Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Social Media, Coming Out, Good Friend Hayden Pike, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, canon typical homophobia, Created Using Generative AI

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-23 Completed: 2025-12-26 Words: 11,150 Chapters: 4/4

everything that kills me (makes me feel alive)

Summary

The photo is blurry, timestamped 2:17 AM, but there's no mistaking Ilya Rozanov walking into Shane Hollander's building the night Boston wins in Montreal.

By morning, it's everywhere.

--

They've been so careful. But one fan with a camera phone unravels it all, and suddenly Shane and Ilya have to answer questions about what they are besides rivals. Shane's team wants him to deny everything. Ilya's family demands the same.

Canon divergence where the secret comes out three years early, and Shane and Ilya have to decide if what they have is real under intense media pressure. Set right before the tuna melt game would have happened.

Notes

Parts of this were made with Claude. At the time I posted, I wasn't aware of the environmental and ethical problems with gen AI. I regret that now and I don't plan to use AI in the future. Please do not distribute copies of downloads with my username included.

Chapter 1

Shane wakes to pale morning light filtering through his bedroom curtains and the distant hum of Montreal traffic. His body aches in the familiar way—the good kind, the satisfied kind—and for a moment he just lies there, enjoying the weight of exhaustion in his limbs.

Last night, Boston won 3-2. Last night, Ilya came over.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, already knowing Ilya won't be beside him. They have a system. Ilya never stays the whole night when they're playing in Montreal—too risky, too many people who might recognize him leaving in the morning. But there's a text waiting, sent at 5:23 AM.

See you in November.

Shane reads it twice, allows himself a small smile, then drags himself out of bed. His legs protest. His back protests. Everything protests, but in that pleasant post-game, post-sex way that makes him feel used and alive.

In the kitchen, he starts the coffee maker—the fancy one his mother insisted he needed—and leans against the counter while it gurgles and hisses. Sunlight slants across the hardwood floors of his condo, the space still relatively new, still not quite feeling like home. But it felt like home last night, with Ilya sprawled across his couch, arguing about a call the ref had made.

They'd been careful. They're always careful, but especially in Montreal, especially when Ilya's team is in town. Ilya took a taxi from the hotel—paid cash, no trail—and had the driver drop him off six blocks away. He walked the rest, took the service entrance Shane had programmed his key card for. Nobody saw. Nobody ever sees.

Shane pours his coffee, adds milk, takes the first scalding sip as he puts some bread in the toaster. His phone buzzes on the counter.

It's Hayden. Just two words: Check Twitter.

Something cold slides down Shane's spine, instant and animal. His hand tightens around his phone.

He opens Twitter.

The tweet is from an account he doesn't recognize—@MetrosFan4Life, some random person with a Metros logo as their profile picture. Posted at 2:14 AM.

The photo is blurry, clearly taken from a distance, maybe from across the street. But it's clear enough. A tall figure in a dark coat and baseball cap standing at a door, half-turned toward the camera. The building's exterior lights catch the line of his jaw, the unmistakable shape of his shoulders.

Why is Rozanov going into Hollander's building at 2am?? 👀

Shane's coffee cup hits the counter harder than he means it to. Coffee sloshes over the rim.

No. No, no, no.

His thumb moves on its own, scrolling down. The replies are already multiplying, hundreds of them, thousands.

@hockey_stats_guy

Wait WHAT

@MTLfanatic

Is this real???

@puckbunny2016

Holy shit are they FRIENDS?

@stanleys_cup

friends 😏

@MetrosNation

Probably just hanging out chill

@raidersbro

at 2am after they just played against each other? sure jan

@HollanovTruther

I fucking knew it

His vision tunnels. The kitchen feels too bright, too close. His heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break through.

They were careful. They're always so fucking careful. Ilya walked six blocks. He used the service entrance. How—

Shane's phone rings in his hand, Hayden's name flashing on the screen, and he almost drops it. He stabs at the answer button.

"Shane—"

"I know." His voice doesn't sound like his own. "I'm looking at it."

"Okay. Okay, it's—listen, people are saying maybe it's not him. The photo's pretty blurry."

Shane zooms in on the image with shaking fingers. The cap obscures most of Ilya's face, but that's his coat. That's his posture. That's the exact way he stands when he's trying not to be recognized, shoulders slightly hunched, hands in his pockets.

"It's him," Shane says.

"You don't know that for sure. I mean, you can barely—"

"It's him, Hayden."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Fuck."

Shane's free hand grips the edge of the counter. The marble is cold and solid under his palm, the only thing keeping him tethered. His chest is too tight. He can't get enough air.

"How many retweets?" Shane says. He can hear how thin his voice sounds.

"Shane, don't—"

"How many?"

A pause. "A lot. It's... it's trending."

The room tilts. Shane braces both hands on the counter now, phone trapped between his palm and the stone. Trending. Trending. Which means reporters will see it. Which means his teammates will see it. Which means everyone—

His phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Text messages flooding in, notifications piling up faster than he can process them.

"Shane? You still there?"

"Yeah." He's not sure if he says it out loud or just thinks it.

"Listen to me. You need to call your agent. Right now. And maybe... maybe Rozanov should—"

"I have to go."

Shane hangs up before Hayden can respond, before he can hear whatever reasonable, sensible thing his friend is about to say. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely unlock his phone again. He opens his messages.

Twelve new texts. From teammates, from J.J., from his mother—oh God, his mother—

He can't breathe. He needs to breathe. His chest is squeezed in a vice and his vision is sparking at the edges and he can't—

A new text. Ilya.

I am sorry.

Shane tries starting a reply – I know, it's not your fault, it'll be okay. But he never gets more than a few letters before he deletes it, watching the typing icon that says Ilya's doing the same.

What do we do? Shane finally texts. The three dots of Ilya typing disappears.

Shane doesn't have an answer for it himself. His mind is racing too fast, spinning through scenarios: denial, silence, some kind of explanation. We're friends. We were just hanging out. It's not what it looks like.

Except it is exactly what it looks like. 

Ilya finally texts back:

I don't know.

The toaster finishes, making Shane jump. The sound is absurdly normal. The sun is still shining through his windows. The world hasn't ended.

It just feels like it has.

Ilya sits in a chair near the airport gate, phone clutched in both hands, and tries to think.

He can fix this. There has to be a way to fix this.

His thumbs move across the screen, typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Finally:

We say I came to congratulate you on the win. Just friends. No one can prove anything else.

The message sits there, delivered but unread. Shane hasn't opened any of his texts in the last forty minutes.

Around him, his teammates maintain a careful perimeter. Cliff is three seats away, staring at his own phone. Hammersmith is at the Hudson News, taking twice as long as necessary to pick out a magazine. No one is looking at Ilya directly, but he can feel their awareness of him, heavy and uncomfortable, like someone died and nobody knows what to say at the funeral.

His phone buzzes. Not Shane—a Twitter notification. He should turn them off. He should stop looking.

He looks anyway.

@TheHockeyNetwork

BREAKING: Photo surfaces of Raiders' Rozanov entering Metros captain Hollander's residence at 2AM following last night's game. Both players' reps declining to comment.

