever happened. Well, maybe Ilya had forgotten all about it, but Shane hadn’t. And Shane was certainly going to remind him. People had a false assumption that Shane was non-confrontational, when really he just didn’t get bothered by too much. But he was bothered by this. 

The guys were all in a pretty good mood. The ones who’d been at the games were sharing stories and commiserating amongst each other about losses, the bad food, and the dorm room smell. Most of them had a few nice words to say to Ilya, as it always sucked the most to lose on home turf. Ilya took it all in stride, but he looked a little pale and drawn. 

Shane tried not to look at him too much and mostly failed. 

After practice Shane immediately clocked that Ilya was going to try and slink out unnoticed. He hurried through the fastest shower of his life and followed Ilya out of the locker room and down the arena halls doggedly. 

“Hey,” he said, catching up and falling into step with Ilya. 

“Yes, Hollander,” said Ilya. 

“I think we should get lunch,” said Shane. 

Ilya glanced at him, and Shane looked back determinedly. 

“Shane,” Ilya said, sighing. “I’m tired.” 

“Okay,” Shane said. “Me too. I’ll come over to your place, then. Or you can come over to mine. I meal prepped.” 

“You can’t take a hint?” Ilya accused. 

They’d both stopped and were standing, facing each other in front of the exit doors. Ilya was trying to look menacing, but it was a paltry effort. He mostly looked exhausted and kind of sallow. 

“Nope,” Shane said. “I famously cannot.” 

Ilya’s eyes were darting around Shane’s face. It was probably the longest he’d looked at Shane since the beginning of February. He tsked his tongue but then nodded in defeat.

“Fine,” Ilya said. “Your place.”

For once, Shane got to his apartment first. He was wondering if Ilya had tricked him and driven home instead, when his intercom buzzed. A minute or two later, Ilya was inside his apartment again. It kind of felt like deja vu. 

Ilya walked around the living space, paused in front of the trio of photos, and then headed back into the kitchen. He plopped down on a stool at the counter and watched expectantly as Shane trailed after him.

“What you feed me,” he said sullenly, putting an elbow on the counter and resting his chin on his fist. 

Shane opened his fridge and took out a couple Tupperwares of brown rice veggie bowls. 

Ilya said something in Russian that sounded disparaging. 

“It’s healthy,” Shane said pointedly, and put both containers in the microwave to heat up. 

They ate mostly in silence, shoveling food into their mouths as post-practice hockey players were wont to do. When they were done, Ilya pushed his Tupperware away and gave Shane a rangy sort of look, almost like a cornered animal. 

“Yeah,” said Shane. “I want to talk about Russia.” 

Ilya muttered something under his breath. Then, “We say before we go, we don’t talk. But then you text. You find me.” 

“Well after that game I wanted to check in. I was worried, I was thinking about you and your dad and stuff. It just seemed like you were under a lot of pressure, and probably no one knew about it except me. I think it would have been kind of shitty of me to just ignore it.” 

Maybe it wasn’t what Ilya had been expecting Shane to say. He looked caught off-guard. His posture had been bristly and defensive, but he was deflating now, shoulders slouching. 

“You…” Ilya started, but then he ran a hand over his mouth and just shook his head. “Okay.”

“So I understand, right? The pressure? And I understand there was probably more stuff you were dealing with too, stuff that you didn’t tell me about. But it doesn’t make up for the fact that you were a huge asshole. I was just trying to see if you were okay.” 

He wanted to say that Ilya had been like a different person, a complete and total stranger. Those hard eyes, that hard voice, his body language. It had felt like the Twilight Zone or something. But Shane held all of that back. He didn’t want to go too far, and he’d said the most important part anyway. 

They sat through several long minutes of quiet. Shane watched Ilya as he fidgeted with the cuff of his sweatshirt and jiggled his left leg. 

“Russia…is hard for me,” Ilya said finally. And then, “I’m sorry. I see your face before you walk away and I wish I could take it back. I’m sorry.” 

He looked miserable and Shane was done grilling him. He got up, pushed his way between Ilya’s legs, and hugged him. Ilya tensed for just a moment, and then melted. His arms came up to clutch tight around Shane’s waist. In this position, with Shane standing and Ilya on the stool, Ilya’s head came up to just below Shane’s chin. He got to rest his mouth and nose against Ilya’s soft curls and smell the generic locker room shampoo.

“I’m on your team, remember?” Shane said into Ilya’s hair, and Ilya nodded, face pressed to Shane’s collarbone. “Don’t forget again.” 

—

They danced around each other for a couple weeks after that. It wasn’t that there was any lingering anger, but it was more like they were trying to see if they were still on even footing or not. There was hesitancy on Ilya’s end, like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to grab at Shane like he’d been doing. He was treating Shane carefully, which Shane privately thought was quite sweet, but publicly it was noticeably kind of awkward. And since hockey players couldn’t leave well enough alone, most of the guys had decided Ilya was pissed at Shane for Canada doing better at the Olympics than Russia. 

“Guess you’ve lost your number one spot, eh, bud?” Hayden said.

Shane rolled his eyes. Hayden thought he was so smart. They were at practice before setting off on a pretty long road trip. Ilya was still doing this thing (that he’d been doing for several days now) of skirting around Shane physically, but staring at him down from afar with laser eyes. 

“What did you do to piss him off so bad?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Shane said. 

“No? Then why is he glaring at you like he’s frying your skeleton from the inside out?”

It was kind of funny, how confidently Hayden was misinterpreting that look. But it wasn’t as if Shane could properly educate him. 

“You’re too nosy to live. Why don’t you go ask him if you’re so interested.” 

Hayden visibly shuddered.

“No thanks. I’ll just die, then,” he said cheerfully, and then skated off.

The roadie started strong and stayed that way. Ilya seemed to have left all of his bad luck in Russia, because he was playing like a beast. Even though they were playing away games, he had any and all Boston fans in raptures in the stands holding Rozanov signs and cheering themselves hoarse, and he had the opposing players gritting their teeth and taking stupid penalties just so they could try and take him down a notch. It wasn’t working. He was magnificent and Shane and the rest of the Raiders were right there with him. 

It was mid-March when they found themselves on the last stop. Spring had been thawing out the other places on the trip, but they were finishing in St. Paul and winter was clinging gleefully to the city, like a toddler to a beloved puppy. It wouldn’t let go. 

“Seven inches,” said Hayden, gesturing at the TV, where the local weather guy was standing outside, pink-nosed and waving his arms around. “We’re gonna be stuck here. Mark my words.”

