Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Sergei Vetrov, Evan Dykstra, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References to Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Homophobic Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hockey-Typical Violence, blends book and TV cannon, POV Alternating, Angst with a Happy Ending, Forced Outing, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Found Family, Belonging, Idiots in Love, Dumb Hockey Boys, Threesome - M/M/M, Minor Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov/Scott Hunter, Minor Shane Hollander/Original Character(s), Minor Ilya Rozanov/Original Characters, young adults doing stupid and horny young adult things like they canonically do IRL, This is a Hawaiian roller coaster ride of smut angst and some fluff for spice, Author Does Not Know How To Tag

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-17 Updated: 2026-06-17 Words: 75,955 Chapters: 18/25

On Your Own

Summary

When Ilya's father finds out that Ilya has been sleeping with Sasha, his coach's son, Grigori kicks Ilya out of the house and tells him never to return. Injured and alone with nowhere to go, Ilya reaches out to his childhood friend Svetlana and her father, Sergei. As a retired MLH star and permanent resident of the US, Sergei Vetrov is able to help Ilya seek asylum while he waits for the draft. However, the story behind Ilya's abrupt departure from Russia is leaked just weeks before the MLH draft is scheduled to be held, and the repercussions will change the direction of Ilya's future in the MLH forever...

Notes

Dialogue in other languages indicated by italics.

Chapter 1: Out of Russia

Ilya

It was the middle of January, and Ilya stood shivering outside his home in Moscow. He had one arm held awkwardly against his chest, secured in place with a scarf used as a makeshift sling, and a bruise blooming over his left eye. The skin over his nose had a weeping cut from his father’s ring.

Ilya didn’t have his coat and wouldn’t be able to get it until he snuck back inside. He waited for the lights to go off. Waited longer still, to be sure his father was asleep before using the window Ilya always kept unlocked to slip into the dark hall that connected to their living room.

He walked down the hall to the stairs with clear deliberation, careful not to step on creaking boards or squeaking steps as he made his way silently up to his room. Sneaking around this house was something Ilya had practiced long before his mother’s death. They had all learned to step quietly around Grigori. It was a skill that had come in handy through recent years, with Ilya sneaking out to meet up at clubs with his friends, drinking and fucking his way through Moscow’s nightlife since he’d turned 14.

Now, Ilya used those skills for the last time. He snuck up to his room and packed a backpack full of only the essentials: his phone, some money he had squirreled away, and his wallet with his ID and bank cards. He added some spare clothes, multiple pairs of clean underwear, and most important of all, his passport.

As soon as Ilya had everything, he went back downstairs as carefully as he’d gone up them, grabbed his coat from the hall, and slipped back out into the cold Moscow night.

“Ilyushka?” Svetlana asked, picking up the phone immediately. In Boston, she was 7 hours behind. It would be approaching dinner time for her.

“Sveta,” Ilya groaned, voice tight with pain and disuse. “I need help.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, confusion over the unexpected call making way for concern in her tone.

“Father found out. About me and Sasha.”

“Shit, Ilyushka! Are you okay?”

“Not really. He was very angry. Kicked me out and said not to come back. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I’ll talk to my father,” Sveta assured. “You have your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Good, go to the airport. I will wire you money for a ticket. Papa adores you, I’m sure he won’t mind you staying with us until the draft.”

Ilya let loose a sigh of relief and slipped his phone between his ear and shoulder to free up his only good hand to wave down a cab. While he hated being Svetlana’s charity case, he couldn’t stay here. And it was less than a year before the draft. He could make it on his own after that.

Ilya pulled his travel documents from his bag. In it were a couple of blank consent forms, pre-notarized and signed by his father. It was incredibly illegal, but Ilya traveled a lot for hockey, and Grigori hated the inconvenience of having to get his travel forms notarized every time. He was the kind of man with friends in high places who let him get away with things like extra, signed and stamped documents to fill out as needed for his internationally competitive son.

Today, Grigori’s laziness would work in Ilya’s favor.

As soon as Ilya turned 18, he could make it on his own in the US. Svetlana’s father, Sergei, should be able to help. He had a lot of connections.