@sportstalk_RT

Replying to @TheHockeyNetwork

"Congratulating him on the win" at 2am ok buddy

@PuckDaddy

Replying to @TheHockeyNetwork

I've been saying for YEARS their "rivalry" had weird energy

Ilya's jaw clenches. He refreshes. New tweet from someone called @hockey_stats_nerd with a thread:

@hockey_stats_nerd

OK so I went down a rabbit hole. Rozanov and Hollander have played each other 47 times. Want to know something interesting about their penalty minutes against each other?

@hockey_stats_nerd

They chirp constantly but almost NEVER actually fight. Lots of little shoves, lots of jawing, but in 47 games they've dropped gloves exactly ONCE. Meanwhile Rozanov fights other players all the time.

@hockey_stats_nerd

Also they're at like every single All-Star game together and there are a SUSPICIOUS number of photos of them talking/laughing at league events. Just saying.

"Fuck," Ilya mutters under his breath.

His phone buzzes again. TMZ this time. His stomach drops before he even clicks the link.

EXCLUSIVE: More Photos of NHL's Hollander and Rozanov

There are three new images. Grainy, clearly taken with a zoom lens from a distance, but unmistakable. Ilya in the same coat and cap, leaving Shane's building. The timestamp reads 5:47 AM. In one photo, his face is partially visible as he glances up the street.

The article beneath is breathless, speculative:

Sources say the 25-year-old Russian star arrived at Hollander's luxury condo around 2 AM and didn't leave until nearly 6 AM—well after his team's curfew. While reps for both players haven't returned requests for comment, fans are already connecting the dots on what one source called "the worst-kept secret in hockey..."

Ilya's hands are shaking. He sets the phone down on his thigh, presses his palms against his jeans. The gate area is filling up—families with strollers, business travelers, a group of college kids in Raiders jerseys who keep looking over at the team with wide eyes.

One of them is filming on their phone.

Hammersmith appears suddenly, blocking their line of sight. "Hey. You guys want autographs, you ask first. Show some respect."

The kids mumble apologies, but Ilya can see them still trying to angle their cameras. He pulls his cap lower.

His phone lights up. Finally—Shane.

My agent wants to make a statement.

Ilya stares at the message. His chest feels tight, compressed, like the air pressure in the terminal has dropped. He's never heard Shane sound this . . . flat. Even through text, he can feel the distance.

He switches tabs, can't help himself. Reddit has a megathread going on r/hockey:

[MEGATHREAD] Rozanov/Hollander Photos

u/DefenseWins: Is anyone actually surprised though?

u/TopShelfSniper: Someone got their stick handled last night

u/GoalieInterference: Boston came to Montreal and someone definitely scored in overtime

u/MontrealPoutine4u: I'm not trying to speculate about anyone's personal life but like... that's clearly him leaving at 6am

u/PowerPlayPapi: Hollander is a total top you cannot convince me otherwise. That intense captain energy? Please.

u/RozanovStan: WRONG. Ilya is 6'3" of pure dominant Russian energy. Shane is 100% a service top at MOST

u/PowerPlayPapi: Replying to u/RozanovStan: Did you SEE Rozanov's face when Hollander checked him in the playoffs? That man was FLUSTERED

u/BostonRaidersFan: This is bullshit. So what if he visited a friend? Everyone needs to calm down and let men be friends without making it gay.

u/HockeyPunPatrol: Guess Rozanov really knows how to find the back of the net 🥅

u/BiggusHockeyFannus: "friend" at 2am. "friend" who he has the most charged on-ice dynamic with. "friend" who he apparently spent 4 hours with in the middle of the night.

The boarding announcement crackles over the speakers. Zone 1. Ilya doesn't move.

Coach LeClaire appears, drops into the seat beside him. Doesn't say anything for a long moment, just sits there with his arms crossed, staring at the gate.

"We'll talk when we get back to Boston," he finally says. Quiet, measured. "Team conference room. You, me, PR."

"Okay," Ilya manages.

"For now, keep your head down. Don't talk to anyone. Don't post anything."

"I won't."

LeClaire stands, pauses. "Rozanov." His voice is careful. "I don't know what this is. But whatever it is . . . we're going to figure it out. Alright?"

Ilya nods, doesn't trust his voice.

After the coach walks away, Ilya lets himself think it for the first time: What if they cut me?

Boston could terminate his contract. They'd find a reason—conduct detrimental, morality clause, something. And then what? No other NHL team would touch him. He can't go back to Russia, not with his father, not with the way things are there. He'd be . . . nowhere. Nothing.

He tries to push the thought away but it keeps circling back, tightening around his throat.

His phone buzzes. Text from Shane: My agent wants to issue a denial. Immediately. Before this gets worse.

Ilya reads it three times. Each time, something in his chest cracks a little more.

Ilya: What kind of denial?

Shane: That we're together. That anything happened.

Ilya just stares at it.

What can he say? Don't? Tell the truth? They both know what happens if they tell the truth.

Shane: I'm sorry.

The gate agent calls for final boarding. Cliff stands, gestures at Ilya with his chin. Time to go.

Ilya doesn't  answer the text. He pockets his phone and follows his teammates onto the plane. He takes his window seat, presses his forehead against the cold glass, and watches the ground crew load luggage.

His phone buzzes once more before he has to switch to airplane mode. Voicemail notification. His father's number.

Ilya's finger hovers over the play button. He presses it. Holds the phone to his ear.

"—complete disgrace. I always knew you were weak, but this—" The Russian is harsh, clipped, each word landing like a fist. "Do you understand what you've done? Do you understand—"

Ilya deletes it. His hand is steady when he does it.

Another call immediately—his brother Alexei. Then another. Alexei again.

He blocks the number. Turns his phone to airplane mode. Leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes.

Across the aisle, Hammersmith is reading his magazine. Cliff has his headphones in. Everyone's pretending this is normal. Just another flight home after another road game.

Ilya checks his phone: 10:51 AM. Five hours ago he was still wearing a shirt that smelled like Shane. Now, no matter what Ilya texts Shane, in a few hours, there will probably be a statement. A denial. The photos show nothing inappropriate. We're friends and teammates who respect each other. This speculation is harmful and untrue.

And then what?

They have maybe 24 hours, Ilya thinks, before this becomes something they can't control. Before the denials stop working and the speculation turns into investigation. Before someone finds something real—a text message, a hotel record, some proof they can't explain away.

Chapter 2

Ilya sits in the conference room at TD Garden, his American lawyer beside him, while Boston's general manager and head coach settle into their seats across the polished table. Ilya's lawyer—Mitchell something, a shark his agent found for him back when he was drafted—keeps tapping his pen against his legal pad in a rhythm that makes Ilya want to snap the pen in half. Ilya almost wore his one suit and now he's glad he didn't, stinking of nervous sweat and uncomfortable in his hoodie and jeans.

"We appreciate you coming in on short notice," the GM says. Tom Fitzgerald. Mid-fifties, graying at the temples, the kind of guy who played college hockey before settling into management. "We wanted to discuss the situation before making any public statements."

Ilya nods once. His jaw aches from clenching it all morning. He's got money even if he hasn't got residency anywhere once they terminate his contract. He might still be able to play somewhere like France or Norway with shit leagues.

"First," Fitzgerald continues, "we want you to know that the organization stands behind you."

The words don't make sense immediately. Ilya glances at Mitchell, who's stopped tapping his pen.