Shane shrugged. It didn’t matter to him if they ended up stuck. 

“We’ll see,” he said. “My dad says meteorologists are no better than palm readers.”

“Don’t you have to go to school for it?” Hayden said. 

“Palm reading?” 

Hayden gave Shane a funny look. 

“No, meteorology.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Hayden rolled his eyes. 

“Good talk. I’m going to call Jackie,” he said, and left.

They got the email an hour later: all flights out of MSP were canceled until further notice. But their manager was hopeful that they could make it out only a day late. 

Shane prepared to hunker down, glad that he’d brought a new book instead of the one he only had a few chapters left in. He’d gotten through twenty pages when his phone buzzed.  

u come over. 30min.

Shane’s pulse quickened. This was totally unexpected.

Marleau? 

uptown for dinner. maybe he get stuck and freeze.

Haha, brave of him. But he’ll probably come back soon enough?

no u come. 

Shane looked at the words. His ears felt hot. There wasn’t any universe in which he was going to say no, but still he told himself that he should.

Ok.

))

Ilya had a habit of sending those eyeless, noseless smilies over text. They were kind of sinister but Shane really liked them. He hoped Ilya never started using the emoji keyboard.  

Thirty minutes later, Shane closed his book. He slipped quietly out of the room so as not to wake Hayden (who was “watching” golf on TV), and went quickly down the hall to where Ilya and Marleau had been assigned. 

They’d never, ever, hooked up on a road trip. It was impossible, with roommates. But maybe Ilya just wanted to hang out, or talk some more about what had happened during and after Sochi? 

Shane knocked and Ilya opened the door a few seconds later. He was wearing a black hoodie and track pants and his hair was damp. Shane wanted to put his face against Ilya’s neck. He was abruptly very tired of this hesitancy; Ilya had been playing amazing hockey and so sue him if Shane found that hot. Ilya was hot and Shane wanted Ilya, bad. He planned to say as much, once they were fully in private. 

But the plan faltered when Ilya stepped aside, a smile breaking across his face. 

“What’s this,” he said, delighted. 

“What’s what?” Shane asked, walking into the room.

Ilya closed and dead-bolted the door. Then he brought a hand up and tapped his own temple. Shoot, Shane thought. The glasses. He’d forgotten to take them off. 

“Oh, I wear them for reading and stuff,” Shane said. 

He went to remove them, but Ilya stopped his hands.

“What,” Shane said, uncertainly.

It was the first time in weeks that Ilya had touched him in private, with intent.

“Glasses stay on,” he said.

“C’mon…” Shane said.

But Ilya wasn’t teasing. He was looking at Shane avidly, avariciously. Slowly, Ilya adjusted his grip, taking Shane’s wrists into one hand. He brought his other hand up to Shane’s jaw.

“Okay?” he asked, his thumb moving back and forth, just a little.

God. As if he needed to ask. As if Shane wasn’t anything but completely easy for Ilya Rozanov. 

“Yes,” Shane said. The word was practically pulsing with want.

Ilya kissed him, hard. 

Shane hadn’t realized he’d been carrying a certain tension for the past few weeks, until it drained out of him the moment Ilya’s mouth met his. It was a tension of missing him, of wanting him, of not knowing if he could still have him. But now here they were, and Shane was going to have him, as much of him as he could. 

Ilya pushed him against the door and kissed him with purpose. It was slow and hot and determined. Shane broke Ilya’s hold on his wrists and flung his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, clinging. Ilya got his hands on Shane’s hips and brought them hard up against his own, grinding. Shane moaned. Ilya sunk his teeth into Shane’s bottom lip. 

“Wait, so you actually like these?” Shane asked, breathless, dizzy, and swollen-mouthed, when Ilya let him go. 

“Glasses? Yes,” Ilya said, moving in to kiss the corner of Shane’s mouth. 

“Well, okay,” Shane mumbled, knowing his face was brick red.

It was embarrassing, how much he liked hearing that. 

“What other secrets you keep from me,” Ilya said, pulling Shane to the bed closest to the bathroom. 

“I wasn’t keeping a secret from you,” Shane said. “I’m not doing a lot of reading in your presence.” 

Ilya pushed him down and leapt on top of him, grinning. Shane gasped and laughed. Shane hadn’t seen this playful side of Ilya in what felt like ages. 

“You tell, you tell,” Ilya demanded, play-fighting him, trying to attack Shane’s sides with clawed fingers and fending off Shane’s retaliation all at once. 

They rough-housed for a few minutes, cackling and swearing at each other, until somehow Shane got both his legs around Ilya’s hips and crossed them together tight, yanking him down flat on top. He wrapped his arms just as tightly around Ilya’s neck. Ilya made an “oof” sound into Shane’s shoulder where his face was now pressed. 

“Got you,” Shane said, gloating. “Surrender or die.”

He rolled up against Ilya. They were both half hard and growing harder. Ilya let out a hot breath that dampened the fabric of Shane’s t-shirt. 

“You cheat, fight dirty,” Ilya said, muffled. 

He turned his face and kissed Shane’s neck and then bit it, just a little. 

“I don’t cheat,” Shane said, tightening his octopus grip on Ilya until he grunted. 

“Yes, penalty box,” Ilya said.

Shane was going to protest that, loudly, but then Ilya set his teeth into Shane’s earlobe, and the complaint turned into a moan. 

Neither of them lasted long, and Ilya was quick to clean them both up with a few tissues and throw away the evidence. After, he burrowed under the duvet and dragged Shane under with him, despite Shane’s protests that he should be heading back. 

“Warm,” Ilya wheedled. “Stay.”

Shane rolled his eyes and took off his glasses so he could lay on his side. 

“Okay,” he said. “For a few minutes.”

They were facing each other, knees pressed together. It was really nice. Shane’s body was thrumming pleasantly and his head felt calm and mostly empty, the only worry being the eminent return of Ilya’s roommate. 

“You want Marleau to find us like this?” Shane said. 

Ilya made a considering sound. 

“Marleau say I ‘play favorite’ with you. He come in, not surprised.”

Shane knew Ilya was joking because he was smiling, and then punctuated the end of his sentence with a wink. But it was still disturbing how hot Shane found the idea: Marleau coming in and seeing Shane in Ilya’s bed and knowing that Ilya had just had his way with him and that out of everyone on the team and in the entire state of Minnesota, Ilya had texted Shane to come over.

“The guys think you’re mad at me,” Shane said. “I’m not the favorite anymore.” 