By the time Ilya made it to the airport, Svetlana had already wired him the money for a ticket, and he took the first flight out to Boston. He got a few looks for his obvious injuries, but no one stopped him or asked what happened, and Ilya made it to his gate with enough time to get some water and a snack before boarding.

He couldn’t think about how this might be his last time sitting in a Russian airport, or worry that his English wasn’t good enough, or that he wasn’t ready. He was used to traveling. He’d been in Canada only the month previous, playing at the International Prospect Cup in Saskatchewan.

That time, he had a whole team traveling with him. Not that he liked the team very much. This time, Ilya was alone.

Ilya just had to make it through to the draft.

He tried not to think about how he would never play hockey for Russia again. There would be no more Prospect Cups, no Olympics. His country would never allow a queer player into the spotlight like that. Propaganda, they would call it.

Ilya was just trying to survive. He craved that edge of danger ever since his mom’s death. Of risk. Sometimes, it was the only time he really felt alive anymore. Like he hadn’t swallowed an entire bottle of pills and lay down right there alongside her. That and the alcohol were the only ways Ilya could keep facing each day, locked in hell with his father, trying to reconcile his love for the man with the knowledge that Grigori was the reason his mother was dead.

When Ilya boarded the plane, he had the whole row to himself. There were hardly any other passengers on such a late flight in the middle of the week. It at least let him sprawl out, careful not to aggravate his injuries any more than they already were.

Svetlana and Sergei met him at the airport in Boston many hours later. Ilya ached everywhere, tired and feverish as he stepped into baggage claim and left customs. Svetlana gasped when she spotted him, her hands going to cover her mouth, and Sergei frowned.

“Hospital first, Ilyushka,” Sergei declared, taking Ilya’s bag and leading the way back out to the parking garage.

Resigned, Ilya nodded. He was pretty sure his shoulder was dislocated, and his arm or wrist was probably broken as well. The cut across his nose felt like it was getting infected. He hadn’t had the time or resources to see to his injuries before fleeing.

Once they were on the road, Sergei made a call full of rapid, angry English that Ilya didn’t have a hope of following along with well enough to understand.

“He is talking to his lawyer,” Svetlana explained. “About taking you to the hospital, and what happened. As a minor, there will be many questions about your injuries. He is asking what to do.”

Ilya stiffened, gaze locking on Sergei as he drove. Couldn’t they just lie? Say these were hockey injuries? What if the American police tried to send him back home? He said as much to Svetlana, hoping she could waylay her father.

“No,” Sergei disagreed, hearing Ilya’s protests and making eye contact through the rearview mirror. “My lawyer is well studied in international law. If we can prove that it is unsafe for you in your country and with your father, we can make a case for you to stay here with me.”

“What if they try to take me away?” Ilya demanded. Sergei wasn’t a relative, either.

“They will not. My lawyer will make sure of it. I have been your guardian here in the US and Canada. We have documented proof that I am a trusted guardian in your life. And I can speak Russian and help you with this process. They will not take you away, Ilyushka.”

Ilya tried to relax. He reminded himself that Sergei had lived in this country for decades, had many connections, and was well respected. At least he was out of Russia. Ilya knew he was already lucky not to have frozen to death while waiting to sneak back inside his house on the streets of Moscow. He was lucky to be there at all.

The hospital was loud when they arrived. There were familiar and grating sounds: a baby crying in the waiting room, a man yelling at the front desk, and shoes squeaking against the linoleum, which echoed through the fog of Ilya’s thoughts. It smelled sour, like old vomit and sharp from disinfectant.

Sergei and Svetlana did all the talking, helping to get Ilya seen to and his injuries addressed. Sergei’s lawyer met them there, a tall woman with straight brown hair and a sharp nose. The police were called, and pictures were taken to document Ilya’s injuries as evidence.

Sergei was a rock through it all. He had always been the best and loudest supporter of Ilya’s professional career goals with the MLH. Ilya’s own father had scoffed at the idea of playing for American teams, but Sergei had pushed him to practice, to apply himself, to try.

Sergei was used to stepping in where Grigori failed. To cleaning up his messes. Ilya didn’t understand how the two men had ever been friends.