"You're one of our best players," Coach Reynolds adds. He's younger than Fitzgerald, maybe early forties, with the lean build of someone who still skates regularly. Coach LeClaire nods beside him, arms crossed over his chest. "We're not interested in making this situation worse by creating distance between you and the team."

"You're not—" Ilya starts, then stops. Regroups. "You're not trying to void my contract?"

"Why would we do that?" Fitzgerald asks, genuine confusion crossing his face. "You haven't broken any league rules or team policies."

Mitchell shifts beside him. "My client was concerned that the photos might be considered—"

"Ilya," Reynolds interrupts, leaning forward. "You've been nothing but professional since you joined this team. You show up, you play your ass off, you're good with the rookies. Whatever you do in your personal life is your business."

The tightness in Ilya's chest loosens a fraction. He wasn't expecting this. He'd spent the entire drive to the meeting preparing for a fight, for lawyers and clauses and the grinding machinery of contract negotiations.

"We do need to discuss how we handle this publicly," Fitzgerald says. "Have you and Hollander coordinated on a statement?"

And there it is. The knot returns, harder than before.

"No," Ilya says. "Not yet."

"We'd recommend putting something out soon," Fitzgerald continues. "The speculation is only going to get worse. If you and Shane present a unified front—"

"I don't know if there will be unified front," Ilya says quietly.

The room goes silent. Mitchell's pen starts tapping again.

Reynolds exchanges a look with Fitzgerald. "Are you saying you and Shane aren't... together?"

"We are." Ilya forces the words out, more than he's ever admitted to anyone about this, including himself. "But Shane is—" He stops, struggling for the English. "He is more careful. More private. I don't know what he wants to say."

"Have you talked to him?" Fitzgerald asks.

"Not since last night."

Another look passes between Fitzgerald , LeClaire, and Reynolds. Fitzgerald leans back in his chair. "Look, Ilya. We're here to support you. But the last thing we want is for this organization to say one thing while Montreal says another, and you two get caught in the middle."

"I understand," Ilya says, though he doesn't, not really. How is he supposed to figure out what Shane wants when Shane won't answer his texts?

"Take today," Reynolds says. "Talk to Shane. Talk to your agent. We'll reconvene tomorrow morning and work out a plan."

The meeting ends quickly after that. Mitchell walks beside him through the arena corridors, still talking about statements and PR strategy and damage control, but Ilya barely hears him. His phone feels heavy in his pocket.

When they reach the parking lot, Ilya thanks Mitchell and climbs into his car. Alone finally, he pulls out his phone.

Twelve missed calls. All from his father.

He scrolls through, looking for Shane's name. Nothing. No texts, no missed calls, nothing.

His father's most recent voicemail plays automatically: "Ilya, where are you? Why aren't you home from school yet? Call me immediately."

School. Ilya deletes the voicemail. Then another. Then another.

Still nothing from Shane.

He opens their text thread. The last message is from him, sent the day before at midnight: Call me when you can. They've never talked on the phone before.

Shane read it but didn't respond.

Ilya stares at the screen until it goes black, his reflection ghostly in the darkened glass. Around him, the parking lot is nearly empty, just a few staff cars and a maintenance truck. 

Shane's agent hasn't put out a statement yet.  Ilya should probably call his own agent. He should probably call his father back, even if the conversation will be circular and confused and end with his father forgetting they spoke at all.

Instead, he sits in his car and scrolls through the news, waiting for his phone to light up with Shane's name.

It doesn't.

@HockeyInsider47

BREAKING: Photos surfacing from 2011 press conference show Hollander and Rozanov with feet touching under table. This goes back YEARS. Where is the statement? #NHL

@BlocMetros

Shane Hollander is a DISGRACE to Montreal. He lied to this city for years. YEARS. We welcomed him and he spat in our faces. Trade him NOW. #GoMetros

@GoMarleau

lmao remember when we all thought Rozanov was this huge playboy??? dude was playing us the whole time. respect for the commitment to the bit i guess

The Hockey Tribune - "The Hollander-Rozanov Deception: What It Means for the NHL"

By Mark Svboda

Photos emerged yesterday showing Hollander and Rozanov in intimate positions dating back to at least 2011—the same year both players claimed their mutual "hatred" drove them to be better athletes. A press conference photo shows their feet touching under the table. A 2014 image captures Rozanov's hand on Hollander's shoulder at an awards reception.

SB Nation - "Leave Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Alone"

By Jessica Ramirez

Here's a wild idea: how about we let two people have some privacy?

Sports Illustrated - "The Photos That Changed Everything: A Timeline"

By Robert Kowalski

The images surfacing of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have sent shockwaves through the hockey world, but they also raise serious questions about what we thought we knew about the sport's biggest rivalry and how legitimate any of their wins against each other really were.

@ilyasbiteguard

everyone acting shocked like they haven't been eye-fucking each other on ice for a decade. if you didn't know you weren't paying attention

@HockeyMom2009

I don't care who they sleep with but I DO care that they lied. My son idolized Shane Hollander. Wore his jersey. Had his poster. Now what am I supposed to tell him??? #ThinkOfTheKids

@RozanovRocket

yall are really mad that two men didn't announce their private relationship to millions of strangers??? be so fucking for real right now

r/BostonRaiders - "Statement from Management - Your Thoughts?"

u/iceregular [+156]

So I have a friend who works in the organization (won't say more for privacy) and apparently management had a meeting with Rozanov this morning. Word is they're not trying to void his contract or anything.

Honestly? I think that's the right call. Roz is one of our best players. Whatever he does off ice is his business as long as he shows up and performs.

But I do think we deserve SOME kind of statement. Even just "please respect my privacy" would be better than radio silence. It's been two days and total silence.

u/iraidersulongtime [+89]

I agree they shouldn't void his contract but there should be consequences for hiding a relationship with a RIVAL TEAM'S CAPTAIN. That's a conflict of interest.

u/iceregular [+34]

How is it a conflict of interest? It's not like they were throwing games. They both play hard every time they're on ice against each other.

u/raiderscupletsgo [+67]

How do you KNOW they weren't throwing games? That's the point. We can't trust anything now.

u/hockgay [+967]

What kills me is people saying "I don't care if they're gay BUT—" and then immediately proving they care very much.

@OldSchoolHockey

Back in my day players kept their personal lives PERSONAL. Now everyone wants to know everything. Leave the boys alone and let them PLAY HOCKEY. That's what matters.

@MontrealMania

SHANE HOLLANDER STATEMENT NEEDED NOW. Our city deserves answers. You wore our jersey. You CAPTAINED our team. You won us THE CUP. And you lied the whole time??? #Betrayed #GoMetros

@DataDrivenHockey

I analyzed every Hollander vs Rozanov game since 2011. Neither player shows statistically significant underperformance against each other compared to other opponents. Whatever their personal relationship, it didn't affect their play. Thread 1/?

Shane sits in the general manager's office at Centre Bell, his agent's voice crackling through the speakerphone on the desk between them. His head's still buzzing from scrolling all the shit on his phone, avoiding thinking about the statement or Ilya's text to call him. Outside the window, Montreal stretches out gray in the flat overcast light.

"We appreciate you coming in, Shane," Jean Tremblay says. The GM's been with the organization for fifteen years, through countless press conferences where he's praised Shane's leadership leading up to the Cup win last year. Now his face is carefully neutral, the way it gets during contract negotiations that aren't going well.