“They stupid,” Ilya said, and stuck out his tongue a little. 

Shane smiled. He’d missed him so much. Now that the ache of missing him was gone, it felt like his whole body was ballooning up with happiness.

“So you do? Play favorites?”

Ilya reached over and put his hand on Shane’s cheek before carding his fingers through the side of his hair. 

“You come up to me, first day of training camp. ‘Ooo Ilya you’re so awesome, ooo Ilya I love to watch you play, I’m so excited to be here—‘“

“—I do not sound like that!”

“I think, ‘this rookie trouble, Rozanov.’ But you follow me around like baby duck. I make stupid choice and let you. I’m curious.”

“Well I’d wanted to play with you ever since I saw you at world juniors,” Shane said. 

The baby duck thing was embarrassing, but he definitely had followed Ilya around pretty closely at training camp during those pre-season months. 

“Only play? First year I’m on Raiders, you put poster of me in bedroom. Jerk off.”

Shane made an outraged sound and jostled Ilya’s shoulder, the one that wasn’t pressed into the mattress. 

“I absolutely did not, asshole!” 

“Poster,” Ilya insisted, laughing.

“You are drunk with power,” Shane accused. “And making things up. I wouldn’t have had a poster of you. You’re only a few years older than me.”

“Fine, Scott Hunter.”

“What!?” Shane squawked. 

“He’s hot,” Ilya said, smirking. “You like.”

Shane had made one off-handed comment after they’d played the Admirals that he’d looked up to Scott as a kid and was happy to know that he seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Ilya had gotten an evil gleam in his eye then and was endeavoring to never let Shane forget about it for one moment. 

“I had a Metros poster, if you have to know,” Shane said. 

“Okay,” said Ilya. “Fine. Boring.”

But the smirk had turned into a really sweet, soft smile. Shane stared at him greedily and scooted a little closer. 

“I’m playing favorites with you too,” he said, just so he could see that smile turn a little brighter. 

Shane had left around fifteen minutes after that, which was lucky because Ilya texted less than an hour later that Marleau had come back early from his dinner with some of the guys on the Nomads. It had already started to snow and cabs were growing scarce. 

he make me watch wwe (((

Maybe the power will go out, Shane replied. 

yes, u turn off. 

I think that would affect the heat too. 

u come back, warm my bed. 

Shane typed out several different replies and deleted all of them, growing more and more flustered. In the end he sent a cowardly smiley face and turned his phone on silent for the night.

—

After that, it usually happened after their lunches. It was most convenient then because they were already together. And it was difficult with the schedule to fit in anything more frequent, no matter how much Shane wanted it. 

He’d expected that they’d spend most of their time at Ilya’s house, but it ended up being pretty even. Ilya seemed to like Shane’s apartment, or at least, he was the sort of person who made himself at home easily. He’d always come in and make his usual lap around the living space, peering at the photos on the wall, looking in Shane’s fridge. Sometimes they were too drained, either mentally or physically or both, to do anything besides sit next to each other on the couch and stare at whatever was on TV. 

Shane thought maybe he’d start getting used to this, but he didn’t. If anything he was more obsessed; each new revelation Ilya gave him (no matter how minor) just ratcheted up his infatuation another notch. 

Shane wondered if Ilya felt at all like he did, even a little. It was one thing to trust that Ilya wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t want to. But it was another thing entirely, what Shane felt. If Ilya felt like he did, even a little….

But it was still so soon. They’d known each other for less than a year. Could you fall in love that quickly? Well, the answer was obvious for Shane, but Ilya was so different from him. Maybe he had no feelings at all besides fondness and lust. It was confusing, though, when Ilya would do something like order Shane to strip, and he’d watch Shane with eyes so hot they could have been on fire. You didn’t look at a person like that if you just felt fondness and lust for them, right?

It turned out Ilya probably did feel at least something. Because at the beginning of April, he leveled Shane a considering look and said,

“You hook up with two girls in September, then you stop.”

Shane blinked at him, a little wrong-footed. They were sitting on Shane’s couch, hunched over the coffee table and digging into some takeout. Shane was getting over a head cold and Ilya had brought lunch to him instead of making him go out and be around people.

“You were watching me?” Shane said. 

He’d meant to sound accusing, but the tone came out more pleased than anything else. Anyway, his sinuses were still clogged and pretty much anything he said sounded nasally and ridiculous. 

“You were watching me,” said Ilya, pointing at him with his chopsticks.

“No,” Shane lied. 

“Two girls,” Ilya said. “That’s it.”

Shane put down his container of hot and sour soup. He figured Ilya already knew most of the other embarrassing stuff about him, so why not just be honest about this too. 

“Well yeah,” Shane said. “I don’t…really like it. Hooking up.”

Ilya considered this for a moment. 

“No? You seem to like it a lot.”

“That’s different. You’re not a stranger. You’re you.”

Ilya preened as much as he could while shoveling beef and broccoli into his mouth. Shane’s eyes got stuck on his biceps for a moment. He licked his lips. 

“I’d rather just do it with you,” Shane said. “Obviously.” 

Once the words were out, Shane felt his pulse spike. It kind of sounded like he was asking Ilya to be monogamous with him, but that wasn’t really what he’d meant. Of course, he wanted that, yes. But he didn’t know how Ilya would react if he asked for that outright. What he’d meant was that for him, this was what he wanted, and nothing else. 

Shane snuck a glance at the side of Ilya’s face. He was chewing. And listening, assumedly. But Shane couldn’t read anything else. He actually didn’t think Ilya had hooked up with too many women since they’d started. But he didn’t go out all of the time and was too much of a coward to ask around and find out the truth. It was one of those things about which Shane was content to stick his head in the sand.

“I mean, I’m not saying that you have to…I’m just talking about me,” Shane felt the need to clarify.

There was a brief silence during which Ilya put his takeout container and chopsticks down on the coffee table. Shane glanced up to check Ilya’s expression again but before he could look away, Ilya turned to face him full on and Shane’s eyes got stuck there on Ilya’s face, the precise curve of his lips, his brow, his eyes. 

“Maybe we just do you and me,” said Ilya finally. “For rest of season.” 

Shane blinked. It took him a moment to even fully comprehend what Ilya was proposing. Then, relief. It was so sweet. As as cool and smooth as lake water. 