Svetlana kept up a running commentary of everything that was happening around them, translating everything said into Russian. Ilya nodded along with her words but barely comprehended them. The important bits stuck. It turned out his shoulder was dislocated, and his wrist was fractured, but the bones were stable and not displaced. They set his shoulder back, put a cast on Ilya's arm, and started him on antibiotics. His orbital bone was also fractured, though it was minor enough not to require surgery. They gave him decongestants with recommendations to ice it at home and come back if his symptoms got any worse.

Hours after entering the ER, the trio left the hospital and made it back to Sergei’s home. Ilya went straight to his room there, half asleep already from the adrenaline crash and exhaustion of hours spent awake and terrified. He struggled through a shower, cast wrapped in plastic and movements clumsy, but as soon as he was finished, he collapsed into bed and fell asleep.

Ilya woke early the next morning to the mattress shifting as Svetlana climbed in with him. She shushed him, settled herself against his chest, and encouraged Ilya to go back to sleep. Only hours later did he wake again, desperate for the bathroom and sore everywhere from the pain medicine wearing off.

He and Svetlana spent the day watching trashy Russian TV, eating greasy snacks, and making plans to improve Ilya’s English now that he was stuck here for the rest of his life. Sergei spent most of the day on the phone with his lawyer. True to his word, they were able to keep Ilya with the Vetrovs while Ilya’s case was made for seeking asylum in the US. It meant he would be enrolled in an American school right alongside Svetlana for the remainder of the school year, but Ilya saw this as a small price to pay. He could play at being an American teenager for six months while he waited for his 18th birthday and the draft. At least it would give him something to do while he healed.

Shane

It was just a few weeks before the NHL draft, and Shane, newly 18, sat in the living room while his mom scrolled through her computer and his dad cooked dinner. It felt weird, knowing that there were only a few weeks left of this before he would be moving out, joining a professional team, and starting his career with the MLH.

They celebrated his birthday last week and graduation was coming up fast. Shane knew that most of his peers in his graduating class were all looking forward to the independence of living alone, but Shane felt more nervous than anything. What if he was drafted by a team really far away? Or somewhere hot, like Texas? Shane didn’t like hot weather. He liked running outside even in frigid Canadian winters. Even winter in Texas was hot compared to Ottawa in the depths of summer.

His mom made a startled noise, her hand leaving the mouse as she covered her mouth and her eyes widened.

“That poor boy,” she exclaimed, hand returning to the mouse to scroll down whatever article she was reading.

“What is it?” Shane’s dad asked, pausing the wooden spoon he used to stir vegetables in a pan.

“You remember Rozanov?” she asked. Shane perked up, attention shifting fully to whatever his mom had to say. He hadn’t heard anything Rozanov-related since the International Prospect Cup. It was like he had disappeared.

“The Russian player? Their captain?” his dad asked.

“Yeah,” his mom confirmed. “Apparently, he got kicked off the team and had to leave the country. It’s… terrible, actually. He was caught in a relationship with his coach’s son. There were pictures, but they’ve been taken down. I can’t believe they posted those of a minor to begin with!”

His mom grew more and more worked up as she explained the situation, gesticulating wildly and turning red with anger.

His dad turned off the fire, set the spoon down, and went to comfort her.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “That is terrible.”

Shane felt numb, suddenly. What did his mom mean? Rozanov was caught in a relationship with his coach’s son? Sure, being gay wouldn't be easy for a professional hockey player. Shane could only imagine how his own teammates might react if he got with a guy, what they would say, and how he might feel. But kicked off the team? Having to leave the country? It wasn’t like Ilya committed a crime or something.

“You don’t get it, David! This could impact his whole career! He’s in line to be one of the first picks of the draft, but with this? A lot of teams aren’t going to want anything to do with this kind of scandal. He isn’t even 18 yet, he’s younger than Shane!”

Shane’s dad pulled his mom’s attention away from the computer by tugging her hand off the keyboard. He kissed her palm, ran his fingers over it soothingly, and dragged her with him over to the kitchen table. Shane watched his dad leave her there and return with a steaming cup of tea that she gratefully wrapped her fingers around.