Coach Thériault sits beside him, arms crossed over his chest. He hasn't looked at Shane directly since Shane walked in.

"Obviously this is a delicate situation," Tremblay continues. "We wanted to discuss it face-to-face before making any decisions."

Shane nods. His phone sits silent in his pocket because he can't bring himself to text Ilya back. He checked it in the parking garage, in the elevator, in the hallway outside this office. Nothing from Ilya since last night. Call me when you can. But Shane can't. Just too much on reddit and twitter and everywhere else about the photos. About how stupid and careless he'd been.

"First, we need to understand what we're dealing with," Tremblay says. "These photos that are circulating—"

"Are old," Shane's agent interrupts through the speaker. Jim Bouchard, who's represented Shane since he was drafted, who negotiated his current eight-million-dollar contract. "From public events years ago. There's nothing conclusive about them."

"The internet seems to think they're pretty conclusive," Coach Thériault says. His Québécois accent gets thicker when he's angry, the consonants harder. "My phone hasn't stopped ringing since yesterday. Media. Sponsors. Parents asking if their kids should still look up to Shane."

Shane's jaw tightens. He forces it to relax.

"The question," Tremblay says, leaning forward, "is how this affects the team."

"It doesn't," Shane says. It's the first thing he's said since sitting down.

"It does if it's a distraction," Thériault counters. "Playoffs are four months away. We need focus. Unity. Team chemistry. Not photographers camped outside the practice facility asking questions about who our captain is sleeping with."

The words land like slaps. Shane keeps his face blank the way he's learned to do, the way he's been doing since he was a teenager figuring out that what he felt when he looked at other boys was something he couldn't let show.

"We're not suggesting anything has happened," Tremblay says carefully. "But perception matters. Our fans, our sponsors, the other players—they need to trust you."

"They can trust me," Shane says. "I've been captain for years. We won the Cup."

"Which is why we're having this conversation instead of making immediate changes," Tremblay says. "But Shane, you need to understand the position this puts us in. If there's something going on with you and Rozanov—"

"Shane doesn't need to explain his personal life," Martin interrupts. "And I'd remind everyone that speculating about a player's private relationships is a dangerous path for any organization."

"We're not speculating," Coach Thériault says. "We're responding to a situation that's dominating sports media. Every outlet in North America is running stories about these photos. About how long it's been going on. About what it means for the rivalry between our teams."

"The rivalry that's sold jerseys and tickets for years," Martin says. "The rivalry that's been good for both franchises."

"A rivalry we thought was real," Thériault shoots back.

The words hang in the air. Shane's phone feels like it's burning through his pocket. He wants to check it. Wants to text Ilya, wants to hear if he's having the same conversation with Boston's management right now.

"Gentlemen," Martin says, his voice taking on the smooth diplomatic tone that means he's about to make promises Shane might not want to keep. "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves. Shane is one of the most professional players in the league. He's never let his personal life interfere with his performance. He's not going to start now."

"His personal life wasn't public before," Tremblay says.

"It's still not public," Martin counters. "Some old photos don't prove anything. Shane has never confirmed any relationship. He's certainly not going to start making statements about his private life to satisfy internet speculation."

Shane watches Tremblay and Thériault exchange a look. Something passes between them that makes Shane's stomach tighten.

"Here's what we need," Tremblay says, looking directly at Shane now. "We need you to be a team player. We need you to focus on hockey. We need you to stay out of the news."

The subtext is clear as a siren. Deny it. Make it go away.

"Shane understands," Martin says before Shane can respond. "He's always been focused on the team first. That's why he's your captain."

"And we'd like him to remain captain," Tremblay says. "But that requires maintaining the trust and respect of the locker room. Of the fans. Of the organization."

Another ultimatum wrapped in politeness.

"If this becomes an ongoing distraction," Coach Thériault adds, "we'll need to reconsider what's best for the team. Including leadership structure."

The threat lands cold and heavy. Shane has been captain since he was twenty-six. He wore the C through the team's first championship in decades. He's done every media availability, every charity event, every fan meet-and-greet without complaint.

And now they're threatening to strip it because someone posted photos of him touching feet with another player under a table.

"Shane will handle this appropriately," Martin says. "You have my word."

"We need Shane's word," Tremblay says, looking at him expectantly.

Shane's phone vibrates in his pocket. His heart jumps before he can stop it. He forces himself not to reach for it.

"I'll handle it," he says quietly.

"Good." Tremblay stands, signaling the meeting is over. "We'll draft a brief statement from the organization. Something neutral. 'Shane's personal life is his own, we support all our players, our focus is on hockey.' That kind of thing."

"That sounds appropriate," Bouchard says.

Coach Thériault stands too, but doesn't extend his hand. "We have practice at two. I expect you there, ready to work."

"I'll be there," Shane says.

He's dismissed. That's what this is. He's being dismissed from an office in his own arena by men who've praised him in front of cameras for years.

Shane leaves without shaking anyone's hand. In the hallway, he finally pulls out his phone.

The vibration wasn't Ilya. It's his mom: Our flight lands at 4:30, we'll see you after your practice. Thinking of you ❤️

He can't think about what they're going to say when they land, what he's going to say about all the sponsorships he's probably lost.

Shane opens the text thread with Ilya. The last message is still from Ilya last night, asking him to call.

Shane stands in the empty hallway, staring at the screen and trying to work up the courage to just hit the call button when his phone rings. Bouchard's name flashes across the screen.

Shane answers.

"That went as well as could be expected," Bouchard says without preamble. "They're scared. The sponsors are calling them, and they're panicking. But they're not going to do anything drastic as long as you keep your head down."

"Keep my head down," Shane repeats.

"Don't make any statements. Don't respond to speculation. Show up to practice, play your game, act like nothing's changed. Let it blow over."

"And Ilya?"

Silence on the other end. Then: "What about him?"

"Have you talked to his agent?"

"Shane." Bouchard's voice gentles in a way that makes Shane's chest tighten. "I don't think you should be in contact with Rozanov right now. Not until we know how both organizations are going to play this."

"You want me to not talk to him."

"I want you to protect your career. Your captaincy. Your endorsements. All of which are at risk if this turns into a bigger story than it already is."

Shane closes his eyes. The hallway feels too bright, too empty, too much like a place where someone might see him standing here looking like his world is cracking apart.

"The best thing you can do for both of you," Bouchard continues, "is to let this die quietly. You don't want me to put out a statement, that's fine, then we let it blow over. No statements, no drama, no confirmation. Let people speculate all they want. Eventually something else will be more interesting."

"And if it doesn't die quietly?"

"Then we'll deal with that when we have to. But right now, Shane, you need to think about your team. Your career. Everything you've built in Montreal."

Everything he's built. All his years as captain. The Cup. A contract that runs through 2024. Endorsements with three major brands. A reputation as one of the most professional, dedicated players in the league.

All of it dependent on him doing what he's been doing for years and just keeping his mouth shut about everything.

"I have to go," Shane says. "Practice in an hour."

He hangs up before Bouchard can respond.

The reply to Ilya types itself: Can I call now? All he wants is to hear Ilya's voice, but even thinking that to himself feels like admitting too much.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over send. Then he deletes it, letter by letter, until the box is empty again.