“Yeah?” Shane asked, unable to voice anything further.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

Shane blew out a huge, shuddering breath and hunched forward, his spine bending until his forehead was on Ilya’s thigh. He was overcome. He hadn’t known how good it would feel, to hear that Ilya wanted the same thing. He hadn’t known he’d been so anxious about it, so tense, until all of that had dissipated. 

“Shane?” Ilya said. 

A hand worked its way gently into Shane’s hair. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m happy.”

Before that, Shane would have said he was generally pretty happy. He’d had a good childhood, great parents, and the extraordinary privilege to play a professional sport for a living. And not only to play a sport for a living but to be good at it, and to love it. 

But maybe he hadn’t been happy. Maybe he’d mistaken happiness for something that was more like contentment. Because now that he had this, with Ilya, it felt like a spotlight had turned on inside of him, blasting outwards. Surely the force of his happiness must be shining out of his pores, blinding with how harsh and exciting it felt. That’s what it felt like, anyway. It was light off the lake, dazzling, so golden and glimmering that you had to squint or look at it sideways, you couldn’t bear to take it all in at once, full on, magic on earth.  

—-

The magnolias in Back Bay had just started to bloom when the playoffs began. It would be a long, exhausting slog, but the team was ready for it, all of the guys determined. Shane would work himself into the ground, would cut off his legs and skate on his hands, if it meant they could win the Cup. He was on the phone with his parents more nights than not, talking through the stress of it, overanalyzing things with his mom, asking his dad to monologue about anything not related to hockey so that Shane’s mind could wind down enough for sleep. 

Ilya and Shane still had their post-practice lunches, which now often lasted for hours since they had so much to go over. But their post-lunch hook ups had morphed into naps. Shane was eighteen, yes, and could still mostly get hard from an errant thought, but he had never played hockey like this and had never cared as viscerally as he did now, during the playoffs. On top of being physically exhausting, it was emotionally draining too. So it was nice that Ilya usually just wanted them to stretch out on opposite ends of his giant couch, tangle their lower legs together, and fall asleep to the Discovery channel. 

He was glad that neither of them felt like it was a distraction, or that they needed to stop. Instead Shane found it grounding and necessary, and felt like he was clicking even better with Ilya on the ice because of it. And Ilya seemed to agree. He’d made no mention of changing their habits besides being the one to suggest napping the first time Shane had said he was too tired to do anything else. 

As the playoffs progressed, the path to the Cup that Shane had been trying not to think about too closely was coming to fruition. Scott Hunter and the Admirals couldn’t get past New Jersey. But New Jersey couldn’t get past Montreal. Therefore, the Raiders took the Metros, much to Yuna’s complicated disappointment. (“Of course I wanted you to win, Shane, but if Miitka hadn’t been injured, things might have gone differently!”) Moving westward, Shane was confident they could take whoever ended up on top. Chicago, if they regained some of the fire they’d lost, or San Fransisco, who were good but still a little green and prone to choking when it really mattered. 

It ended up being San Fransisco, and the game was on Boston ice. The energy was indescribable, so palpable that Shane felt it pressing against his ear drums, against his jugular. 

That energy hooked them, every single one of them, and surged them through each and every moment like they were a little boat on a tidal wave of inevitability: Ilya’s electric locker room speech, their first goal, San Fransisco’s first goal, the Raider’s next two, the blaring of the horn.

At the end of the game, Shane froze, just for a moment. He’d been caught up in the rush, so focused on attacking each and every opportunity, so focused on go, go, go, that the ending of it momentarily shook him almost outside of his body. Time slowed and then snapped into fast forward, and Shane was skating towards the clump of howling that was his team, celebrating. They were celebrating a win. The win. They’d won the Stanley Cup.

The smack of his body into his teammates was exactly what he needed to snap himself out of disbelief, and soon he was howling with them. There were wet, sweaty faces everywhere, hands and arms and helmets knocking together and voices clamoring. The lights were flashing, the crowd was roaring. He had imagined this nearly all his life, but he could have never imagined how visceral it all was, how animal, how human. 

There were plenty of cheek kisses then, and when Shane finally made his way into the center of the celly, he got one from Ilya too, who was openly crying and radiating joy so bright it was hard to look at him. 

“Hollander!” he’d yelled upon spotting Shane, followed by a tirade of Russian. 

Shane’s helmet was long gone by then and Ilya’d grabbed him by the face and placed two smacking kisses to his cheeks, one on each. The whole time Shane had been laughing; he couldn’t seem to stop. 

By the time the families were allowed on the ice, they’d all taken the Cup on a victory lap, and Shane was near vibrating with excitement, purely distilled by that lap around the rink. 

“Shane! Shane!” Yuna was calling.

Her and David and Aunt Emi were shuffling awkwardly across the ice to get to him through the throng of Raiders staff, friends, and family. 

“Mom! Dad! Emi!” Shane called, and skated carefully to them, making sure not to crash too hard into his mom’s embrace.

“Shane, oh, honey,” Yuna said, holding him as tightly as she could through all of his gear. 

She felt so small like this, him in his skates and gear and her in sneakers. He bent down obligingly and let her wipe sweat and tears from his cheeks and then kiss his temple. 

“God,” she said, beaming, when she let him go. “Shane, you were incredible! Congratulations!” 

“Well done, kiddo!” said David, which is what he’d been saying after every game since Shane was in Timbits, no matter if they’d won or lost. 

“Dad,” Shane said, feeling choked up again, and hugged him too. 

Emi got her arms around him last.

“Congratulations, sweetheart! We’re so proud of you! Don’t skate over my feet!” 

“Thanks for coming,” Shane told her, and she promptly scoffed.

“As if I’d miss this. I’d have quit my job!” 

Shane was about to reply, but then Ilya was skating up to them. 

“Oh,” Shane said. “Guys, this is Ilya Rozanov. Ilya, this is my family. My parents, Yuna and David, and my aunt, Emi.” 

Ilya smiled at all of them and shook hands, accepting their congratulations.

But when he got to Yuna, she pushed aside the handshake and put her hands on his shoulders.

“You were wonderful,” she said, beaming up at him. “Just wonderful.”

Then she hugged him. Bent down over her shoulder, Shane saw Ilya’s face. It was wide open with shocked tenderness. Shane had to look away or else he’d start crying again. 

“Thank you. Nice to meet you,” Ilya said, when she let him go. “You have good rookie.” 

“And he has the best captain in the league,” David enthused. 

Ilya laughed and shook his head. 

“Thank you,” he started, but before he could continue he was some of the PR team came up and said they needed him.

There were hurried promises to talk more later, and then Ilya skated away, into the throng. 