“I love that you want to take on the world’s problems,” Shane heard his dad murmur. “But you can’t fix this for him, sweetheart. He’s not your responsibility. He’s good, right? A top pic? Some team will want him. And whatever team does will be ready to support him. It’s going to be okay.”

Shane tore his eyes away from his parents. Sometimes he felt like he was intruding when they got like this. He put his book down and got up as quietly as he could, sneaking up to his room.

His walls were covered in posters from the Centaurs. Even though they weren’t very good, they belonged to Ottawa, and that meant they belonged to Shane. He looked at the determined face of their current first line center, the sharp cut of his jaw dusted with salt and pepper stubble, a mole under his right eye that crinkled with the crows' feet there.

Shane remembered getting that poster signed just a year ago.

Rozanov had been with another guy? Like that?

Suddenly, it was all Shane could think about. He remembered meeting Rozanov for the first time, speaking to him while the other boy smoked a cigarette in front of a no-smoking sign.

What would that feel like?

Shane had never thought about a guy like that before. Was it different, kissing a guy? His own experiences with kissing Jessica before they broke up were nothing to write home about, really. He often wondered what had some of his classmates so obsessed with talking about girls and sex.

Had Rozanov had sex with another guy? What would that be like?

Shane found his gaze traveling back to the poster on his wall, wondering what it might feel like to have rough stubble against his skin as he kissed a man. Large hands gripping his waist, pushing him against a wall.

What might Rozanov have felt like if he dropped that cigarette, pushed Shane up against the no-smoking sign, and kissed him?

Shane was hard, so fucking hard. He dropped his hand to his pants and cupped himself. Why was even the thought of that so exciting?

He made himself let go, balled his hand into a fist, and crossed the room to his bathroom. Obviously, Shane needed a cold fucking shower. He was probably just still upset over Jessica breaking up with him the day before. That’s all.

There was no way that Rozanov having sex with other guys could be something that Shane found attractive or exciting. Nope.

Chapter 2: The Draft

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya meet for the second time at the draft. When neither of them can sleep, they run into each other again later at the hotel gym.

Chapter Notes

So, you've probably noticed the explicit sexual content tag. I'm not planning to give a heads up before every chapter that applies to, but since this is the first one for this fic I am putting the warning here. Also, Shane and Ilya are still quite young here. Not minors, technically, but this takes place right after the draft so... definitely young. It's nothing crazy, especially for these two, but the warning still applies.

Shane

Shane arrived in LA for the draft with his mom and dad, just like he had for every major event in his hockey journey so far. His mom had double- and triple-checked their bags, organized a timeline of everything they needed to do once they arrived, and headed straight to the check-in desk the minute they entered the hotel lobby. His dad held her bag with his at the same time that he held Shane’s anxiety at bay with his calming presence and reassuring smile.

This was just like any other event they went to together. Sure, the draft would decide his future for the next three years, but he had a basic idea of where he was likely to go. Shane wasn’t a braggart, but he was confident in his own skill, and he knew where he stood. It was likely that he would be in the first three picked, which would put him in Boston, Montreal, or Houston. He knew that his mom wanted him to go to Montreal. Shane didn’t care necessarily, as long as he didn’t end up in Houston.

He didn’t think it was his imagination when the overall chatter and volume in the lobby rose at the entry of Ilya Rozanov, accompanied by a young woman their age and a large man Shane thought he recognized as MLH’s hall-of-fame Sergei Vetrov, a former player for the Boston Raiders. The three were speaking animatedly in Russian, the young woman gesturing towards the lobby with one hand while Rozanov smirked. Looking at him, you would never know that he had been all over the media for the past few weeks while the hockey world speculated over the scandal around him.

Rozanov looked confident. Cocky, even. Unbothered by the uptick in interest the moment he walked into the room. Maybe he couldn’t tell that he was the cause of any change, since he hadn’t been there to see the room shift as Shane had.

Shane’s mom called for his attention, waved the room keys she’d wrangled at them, and headed for the elevator.

While Shane knew that many out there were speculating over what would happen to Ilya Rozanov that night, Shane never actually expected that he would be out of the top three picks completely. Rozanov was too good a player. Better on paper than Shane, even. The most likely choice for first pick. He should have gone to Boston.