Shane pockets his phone and heads toward the locker room, where his teammates are probably already gathering, where they're probably already talking about him, where he'll have to pretend that nothing has changed.

His phone stays silent in his pocket.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I lifted the idea for the rookie and Hayden scenes from an FFA thread. A little more direct homophobia in this chapter.

Shane unties his skates with methodical precision, each loop and pull an excuse to keep his eyes down. The locker room hums with the usual post-practice noise—laughter, the clatter of gear, water running—but none of it touches the three feet of empty bench on either side of him.

He's become an island.

J.J.'s voice booms from across the room, telling some story about his niece's dance recital. Hayden laughs, genuine and warm. They're not even trying to be quiet about excluding him. They just are. It's worse than hostility—it's absence, like he's already been erased from the team photo. Everything's normal. Everything's fine.

Shane pulls off his practice jersey. His shoulder protests, a deep ache that started in the second period when Comeau checked him harder than necessary during a drill. No penalty. No acknowledgment. Just impact and ice and the cold certainty that it would happen again.

"Hey, Captain."

Shane's head snaps up. One of the rookies—Martineau, maybe? He's new enough that Shane's still learning names, a kid with eager eyes and hair that flops into his face—stands at the edge of Shane's bubble of isolation.

"Yeah?" Shane keeps his voice neutral, professional. Captains answer when spoken to, even when everyone wishes they'd resign already.

The rookie glances over his shoulder, then back. He's holding his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Shane strips off his shoulder pads, pretends this is normal, that rookies seek him out all the time these days.

Martineau shifts his weight. "It's kind of personal. About, uh, dating."

Shane's hands still on his elbow pads. Of course. Of course it's about this.

"I mean—" The kid's face reddens. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But like, everyone says..." He trails off, then pushes forward in a rush. "Everyone says Rozanov was this huge player, right? Always had the hottest girls all over him at club, whatever. And if you got him to—I mean, if you guys are—you must have like, mad game or something."

The words land like punches. Mad game. Shane almost laughs, except nothing about this is funny.

"I just mean," Martineau continues, oblivious or brave or stupid, "if you pulled Rozanov, you could probably give me some tips? There's this girl at the coffee place and I can't figure out—"

"I can't help you." Shane's voice comes out flat. He yanks off his elbow pads, drops them in his bag with too much force.

"Oh. Okay, but—"

"I can't help you." Louder this time. Across the room, conversations pause. Shane feels eyes on him, assessing, judging, waiting for him to crack.

He shoves his feet into his slides, not bothering with socks. His practice gear stays where it is on the bench. He'll deal with it later, or not at all. Maybe the equipment staff will throw it out. Maybe that would be easier.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" Martineau starts, but Shane's already moving.

He walks past the showers where steam billows and voices echo. Past J.J., who doesn't look up from his phone. Past Comeau, who definitely sees him but turns away with deliberate precision.

If you pulled Rozanov.

The words follow him into the hallway. His skin feels sticky with dried sweat, his hair plastered to his head. He smells like practice, like failure, like a man who should have showered but couldn't stand another minute in that room.

Shane pushes through the exit door into the parking garage. The concrete is cold under his slides. He left his shoes in his locker. He left his dignity somewhere on the ice. He keeps walking anyway, because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering Martineau's earnest face asking for dating advice like Shane has a relationship with Ilya instead of a career ending scandal.

His car beeps when he unlocks it. He slides into the driver's seat, still in his compression shorts and T-shirt, and sits in the dark garage with the engine off. His phone buzzes in his bag—probably his mother, letting him know they landed and they'll be to his place soon.

Mad game.

He laughs once, sharp and bitter. Then he starts the car and drives home, unwashed and unwelcome, to the empty condo and one more hurdle of not talking about this with his parents.

Shane's parents arrive at seven and they've already ordered delivery from the Korean place his mother loves. It arrives just after they let themselves in with the code he gave them, his dad juggling it with their bags.

"Sweetheart." Yuna pulls him into a hug before he can even take the bags from her hands. She squeezes hard enough that he feels five years old again, scraped knee and wounded pride.

"Hi, Mom."

David clasps his shoulder, solid and steady. "Good to see you, son."

They move into the kitchen with practiced ease, his mother unpacking containers. Shane hovers uselessly, suddenly aware of how empty his fridge is, how the dishes have been piling up in the sink. He's been sticking to his meal plan but not keeping up with dishes, having a hard time facing more than the basics.

"Sit," Yuna commands, pointing at the dining table. "We eat, then we talk."

So they eat. Bulgogi and japchae and banchan that his mother arranges carefully on the table like she's setting up a defense formation. Shane forces food into his mouth, chews, swallows. Across from him, David asks about the weather, about traffic, about anything except hockey or photos or the media circus that's consumed Shane's life for the past two days.

Finally, Yuna sets down her chopsticks with decisive precision. "Okay. Now we talk."

Shane's stomach clenches. "Mom—"

"We saw the article in La Presse this morning." Her voice is matter-of-fact, no-nonsense. "The one calling for you to resign as captain."

"I know." He's read them all. Every article, every tweet, every comment section he should have avoided. It's become a compulsion, picking at the wound to make sure it still hurts.

"Do you want to resign?" David asks.

The question catches him off guard. Everyone else has been telling him what he should do—Thériault saying to tough it out, his agent saying to stay quiet, the media saying to step down. No one's asked what he wants.

"I don't know," Shane admits. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I don't deserve—"

"Shane Hollander." His mother's voice cuts through the spiral with surgical precision. "We did not raise you to believe other people's opinions about who you love."

"It's not about—" He stops, regroups. "They think I threw games."

"Did you?"

"No." The word comes out fierce, automatic. "I would never—"

"Then it doesn't matter what they think." Yuna reaches across the table, covers his hand with hers. "Your father and I, we love you. We’re proud of you. That doesn't change because some stalker posted pictures on twitter."

Shane's throat tightens. He stares at their joined hands, his mother's slim fingers against his knuckles that are still slightly swollen from practice.

"The news doesn't matter to us," David adds quietly. "Your relationship with Ilya, the media attention—we care about your happiness. That's all." It feels strange to hear someone call Ilya something besides Rozanov, but his dad has never followed hockey much.

"The sponsorships—" Shane starts.

"Are just money." Yuna waves her free hand dismissively. "We don't need you to support us."

"That's not—I want to help—"

"Then help by taking care of yourself." His mother squeezes his hand. "Speaking of sponsorships, Reebok reached out to me yesterday."

Shane's head jerks up. "They dropped me?"

"No, no." Yuna releases his hand to pull out her phone. "They want you to do a special Pride Month campaign. Rainbow skates, whole thing. They sent me the mockups." She scrolls through images, turns the screen toward him.

The designs are bold—his signature skate model with rainbow laces, subtle pride flag coloring worked into the design. It's beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

"They're not cutting the sponsorship regardless," his mother continues. "But they think this could be good. Meaningful." She pauses. "Only if you want to do it. No pressure."

Shane stares at the mockups. Six months ago, he would have been paralyzed by the thought. The thought that one of the sponsors is happy about this feels shocking, like cold water.

"I'll think about it," he says finally.

Yuna nods, sets the phone aside. "There's something else we need to discuss."

The shift in her tone makes Shane's shoulders tense. "What?"