After an extended and champagne-soaked locker room celebration, everyone went to one of the owner’s houses out in the suburbs. It was giant and had a pool in the backyard. Shane nursed a couple beers while most of the rest of the team got steadily more and more wasted. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to party; it was more that he wanted to remember every single moment of this. The infectious, unadulterated joy, the cheering, the hugging, the dancing, the exuberant games of keep-away in the pool. This would be one of the happiest days of Shane’s life, and he was going to remember it. 

“You need to get your dick sucked. Expeditiously.” 

It was Marleau, looking as fervent as Joan of Arc and holding Ilya’s face between his palms. He shook Ilya’s head a little. Shane watched them, wondering if Ilya knew what that word meant. But Ilya had just drunk what seemed to be two entire bottles of champagne all by himself. He probably didn’t give a shit about vocabulary at this point. 

“Do you hear me? Expeditiously. You too.” Now he was pointing menacingly at Shane. “We won the fucking Cup!”

Before Marleau could say more, or either of them could respond, someone dragged him away to the beer pong table. 

“Crazy,” Ilya said, laughing a little.

“He’s right, though,” Shane said. There was a really, really bad idea forming in his head. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Okay, bye.”

His attention wasn’t on him. Shane moved a little bit in front of Ilya and waited until his eyes were on Shane’s. 

“Okay,” Shane said, and then tilted his head, smiling.

“Okay,” Ilya said, eyes narrowing. Then, understanding swept across his face. “Okay?”

Shane nodded. 

Once in the bathroom, he leaned against the sink counter and crossed his arms. His whole body was tingling with anticipation, desire was pooling fast and hot in his gut. This was really stupid, but also he didn’t care. The door had a lock on it and pretty much everyone at this party would have very few memories of it by tomorrow. Marleau was right: they’d won the fucking Cup.

It only took a couple minutes before the door opened and Ilya came in, flicking the lock after he closed it. Shane stood upright and then closed the narrow space between them. He pushed Ilya’s hips back against the door and then slid down to his knees. His heart was in his throat and he couldn’t speak with how badly he wanted to do this. Instead he just pulled down Ilya’s swim trunks and pressed his face against Ilya’s halfway hard dick. He smelled like chlorine. 

“Fuck,” Ilya said, his hands finding their way into Shane’s hair.

Shane blew out a hot, open-mouthed breath and then got to work. Ilya was pretty drunk, but it didn’t seem to be impeding how quickly he was going to go off. In mere minutes he was panting and muttering and tugging at Shane’s hair. 

Shane pulled off and looked up at him. 

“Come on my face,” he said, and Shane could just about see how Ilya’s eyes rolled back in pleasure before Ilya squeezed them shut. 

“Fuck,” said Ilya. “Fuck, I will. I’m going to.” 

He opened his eyes, got one hand fisted into the front of Shane’s hair and held him still, knocked Shane’s own hands away from his dick, and jerked himself at lightening speed until the first stripe of come landed across Shane’s chin and nose. Then he pressed the tip to Shane’s mouth and let the rest bubble there until he was finished. 

In the quiet bathroom, the only sounds then were Ilya’s riled breathing, Shane’s pulse in his ears, and the distant pounding of music and yelling from the party. Shane blinked his eyes open—he’d closed them while Ilya came—and saw Ilya looking down at him with an entranced, open-mouthed expression. Shane’s licked his lips and swallowed. 

Ilya said something in Russian, then, and tugged pointedly on Shane’s hair.

“Up,” he said. “Up.”

Shane got to his feet a little awkwardly. He was hard enough to pound nails at this point. Ilya let go of his hair and put his hand on Shane’s stomach, pushing him to the sink counter.

“Up,” he said again, and Shane hopped onto it, sitting and letting his legs swing a little. 

Ilya dug around in the under-sink cupboard for a minute before pulling out a spare hand towel. He wet it in the sink and then proceeded to wipe the come off Shane’s face. Shane stayed still and let him, liking to be taken care of like this. There was high color all over Ilya’s face, some of it sunburn, some of it a post-orgasm flush. The pool water had done no favors to Ilya’s curls, but he was still the best thing Shane had ever seen in his life. Well, except for maybe the Stanley Cup.

“You’re trouble,” Ilya was saying. “Whole team outside, owners, coaches, trainers, sneaky fans.” 

“Hey, you didn’t have to follow me,” Shane said. 

As of that moment, he had no shame. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted. 

Ilya spent a moment or two rinsing and wringing out the towel before hanging it on one of the door hooks. It was surprisingly considerate. Then he turned back to face Shane. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asked. “Stanley Cup rookie.”

Shane grinned and shrugged.

“You say,” Ilya demanded. 

“Just kiss me, then,” Shane said, and held out his arms. 

They made out for several long, delicious minutes then, until all the pool water and beer and champagne taste was gone from both of their mouths and it was just them leftover. Shane’s mind had entered into some sort of blissful, floaty state. He was deliriously happy. 

Eventually Ilya had to get the towel from back off the door because he got a hand around Shane and made him come hard and quick, shooting all up and down his bare stomach. After, he got right back in between Shanes legs and pulled Shane’s face into his neck. 

“We won,” Shane said, breathing against Ilya’s skin. “We won!”

He laughed in disbelief. He’d held the Cup in his own hands. He’d kissed it! Shane rolled his forehead back and forth against Ilya’s skin.  

“Yes,” Ilya said.

He pulled back and the two of them just grinned at each other for a long, silent minute. 

“You get sun. I think there’s more here,” Ilya said then, tapping Shane’s nose.

“Oh yeah? Well your forehead is bright red.”

“I tan,” Ilya insisted.

“Uh, no you don’t.” 

Ilya gave him a haughty look and said, “I leave you in bathroom.” 

He was teasing, but Shane nodded. They’d been squirreled away in here for long enough. The captain’s absence wouldn’t be tolerated for very long. 

“Yeah, you should. We should stagger it.” 

Ilya hummed. It seemed like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just nodded. 

After he left, Shane hopped off the counter to wash his hands. His reflection looked wrecked. His hair was a mess and his mouth was swollen. And he was still smiling. 

The party had, predictably, gone on without them. Shane went outside, found his shirt on one of the lawn chairs, put it back on, and treated himself to a cheeseburger from the long-abandoned grill. There were a bunch of guys floating around in inner tubes and on rafts in the pool and Jordy and some kids were running around on the lawn playing what seemed to be some sort of Frankensteined capture-the-flag game. The warm, muggy air was being stirred by a cooler breeze, and when Shane peered up at the sky he saw what could only be the oncoming of a summer storm. 