Instead, it was Shane who held the black and gold of a Raiders jersey, with Sullivan going to Montreal and Hawkins holding up the Houston Drillers green.

Rozanov wasn’t even in the top five. It was the Ottawa Centaurs, of all teams, who got him in the end, with the ninth pick of the first round. They had fired their new coach partway through the 2008-2009 season and missed the playoffs for the first time in 11 years. The team had been through a few head coaches in recent years. Despite making the playoffs, they rarely advanced past the first round, leaving them largely ignored by the league's more competitive teams.

It was not the kind of place Shane would expect Ilya Rozanov to be. It was also Shane’s hometown. His home team. He didn’t really know how to feel about that.

While Shane expected Ilya to be disappointed, he didn’t look it. He spent the evening laughing with Vetrov and smiling with the girl he brought with him. Shane wondered how they had met.

“Are you paying attention?” his mom asked, elbowing Shane in the side to bring his attention back to their conversation with the owner of the Raiders. His mom had looked like she swallowed a lemon all evening, what with her son being chosen by her favorite team’s greatest rival.

His dad just looked amused. Shane wondered if he would be tripping over a mound of fresh turned dirt in their back yard when they got home after his mom finished burying his dad for being unsupportive in her time of need.

The Raiders' owner seemed nice enough, going on about how excited he was to have Shane on the team, about how he had heard nothing but good things about Shane’s hockey IQ and work ethic.

Shane could see that Rozanov and Vetrov were talking to a man who he assumed owned the Centaurs. He seemed kind, too. Older, with stubble on his face and a bit of a gut. Short.

He didn’t seem at all upset, talking with Rozanov. Shane hoped that was a good sign that he would be allowed to play, to pursue his career despite the scandal shadowing his name. Rozanov was a monster on the ice. Shane felt confident that, given the chance, Rozanov would show them all that he didn’t care what they thought, because if there was one thing he could do and do well, it was play hockey.

Just like Shane.

He could tell his mom noticed he was distracted again, but instead of chastising him, she just tutted and turned her attention back to her discussion with the owner. After he moved on, his mom laced her arm through Shane’s, tilted her head at his dad to follow, and crossed the room. It was only once they were practically on top of them that Shane noticed where they were going.

“Ilya Rozanov?” his mom asked, interrupting Rozanov’s conversation with Vetrov. The Centaurs’ owner had moved on, too.

“Yes?”

Shane’s mom held out her hand for Rozanov to take. “Yuna Hollander,” she introduced. “I believe you’ve met my son, Shane? You played against each other back in December.”

Rozanov smiled then, grinning openly at Shane before turning to his mom and nodding. “Yes, when we won Prospect Cup. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander.”

Shane’s mom’s smile tightened at the light brag. She had never been a fan of what she considered boastful behavior. “I just wanted to say congratulations on your draft to the Cents. Shane has been an Ottawa fan since he was little. And I’m sorry about what happened to you; that’s nobody’s business but your own. I hope you know that Canada is a safe place to be, for all identities.”

Shane watched Rozanov’s expression stiffen into something a little less genuine and a touch more guarded. “Thank you,” he said. “And congratulations to your son. For Boston.”

Had his English always been that good? Shane remembered him seeming more uncertain with the language, back in Saskatchewan.

“If you ever need any help with settling into Ottawa, you can reach out to us anytime,” Shane’s mom offered. He shot her an incredulous look. He knew his mom had a lot of feelings about everything that had happened surrounding Rozanov over the past few weeks, but he never expected this.

He didn’t think he would see her reach into her clutch and pull out a business card, passing it to Rozanov like an olive branch.

“Shane has a real manager now,” she continued. “But I am not unfamiliar with the industry. Or Canadian immigration. If you need anything, anything at all, you can email me or call me at that number, and I will do what I can to help.”

Rozanov looked as surprised as Shane felt, but his smile shifted back toward something a little smaller, but a lot more real, and he made grateful eye contact with Shane’s mom, nodding in acceptance.

The man he arrived with cleared his throat and held a hand out to Shane’s mom. “Sergei Vetrov,” he introduced, confirming Shane’s suspicions about his identity. “Thank you for offering to take care of Ilyushka in Ottawa. He is very dear to my family. If your son ever needs anything, he can reach out to me, too. I still live in Boston.”