"Security." David leans forward, his expression grave. "Someone was sitting outside in the middle of the night waiting. That's not paparazzi—that's stalking."

"Oh." Shane hadn't even thought about that part of it in the middle of everything else and now it feels like one more violation on top of everything else. He really liked this place.

"You need to hire someone," his mother says. "Or move. Preferably both."

"Mom—"

"Shane." She uses her do-not-argue voice, the one that still works. 

“Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees.

They talk for another hour and it feels something like a relief. His mom thinks he should fire his agent, and call Ilya if he feels like. Says she'll find him a new agent and call his lawyer if the team tries to void his contract. It's like the ground is slowly rebuilding itself under his feet.

Finally, Yuna stands, starts clearing dishes. "We should go. Let you rest."

"You don't have to—" Shane starts, but his mother's already moving, stacking containers with efficient grace.

"Yes, we do. You look exhausted." She cups his face, studies him with eyes that see too much. "You're sleeping?"

"Enough," Shane lies.

"Eating?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Taking care of yourself?"

Shane doesn't answer. Yuna sighs, kisses his forehead. "Call me tomorrow. We'll make a plan for the security."

David pulls him into another hug, solid and grounding. "Love you, son. We're proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad."

He walks them to the door, watches them disappear down stairs. His father's arm is around his mother's waist, their heads bent together, already discussing next steps. 

Shane closes the door, locks it—both locks now, since the conversation—and leans against the wood. The condo feels simultaneously too quiet and too loud, full of echoes and empty spaces.

Shane collapses on the couch and closes his eyes. Thinks about calling Ilya. Tomorrow he'll call about security systems. Tomorrow he'll research real estate. Tomorrow he'll figure out how to keep going when half his team thinks he's a traitor and the other half just wishes he'd disappear.

Tonight, he needs to call Ilya. 

Shane's still on the couch, holding his phone in the dim light with Ilya's texts open when the knock comes. Three sharp raps, followed by a pause, then two more. The rhythm is familiar—Hayden's knock, the same one he's used for years to signal his arrival at hotel rooms during road trips. Shane had given him his door code when he moved in and didn't know anyone else.

Shane drags himself upright, checks the peephole full of paranoia now. Hayden stands in the stairwell holding a six-pack of Molson, shifting his weight like a kid outside the principal's office.

Shane opens the door. "Hayden."

"Captain." Hayden lifts the beer. "Figured you could use some company and a couple of drinks."

The word captain hits differently coming from Hayden—no irony, no edge. Just the title, simple and solid, like nothing's changed.

"I don't–uh, I don't really drink beer," Shane says, but he steps aside to let Hayden in anyway. Everything else is out now anyway.

Hayden freezes halfway through the doorway. "Oh shit, is that—is that because of the gay thing?" His face goes red immediately. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! I just meant—"

Despite everything, Shane feels his mouth twitch. "It's not a gay thing. I just don't like beer."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, that makes sense." Hayden's still holding the six-pack like he's not sure what to do with it now. "We could go get some of those canned cocktails? The kind Jackie drinks? They've got them at the dépanneur down the street. I thought about grabbing some but I didn't want you to think I thought you were, like, fruity or whatever. Fuck, that came out wrong." His face gets even redder.

"It's fine. Come in. You can drink the beer."

Hayden sets the Molson on the island and immediately pulls one free. He cracks it open with the practiced ease of a man who's spent fifteen years in hockey locker rooms. "You sure? Because I can—"

"I'm sure." Shane gestures to the living room. "Sit." He gets himself a ginger ale from the fridge.

They settle on opposite ends of the couch, Hayden with his beer, Shane with the exhaustion still clinging to his bones. For a long moment neither speaks. Hayden drinks. 

"So," Hayden says finally. "You're still my captain."

Shane's throat tightens. "Hayd—"

"No matter what." Hayden's voice is firm, certain in a way that makes Shane's chest ache. "I don't give a shit what those assholes write in the papers. You're still our captain and I know you didn't throw any games. You win us the fucking Cup, man."

"Half the team won't even look at me."

"Half the team are idiots."

"They think—"

"I know what they think. They're wrong." Hayden leans back, rolls the beer between his palms. "Look, you're the best hockey player I know and that doesn't change if you're dating some asshole.”

“We're not dating,” Shane says automatically.

"Okay. But you're still my captain," Hayden repeats quietly. "Just wanted you to know that."

They sit in silence for a while. Hayden finishes his first beer, opens a second. The TV is off but neither moves to turn it on. They drink in silence for a while and it's maybe even comfortable.

"Can I ask you something?" Hayden says when he opens his third beer, a little looser now.

"Sure,” Shane says, suddenly braced again.

"Is Rozanov, like..." Hayden waves his hand vaguely. "I mean, he's obviously incredible at hockey. Best player in the league, probably. And he's got that whole Russian thing going on." He pauses. "Is he your hall pass?"

Shane blinks. "What?"

"You know, hall pass. Like, Jackie and I have this thing where we each get one celebrity we could theoretically sleep with if the opportunity came up." Hayden's face reddens again. "Not that we would! But like, theoretically. Hers is Chris Hemsworth. Mine's..." He trails off, takes a long drink.

"Yours is what?" Shane asks, genuinely curious now.

Hayden looks at the ceiling. "You have to swear—and I mean swear—you'll never tell anyone this. Especially not J.J. He'll never let me live it down."

"I swear."

"Mine’s Taylor Swift. But if I had to go gay once, it'd be with Rozanov.” Hayden says it fast, like ripping off a bandage. “Not because he's hot or whatever—though I guess objectively he is? But mainly because he's so fucking good at hockey." He gestures emphatically with his beer. "Like, if you're gonna experiment, might as well be with the best, right?"

Shane stares at him. Then, before he can stop it, laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest. Real laughter, the kind that shakes his shoulders and makes his eyes water. It's been days—weeks maybe—since he's laughed, and it feels like breathing after being underwater.

"Oh fuck off," Hayden says, but he's grinning. "I'm being serious!"

"I know," Shane manages between laughs. "That's what makes it so perfect."

"It's a legitimate reason!"

"Because he's good at hockey."

"The best! Besides you. But like, not in a hall pass way, that'd be weird. If you're gonna be someone's gay awakening, shouldn't it be someone who can also teach you his one-timer technique?" Hayden's fully committed now, leaning forward. "Like, you get the experience and you improve your game. That's just efficient."

Shane laughs harder. His stomach hurts. His face hurts. Everything hurts but in a different way, a better way. "You want me to ask him about his training routine?"

"I mean, if you're offering..." Hayden grins, then sobers slightly. "But seriously, you can't tell J.J. He'll make it a thing. You know how he gets."

"Your secret's safe with me." Shane wipes his eyes. "Hall pass Rozanov because of his hockey skills. That's... that's actually kind of beautiful, Pike."

"Shut up." But Hayden's still smiling. He finishes his third beer, sets it on the coffee table with the others. "I should go. Jackie's gonna wonder where I am."

"Thanks for coming by."

"Yeah, well." Hayden stands, steadier than Shane expected given the beers. "Like I said. You're still my captain. Figured you should know at least one person on this team isn't a complete asshole."