“Looks like rain, eh?” 

Hayden had clambered ungracefully out of the pool and squelched his way over to the grill. 

“Yeah,” Shane said, finishing the last bite of his burger.

He watched as Hayden prepared a well-charred hot dog and then ate it in four bites. 

“What,” Hayden said. “We gotta eat up. The whole team looks like POWs.” 

Shane wrinkled his nose, but nodded. Hayden was exaggerating, but they’d been playing hard game after game, and the long slog to the Cup had taken its toll. It was near impossible to keep on weight this far into the season, especially when you were playing each game like it was life or death.  

“Bob’s gonna kick us out when the rain comes,” Hayden predicted. “Some of the guys have already been discussing which places to hit up tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane said. “What’s the plan?”

Hayden rattled off a list of ideas. Shane privately thought that most of the team would be arriving to their respective homes and passing out face down on the first soft surface they saw, but he wasn’t going to be a spoilsport. If there were guys who made it out later that night, he’d join. 

“Well, keep me updated,” Shane said, and Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. 

After that, Shane had several animated conversations with Jackie and some of the women he’d met at the Halloween party, a couple of whom were more sober than he was, and a couple of whom were drunk enough for all of them put together. The storm hit an hour later. Huge sheets of rain swept across the lawn, making the kids shriek with laughter and the guys floating in the pool squawk up and out of their drunken stupor. 

The goodbyes that followed lasted almost another hour, with increasingly more ludicrous promises for plans later that night. People kept remembering stories that they’d wanted to tell, and jokes that they wanted to rehash, and everyone wanted to go and pat the Cup at least five more times. 

Slowly everyone began streaming out, getting into their Ubers and cabs and leaving. Shane was one of the only guys who’d driven there himself, save for the ones whose wives or girlfriends were graciously acting as DDs. He’d parked a little ways down the street, and he made his way down to the car slowly, enjoying the rain. It took him a moment to pick up on the slapping of feet against wet asphalt coming up behind him. Then, an arm slung around Shane’s neck. 

“You leave me,” Ilya accused. “Run away.” 

“Oh hey!” Shane said, pleased. “I thought you’d already left. Where were you?” 

“Basement,” Ilya said. “I beat seven-year-old at Mario Kart.” 

“You haven’t already won enough?”

“No,” Ilya said, grinning. 

Rain was streaming down his face, making his curls all slick and unformed on his forehead. Shane’s whole body tingled with the urge to kiss him. 

“C’mon,” Shane said. “I’ll drive you home.” 

Once they were in the car (Shane desperately trying to ignore how wet his seats were getting), Ilya said, “Stay with me. Sleep in my bed.” 

“Oh,” Shane said quietly. 

He thought through it quickly. Luckily his parents hadn’t taken the guest room in his apartment, instead preferring to treat themselves to a stay at the Copley Plaza. So they wouldn’t know if he didn’t come home that night. Besides, the Cup parties were infamous. They probably didn’t expect to hear from him at all until tomorrow afternoon.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Thanks.” 

Then he winced. That sounded kind of stupid. But Ilya didn’t respond. He was drunk and languid, sprawled all loose and open in the passenger seat, poking at the radio controls. 

They’d never spent the night together, together. They’d napped with each other frequently enough, but this would be different. Shane thought about waking up next to Ilya on his giant mattress, and seeing his morning bedhead first thing, in the sunlight. He smiled. 

Ilya reached across the seat, put his hand to Shane’s cheek, and rubbed his thumb against Shane’s cheekbone.

“Happy?” he said.

“Yeah,” Shane said, and smiled even bigger, feeling his cheek press further into Ilya’s palm. 

Ilya shambled into his house and kicked off his shoes haphazardly next to the door. Shane followed, took off his shoes and put them neatly to the side, and then dead bolted the door when he realized Ilya wasn’t going to himself. That done, Shane followed Ilya’s zig-zagging progress to the kitchen, where he yanked open his fridge and pulled out a Gatorade. 

“You want?” he asked. 

“Oh, sure, thanks,” Shane said.

Mostly what he wanted was to get out of his clammy t-shirt and swim trunks, shower, and into dry clothes. 

Ilya handed him a bottle and then proceeded to chug his own nearly to empty. If he hadn’t been so drunk, the look he was giving Shane would have been assessing. As it was, it was just mostly bleary. 

“We go upstairs. Shower. Put clothes,” Ilya paused and waved a hand. “We nap.”

“Okay,” said Shane, smiling. 

Ilya was being kind of adorable right now; Shane’s teeth were tingling with cuteness aggression, the urge to bite. Instead he behaved like a normal person and went upstairs into the primary suite’s bathroom to shower. 

Ilya came into the bathroom when Shane was toweling off. He had a bowl of what looked like Cap’n Crunch.

“You find clothes?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Shane said, nodding to the sink counter.

Ilya’s closet held a lot of black sweats and workout clothing, but he also had a fascinating array of printed silk shirts and strange skinny jeans. 

“Where do you get those patterned shirts?” Shane asked while he put on his borrowed clothing. 

“You like,” Ilya said, grinning around his spoonful of cereal. 

Milk was dripping down his chin.

“That stuff’s terrible for you,” Shane informed him. 

“I eat cereal, still win Stanley Cup,” Ilya said. “Must be okay.” 

Shane scoffed and shook his head. 

“At least brush your teeth after or they’ll rot.” 

Ilya put the bowl down on the counter, rubbed the back of his hand across his chin, and crowded Shane up against the sink.

“Gimme kiss,” he said, smooching up his lips.

“Ew!” Shane said, giggling, turning his face aside. “Cereal breath!” 

Ilya made a big show of smacking wet kisses all across Shane’s face, while Shane made a big show of pretending to hate it. 

“Enough,” he said eventually, scrubbing the towel over his face for good measure. “I’m going to lie down. I mean it, though, about that rotting your teeth.” 

Shane had thought a nap would be impossible; he was too wired. But the moment his head had hit the pillow, the adrenaline crash came on fast. He was already drowsing by the time Ilya flopped down next to him. 

“Here,” Ilya said, opening his mouth wide and sticking out his tongue. His breath was minty. “Clean.” 

“Good job,” Shane mumbled, his half-open eyes catching on the way the post-storm sunset colors slanted in through the windows and glistened on Ilya’s tongue.

He fumbled his hand out from where he had it tucked under his chin and put it on Ilya’s wrist. 

“When will we meet up with the guys later tonight?” he wondered. 

Ilya shrugged.

“When we wake up, after we eat, we text. See.”

“No alarm?” 

“Shane,” Ilya said, smiling. 

“Yeah, okay, stupid question,” Shane said, smiling too. 

His eyelids were heavy. He had to keep blinking. It was possible he fell asleep before he’d even stopped smiling. 

It was disorienting to wake up in total darkness after having fallen asleep in the pink-orange glow of sunset-after-storm. Shane blinked, blinded by it for a moment. Then he remembered: Ilya. Ilya had asked him to stay over. Shane smiled to himself in the darkness and then sat up, eyes searching for a clock. There was one, glowing with red numbers, on the table on the other side of the bed. 10:45pm. Shane winced. His circadian rhythm would be all screwed up. 

“Lie down,” came Ilya’s gravelly, demanding voice. 

Then came a fumbling smack on Shane’s torso, and Ilya pinched him.

“Hey!” Shane yelped. “Jeez, I was just trying to see the time. It’s late, eh?’

Ilya said something in Russian that sounded snide. 

“When I learn Russian, you’ll be in for it,” Shane warned him. “Maybe I’ll do it over the summer.” 

Ilya groaned and shifted, stretching out luxuriously on his back. There was very little light coming in from the windows. Ilya was all shadow and skin.

“Right,” he said. “Summer.” 

Shane couldn’t read anything from that tone. He lay back down on his side, facing Ilya. 

“I can’t believe this year is over. It felt like it was going to last forever. You’ll go back to Russia?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I’ll go to Canada. My parents and I want to start work on that cottage I was telling you about. My cottage.”

“Yes, Mr. Real Estate,” Ilya said.

He rolled over onto his side, mirroring Shane. 

“But…what will we do this summer?” Shane asked.

How will I go from seeing you nearly every day to seeing you never, is what he really wanted to ask. And did it feel as terrible a prospect to Ilya as it did to Shane? 

“This summer…” Ilya shrugged his free shoulder. “I go to Russia. You go to Canada. Next season we come back, see what we want.”

Shane nodded, cheek smudging against the pillow. He wanted to say that he would never want anything besides this, and a summer apart wouldn’t change that.

Instead he said, “Yeah. That sounds good.” 

“You text about boring Canada. I text about Russia. Maybe send pictures.”

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. We’ll text.” 

He supposed that would have to do. It wasn’t great, but at least it was something.

—

So they did.

After the whirlwind of Cup festivities died down and the team dispersed to their various summering locations, they texted. 

It wasn’t very constant, but Shane didn’t have a lot of updates to share. His major news was that he bought an old property on the private lake just down the way from his parents, and they were drafting up plans for the new build he would put on the lot after the old place was torn down. Ilya didn’t have a lot of news either. It seemed he was mostly enjoying his time with old friends in Russia. Shane suspected he was drunk texting a lot, which was charming and also made him a little jealous. Ilya was with Svetlana. 

Shane had a lot of time to think that summer. Doing his workouts, prepping and eating his diet food, and lounging at the lakeside, he thought almost entirely about Ilya. What it was between them, and how surprising it was, that it hurt this badly to be apart from him. How did people live like this? Shane hadn’t known a body feel like this, so much all at once and with the other person not even present. How was it possible that Shane was still going through all the motions, and no one knew that inside of him was this gaping maw of want? And how was it possible that he was kind of just…growing used to it? 

If that wasn’t bad enough, there was another truth he was trying to work through: hockey players weren’t gay. Hockey players didn’t date each other. Hockey players didn’t…didn’t love each other, except for the brotherly kind. Earlier in the season, when he had realized the direction his feelings were going, Shane thought he would just bury them like he did the other parts of himself that were strange. Foolishly, he’d thought it would be similarly easy enough to do. He had a lot of practice with covering up strangeness.  But he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much, and he hadn’t expected to get sick of doing it so quickly. 

Because the truth of the matter was that Shane was sick of hiding it, specifically from Ilya. He had this inescapable compulsion to tell Ilya everything, right down to the foundational truth, which was that he was in love with him. The words were pressing at the inside of his teeth, trying to get out. Shane had never felt a compulsion like this, to be vulnerable to the point of stupidity. What would happen if he just texted Ilya, “I miss you. I like you. I think I love you”? Surely would ruin everything. It would change everything. And yet a piece of him wanted it desperately.  

Another piece of him thought it was too much. He had to…had to protect himself. If he pulled away from Ilya, it would be painful. But at least he’d be able to protect himself, as well as the friendship that was still there beneath all of the hook ups. The friendship that had changed Shane’s life, and the one he treasured more than the sex. 

But…

There was another very loud piece that thought, why should he avoid Ilya? He didn’t want to. This time apart, this summer, was already bad enough. It would be even worse to have him there during practice and games and nights out and to not have all the rest of it. To bar himself from what they’d had last season. And for what? 

But…he wanted to follow the rules, to be normal. 

But…the idea of doing that felt like torment. Why should he do something that felt like the antithesis of happiness? Was it worth it, to be normal yet miserable? Was that tradeoff worth it? Shane could get used to it, of course. He could slog through life that way. He had gotten used to it that summer, and a person could get used to pretty much anything. But it would always be in the back of his mind, this feeling. Those memories. Ilya’s eyes in sunlight. His pushy hands all over Shane’s body. His low voice against Shane’s ear drums. How sublime it felt to make him laugh, to make him smile. 

So Shane could choose to be normal and miserable. Or what? Happy and…abnormal? Was that the alternative? 

And, if so, was that really so bad, “abnormality?” Hadn’t he already lived with that, in certain aspects of his life? What was one more thing, if it meant he could be happy?

Because wasn’t it worth it? This, versus all that. Wasn’t it worth it? The memory of that happiness he’d felt, so pure and wild, led him to his answer: yes. If he could have that again, yes, of course it was worth it. 

He would tell Ilya truth, Shane decided. He would say what he wanted. No matter what. And maybe he’d ruin things, but maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, the not-knowing would be over. That in and of itself, would be its own small blessing.

As it always did, having a plan settled him. All of that rumination had dragged Shane down into a funk, but now he had clarity. There were still a few more weeks left of break, and he threw himself into enjoying them as much as he could.

And so the summer passed. 

—

The next time Shane saw him was at the first pre-season skate. Ilya was already out on the ice by the time Shane got suited up, but upon spotting Shane, Ilya skated over immediately and snowed him playfully. Ilya’s smile was as bright as the sun. 