He heads for the door, then pauses. "Also, for what it's worth? Rozanov's lucky. Not just because you're good at hockey—though obviously you are—but because you're a good guy. Better than most of us deserve." He clears his throat. "Anyway. See you at practice tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

The door closes. Shane clears the couple of empties and leans against the kitchen Island. His face still aches from laughing. He takes out his phone, finds Ilya's name.

Hayden Pike just told me you're his hall pass, he types.

Ilya texts back almost immediately and Shane tries not to think about what that means. It's just a coincidence Ilya was holding his phone.

Ilya: what?

Then: This is Montreal statement finally, you are all in love with me?

Fuck off, Shane texts, and then he hits call.

Chapter End Notes

I decided this is going to be four chapters; not sure if I'll get the last one posted tomorrow or the 26th. Happy ep sixmas eve eve to all who celebrate.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Ilya's in bed and it's almost midnight, his phone casting blue light across the ceiling of his Boston apartment. Practice is in eight hours. He should sleep. He should go out, distract himself from Shane not answering his text, not calling, and not putting out a statement. Ilya's not going to lose his contract but he can probably never go back to Russia now even if it stays just rumors. And rumors that have Shane running into hiding.

So he scrolls on his phone, picking at the wound.

Twitter has moved on to dissecting game footage from 2013, looking for evidence of thrown plays. Reddit is arguing about whether he and Shane ever actually hated each other or if the whole rivalry was performance art. TMZ posted new photos—him leaving a club in 2012 with some model whose name he never learned, paired with speculation about whether he was "really straight" back then or just maintaining cover.

His thumb hovers over Shane's contact. No messages since the last text Ilya had sent, asking Shane to call him. It feels stupid now, like there was something for them to talk about besides hockey and fucking.

He switches back to Safari, finds the article Svetlana sent him an hour ago. The Hockey Tribune: "Scott Hunter Speaks on Hollander-Rozanov Situation." Sveta thinks he should get ahead of the media and put out his own statement no matter what Shane wants, get control of the narrative. Ilya thinks she is probably right, hockey genius and media genius, but she's in Moscow dating some minor footballer so he wants to be annoyed with her advice. And not think about that if he does that, Shane will probably never speak to him again.

The Hunter interview is brief, someone caught him after the game last night. Hunter's face in the photo is neutral, professional—the same expression he wears during playoff media scrums.

Reporter: What's your reaction to the photos of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov?

Hunter: I don't really have a reaction. What two players do in their private lives is their business, not mine.

Reporter: Do you think their relationship affected their play against each other?

Hunter: I think if you watch their games, they both played hard every single time. The stats back that up. People looking for thrown games aren't going to find them. There's a reason they both won their teams a Cup.

Ilya drops his phone on his chest. The anger is immediate and irrational—why does Hunter get to have an opinion? He's a million years old and shit at hockey besides, but some photos of Ilya being stupid and getting careless mean his opinion matters.

His phone buzzes against his sternum. He grabs it so fast he nearly drops it.

Shane: Hayden Pike just told me you're his hall pass

Ilya stares at the message, reads it three times. The tension in his chest loosens fractionally. This is—this is Shane texting him something that isn't about statements or lawyers or the end of everything they've built.

Ilya: what?

Then he googles what hall pass means.

This is Montreal statement finally, you are all in love with me?

He's relieved, kind of, that Shane finally fucking responded, but also annoyed that Shane made him wait so long for this, Hayden can't-score Pike’s jerk off fantasy.

Shane: Fuck off

Then, before Ilya can respond, his phone rings. Shane's name fills the screen.

Ilya's heart slams against his ribs. He hits answer, brings the phone to his ear.

"Hey." His voice comes out rougher than he means it to.

"Hey." Shane sounds tired. No—exhausted. The kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from smiling through hostility all day.

Silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. Ilya thinks about kissing Shane in the stairwell of his building just before leaving, just before all those fucking photos got posted everywhere, and what he'd give to just rewind to those couple of minutes.

"How are you?" Ilya tries, like this is the kind of thing they have.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

More silence. Ilya can hear Shane breathing. Ilya wants to say something about all this shit, about all the shit that's been tangled up in his head, but they've never really talked about any of it and Shane left him on read for two days. So Ilya just lies there looking at the dark ceiling, phone pressed to his ear, listening to Shane exist on the other end of the line.

"Hayden came by earlier," Shane says finally, grasping for safe ground. "Brought beer. Told me I'm still his captain no matter what."

"That's good." Ilya shifts against his pillows. "He is good teammate. Even if he is shit at hockey."

"He's not. Bad at hockey, I mean. He also—" Shane's voice gets lighter, almost amused. "He said he'd hook up with you so he could ask you to show him your one timer drills. Because you're the best at hockey."

Despite everything, Ilya feels himself fall into the familiarity of it. "I am best at hockey."

"He was very serious about it. Like it was a tactical decision."

"Smart man, Pike." Ilya tries to match Shane's lighter tone, but his voice comes out tight. "I am everyone's hall pass now, I think. Very popular suddenly."

Shane doesn't laugh. The lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared.

The silence returns, heavier now. Ilya traces patterns on his comforter, trying to find words around what the fuck they're doing.

"Your agent," Ilya says carefully. "The statement he wants. What does it say?" Shane owes him that much, a warning, a heads up before more shit hits the news, but Ilya doesn't say that part because Shane doesn't owe him shit.

Shane exhales slowly. "Doesn't matter. I'm firing him tomorrow."

Ilya sits up. "What?"

"I can't put out a denial."

"Why not?" Ilya hears the hope in his own voice, raw and exposed. He tries to pull it back, to protect himself, but it's already out there.

"Because—" Shane stops. Starts again. "Because I'm tired of lying. I'm tired of pretending that—" Another pause. "I just can't do it anymore."

Ilya's chest constricts. He wants Shane to finish the sentence, to say what they are, what they could be. But Shane doesn't, and Ilya can't make himself ask.

"My management, they say I can stay," Ilya offers into the silence. "No contract problems. They want to know what Montreal will say, before they make statements.."

"That's good. I'm glad." Shane sounds like he means it, but there's something underneath—disappointment, maybe, or loneliness. "Thériault threatened to strip my captaincy if this becomes an ongoing distraction."

"Fuck Thériault."

"Yeah." Shane laughs, but it's hollow. "My parents left an hour ago. The condo feels really empty."

The words land soft and devastating. Ilya can picture it too clearly—Shane alone in that pristine condo, the last place they saw each other before all this. Empty now except for the weight of everything unsaid between them and Shane all alone with it.

"I could drive there," Ilya says before his brain catches up with his mouth.

Silence. Then: "It's a six hour drive. Worse with the border,” Shane says.

"I know where Montreal is."

Ilya's already mentally calculating—if he leaves now, he'd arrive around six AM. He'd miss practice, Coach would be furious, it would be one more thing for the media to dissect. None of it matters compared to the image of Shane alone in that empty condo.

"You should—"

"I can tell Coach I have... what? Family emergency. He will understand. Mitchell can make statements." Ilya's already throwing off his blankets, feet hitting the cold hardwood. "I just drive there. Six hours, not so bad."

"You have practice in the morning."

"Fuck practice."

Another pause. Ilya can hear Shane's breath catch, can feel the moment balanced on the edge of something they can't take back.

"Okay," Shane says quietly.