“Hollander,” he said, grinning. 

Shane beamed at him. His heart was pounding against his ribcage. 

“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you.”

Ilya clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a little shake. It was practice and they were on ice with the team; Shane refused to go weak in the knees. 

“Lunch after,” Ilya said. 

It wasn’t a question. Shane nodded and proceeded to float on cloud nine through the rest of the skate. 

 “So,” Ilya said after they finished their meals. “What you think?”

They were in a back corner booth at one of their old favorites. It was too late for the lunch rush and they were the only customers left sitting down. There was an old couple up at the counter arguing over how much ham to buy. 

They had already talked about their summers and about how the new prospects were looking. The whole time, Shane had wondered if Ilya would bring this up or if he himself would. Either way, he was still resolved. He wanted to be happy and to do that, he was going to be honest. The risks were worth it. 

Shane blew out a breath. Here goes. 

“Look,” he said. “I’m gonna tell you the truth.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed and he shifted in his seat, sitting up a little straighter. 

“I don’t want to ruin things, but I’ve been thinking about it all summer and I can’t just, like, pretend anymore. So I’m gonna just say it: I missed you. A lot. And I want this with you. Seriously. Like, not just for the season. I think I like you, uh, too much.”

Shane had been talking to his sandwich wrapper. He paused and forced himself to look up at Ilya’s face. Ilya was watching him, his expression blown wide open.

“So, um,” Shane said. “Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear. Or if you don’t agree. But that’s what I think.” 

Ilya stood up. Shane’s stomach twisted. For a wild moment, he thought Ilya was walking out. But then Ilya crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and jerked his head.

“We’re going,” he said. 

Shane barely had enough time to throw out his own trash before Ilya was herding Shane out of the deli, an insistent hand on his elbow. 

“You say all this to me in public,” he was muttering as they walked towards where they’d parked their cars. “In public. I can’t kiss you.” 

The words zinged around Shane’s head, fizzing, making him giddy. He huffed out a laugh.

“Sorry,” he said.

Ilya shoved him pointedly at his car. 

“Forty minutes to my house,” Ilya accused. “Forty!”

“Mine is fifteen,” said Shane. “In the other direction.” 

“Okay yours,” said Ilya. “Go now.” 

Shane white-knuckled it all the way to his apartment, trying desperately not to get hard and mostly failing. Anticipation was tingling all across his skin. He’d said what he wanted to Ilya and he was going to get it. He couldn’t believe it. 

Ilya was already in the vestibule when Shane came in from the underground garage, because he drove like a madman.

“You found street parking?” Shane asked.

“Fuck parking,” Ilya said, nonsensically, as if he just left the car idling in the middle of the road. Maybe he had; he didn’t seem to care. 

He hovered behind Shane as he keyed them into the building, and then hovered behind him in the elevator, and then hovered behind him as he unlocked his door. 

They were barely inside with the door closed before Shane found himself pushed up against it, moaning into Ilya’s mouth. Fuck. It was better than he’d remembered. How had he lasted all summer without this? 

“You’re mine,” said Ilya. 

“Yes,” Shane said on a shuddering exhale. 

“No one else.” 

“Of course not…not even during the break…” Shane said, distracted.

Ilya had opened Shane’s shorts and had a hand on him. He stilled at Shane’s words.

“Good,” he said. “Me neither.” 

Shane had been trying to push Ilya’s t-shirt up with both hands, but the words made him pause too. 

“You?” Shane asked, disbelieving. 

Ilya flexed his fingers around Shane’s erection, trying to distract him no doubt.

“Is not big deal,” he said.

But Shane was not to be deterred. 

“You didn’t? At all?” 

Ilya narrowed his eyes.

“You think I’m big slut,” he accused, and dropped to his knees. 

“Oh, God,” said Shane.

He put his hands greedily into Ilya’s curls, which were soft and kind of fluffy. Ilya hadn’t put on any product after the shower. 

“You’re jealous,” Ilya said, rubbing the tip of Shane’s dick all over his mouth. 

“Well yeah,” Shane said, breathless.

Ilya went down on him with the sort of confidence that Shane would never, ever be able to replicate. It was like he knew exactly what Shane wanted, what he needed, and exactly how to give it to him. In no time it felt like Shane was tugging at Ilya’s hair, trying to get him to pull off.

“Please,” he said, dizzy. “I don’t want to come so soon!” 

But Ilya barred a forearm across Shane’s hips, pressed him hard into the wall, and swallowed him down ruthlessly. Shane hunched over him, unable to buck, as he came hot and fast down Ilya’s throat. It was so much, all at once. He was reeling. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck, fuck…Ilya, Jesus Christ.” 

When Ilya removed his forearm, Shane slid, boneless, down the wall and onto his ass on the floor. Ilya climbed over Shane’s legs and sat in a straddle on his lap. He tipped Shane’s head up with his hands and kissed him. 

Shane, delirious with good feeling, rubbed his hands all up and down Ilya’s back. 

“No one in Russia have these,” Ilya was muttering, pressing light little kisses now, all across Shane’s nose and cheeks.

“My freckles?” Shane said, surprised he had the wherewithal to realize what Ilya meant, seeing as how his brain had just been sucked out of his dick. 

“Yes,” said Ilya. 

He pulled away and just looked at him, holding Shane’s lolling head in his hands. Shane smiled. 

“We should probably talk about this,” he said.

Ilya nodded in agreement. “Now?”

“No, later. Are you gonna fuck me?” Shane wanted to know. 

“Mm, yes,” said Ilya. “Many times this month, many times this season, many times next season and next season and next.” 

“Oh yeah?” Shane asked, he was smiling so big it was starting to make his cheeks ache. 

And next, Ilya had said. And next, and next. It was better than Shane could have ever hoped. 

“You want?”

As if Ilya didn’t know the answer. 

“For sure,” Shane said, laughing a little, mostly at himself. It was almost absurd how badly he wanted. His body was one giant organ of want. “I want. I’ve wanted since game one, last year, and never stopped wanting since.” 

Ilya smiled at him, showing off his sweetly crooked bottom teeth.

“I know,” he said. “First time I put my hand on your hair, after practice, you almost come in pants.” 

“Fuck off!” Shane said. 

But he was laughing, and Ilya was laughing. In that moment it was all perfect and limned with the knowledge that the entirety of their season was stretched out in front of them, brimming with possibility.