Ilya freezes halfway to his closet. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Neither of them says goodbye. Shane just ends the call, and Ilya stands in his dark bedroom holding his phone.

He should think about this. Should consider the implications, the optics, the fact that driving to Montreal right now will only feed the speculation. But he's already pulling on jeans, grabbing his keys, typing a text to Coach LeClaire about a family situation that requires immediate attention.

His phone buzzes with Shane's address—the same one Ilya has memorized but Shane sends it anyway. Like he needs the concrete proof that this is happening, that Ilya is really coming.

Ilya grabs his coat and makes sure he has his passport and heads for the door. Six hours. He can speed and hope the border guards won't be dicks.

He doesn't let himself think about what’s going to happen when he gets there, just that he needs to be with Shane.

Shane answers the door in sweatpants and a t-shirt he grabbed from the floor of his bedroom, hair sticking up at odd angles from lying awake for three hours after Ilya's call. His eyes feel gritty, exhausted, but his heart is racing when he opens the door for Ilya.

Ilya stands in the doorway, still in his coat—the same dark one from the photos that started everything. Maybe there's more photos now. The morning light is pale behind him, just after seven, and his face is shadowed, unreadable.

They stare at each other.

Shane's hand is still on the doorknob. Ilya's hands are in his pockets. Neither moves to hug or touch—they've never done that before, not without it being sex.

"You drove all night," Shane says finally as he steps aside to let Ilya in.

"Traffic was not bad,” Ilya says. The one time he'd texted was to say his was getting searched at the border, young Russian guy with sports car in the middle of the night, no big deal. Ilya moves past him into the entryway. Shane takes his coat, hangs it on the hook by the door with careful precision. The fabric is still warm from Ilya and it smells like him. Shane had been holding it for him in the stairwell just before all the photos that started this.

"Coffee?" Shane offers, already heading toward the kitchen because he needs something to do with his hands.

"Yes. Thank you."

They move around each other in the kitchen with careful distance, too polite, too formal. Shane fills the reservoir with water, measures grounds with precise attention. Ilya stands by the counter, hands braced against the marble, watching Shane work.

The coffee maker gurgles and hisses. Shane pulls down two mugs—the ones the designer bought him when he moved in, simple gray ceramic—and sets them on the counter. He can feel Ilya's gaze on him, heavy and assessing.

"Milk?" Shane asks.

"Just black. Thank you."

Shane pours, adds milk to his own, passes Ilya's mug across the counter. Their fingers don't touch during the exchange.

They move to the living room with their coffee. Ilya settles on one end of the couch, Shane takes the other. The space between them is careful, measured—at least three feet of upholstery and everything they've never said to each other.

Shane wraps both hands around his mug, feels the heat seep into his palms. Ilya stares at his coffee like it holds answers. The silence stretches, painful and awkward. Years of hotel rooms and texts and never, ever this.

Ilya breaks first. "My father called again yesterday. He asked when I am coming home from school. He thinks I am still seventeen."

Shane's chest aches. "I'm sorry." He'd known a little about Ilya's family, but not the details.

Ilya shrugs, but his hands are tight around his mug, knuckles white. "Does not matter. I cannot go back anyway. Even if he dies, I cannot go to funeral. They will not let me leave Russia again if I go now. Not after—" He gestures vaguely at the space between them, at everything that space represents.

"That's not fair,” Shane says without thinking.

Ilya laughs, bitter and sharp. "Fair? When is anything fair?"

Shane shifts slightly closer, maybe six inches. "Boston's management. They're not voiding your contract?"

"No. They say they support me." Ilya's voice is flat, disbelieving, like he's still waiting for the other skate to drop. "Your team?"

Shane's jaw tightens. "They want me to keep quiet. Stay captain. Pretend nothing happened."

"Will you?"

"I don't know." Shane sets his mug down on the coffee table with too much force. Coffee sloshes over the rim. He runs his hands through his hair, tugs at the strands. "They might void my contract anyway. Or strip the C. Or trade me."

"They will not," Ilya says with surprising certainty.

"How do you know?"

"Because your team is going to win Cup again. You are best captain in league. PR would be terrible if they cut you now." Ilya shifts closer, just an inch. It barely closes the distance but Shane feels it like a physical thing. "This is what Svetlana says."

Shane rubs his hands on his knees. "Is that your agent?"

"No, just very smart friend. She is usually right about things."

They fall silent again, but it's different now. More and less uncertain. Shane picks up his mug, takes a scalding sip. Ilya does the same. They sit there drinking coffee like normal people having a normal morning, except nothing about this is normal.

"The photos," Shane says eventually. "I didn't know anyone was taking them."

"I know. Me either." Ilya's voice is soft. "But we were not careful enough."

"We were careful," Shane says, defensive.

Ilya sets his mug down and shrugs. "If we were careful enough, there would be no photos. No—" He gestures again, encompassing everything that's happened in the past three days.

Shane wants to argue but Ilya's right. They weren't careful enough, or maybe it was impossible to be careful enough. Maybe there was no version of this that didn't end with exposure.

"What do you want?" Ilya asks finally, raw and unguarded. "From this."

Shane's quiet for a long moment. The question is too big, too complicated. He wants everything and nothing. He wants to go back to before the photos, to the safety of secrecy. He wants to move forward without looking over his shoulder. He wants to stop feeling like he's being torn in half by wanting both.

"I want this to not be a secret," Shane says finally, testing each word. "I want—" He struggles, reaching for something that feels impossible to articulate. "I want this to be real. Not just hotel rooms and secret texts. Real."

Ilya's breath catches audibly. "Real like...?"

"Like we're not hiding anything." Shane finally meets his eyes. "If that's what you want too."

Ilya stares at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. His hands grip his knees, white-knuckled.

"Yes," he says finally, voice rough. "That is what I want. Since—for long time."

Something in Shane's chest unlocks. He hadn't realized how tightly he was holding it until this moment, until the release.

His hand moves before he can overthink it, finds Ilya's on the couch between them. Their fingers tangle together, uncertain at first, then tighter. Their hands don't quite fit, Shane's palm is sweaty.

It's the first time they've held hands, really held hands, outside of sex.

Ilya's thumb brushes across Shane's knuckles. The touch is gentle, exploratory, like they're learning something new.

"I do not know how to do this," Ilya admits quietly.

"Me either."

Ilya's mouth quirks, almost a smile. "This is very stupid."

Shane laughs for the first time since Hayden left.

@RozanovRocket

THEY POSTED A VIDEO TOGETHER. THEY'RE HOLDING HANDS IN THE THUMBNAIL. I'M NOT OKAY. #Hollanov

@MTLFanatic

WHERE IS MONTREAL'S STATEMENT. Our captain just came out publicly and the organization has NOTHING TO SAY??? Fire Thériault. Fire Tremblay. This is unacceptable. #GoMetros

@RozanovRocket

THE KISS AT THE END. I AM UNWELL. GET YOU A MAN WHO LOOKS AT YOU LIKE ROZANOV LOOKS AT HOLLANDER

@DefenseWins

r/hockey thread has 4.3k comments in 45 minutes. this is insane. also Shane looks so tired in the video, someone get that man some sleep

@MontrealGazette

BREAKING: Montreal Metros release statement on Shane Hollander. Story developing. Hollander and Rozanov declined further comment.

Chapter End Notes

Happy ep sixmas :)