Vetrov pulled out his own wallet and passed a business card to Shane and one to his mom. She flashed a smile at him and stowed the card in her clutch, then waved and used the hand looped through Shane’s arm to guide him and his dad away.

“I think that went well,” she said. “It’s good to make allies, you know. Even on other teams. You never know when you might need them.”

Shane chuckled and shook his head. His mom making friends with a former Boston Raider... This day couldn’t possibly get any weirder.

Except that it did. Because that night, when Shane couldn’t fall asleep, he went to the gym. And so did Rozanov.

Ilya

Ilya didn’t know what to make of his experience at the draft. In a way, he was disappointed not to be the first pick like he thought he would be, but he still had been picked. He would still be able to play for the MLH and be eligible for residency outside Russia. Granted, it would be Canadian residency and not American, but that was fine. Ilya liked Canada. It seemed boring, but nice. This year had held enough excitement for Ilya; maybe what he needed was boring.

When he was alone in his hotel room that night, Ilya couldn’t sleep. His thoughts kept racing. He’d lived in the US for almost six months, going to American schools and keeping his head down. His English had improved, his hockey and fitness were as good as ever thanks to Sergei, and just when it was looking like the draft would go according to plan, without a hitch, his reasons for leaving Russia were leaked to the press.

One of his old teammates had sold pictures he’d taken of Ilya and Sasha together to the tabloids. His own brother had given a statement about how disappointed his family was with Ilya’s behavior and his so-called choice of lifestyle. Apparently, partying and hitting the clubs were only acceptable if you were only ever caught in compromising positions with girls.

Maybe the US wasn't as bad in this as Russia, but it still mattered. A lot, apparently. Enough for 8 teams to pass over one of the top players in their draft year to avoid being attached to such a scandal.

Ilya had never even heard of Ottawa, but it was interesting that it was Hollander’s hometown. To produce someone so boring as Hollander, it had to be very boring too, right?

The gym wasn’t empty like he expected it to be. Instead, Hollander was there, occupying one of the stationary bikes, headphones in and head down. It seemed Ilya wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

Ilya knew he should leave Hollander alone, but it was cute how flustered the Canadian boy got over the simplest things. So instead, he went to the bike right next to him and set his own resistance just a fraction over Hollander’s, kept his pace the barest bit faster.

And Hollander matched him.

So Ilya pushed. And pushed again. He appreciated the flush on Hollander’s face, the way sweat collected on his skin and shone under the gym's bright fluorescent lights. He wanted to push him faster, hear him lose his breath, drink the sweat from his skin.

Fuck, Ilya needed to get laid. He had been so good, so careful not to go out and get in trouble that could jeopardize his ability to stay with Sergei and Svetlana. He hadn’t had a drink in months. Hadn’t had sex since his last time with Sasha.

And Hollander was fucking gorgeous.

When they had both pushed past their limits to the point of exhaustion, Ilya joined Hollander on the floor, backs resting against the equipment and facing each other. He tried to start a conversation while taking a deep pull from his water bottle, and couldn’t help staring briefly at Hollander’s chest in plain view through his sweat-soaked white shirt.

He watched Hollander’s eyes, saw the moment they dropped to Ilya’s crotch, and he let his legs fall, noting the way Hollander followed the motion.

Was Hollander checking him out? Or was Ilya’s sex-starved brain reading signals that weren't really there?

He tested it by bringing his water bottle back up to his lips, staring Hollander directly in the eyes as he sucked water from it. Hollander swallowed, eyes locked on the action, and Ilya held the bottle out for him to take.

Hollander tried to wave him off, so Ilya tried again. Their hands brushed when Ilya handed it over to him, and Ilya stared as his lips wrapped around the same spot Ilya’s lips had been moments before.

Hollander knew of the scandal surrounding Ilya. He didn’t seem to mind too much. If anything, he seemed curious.

“See something you like, Hollander?” Ilya asked, going out on a limb. Worst-case scenario, he was wrong, and Hollander told him to fuck off.

Shane swallowed again, fingers tightening around the bottle in his hand.

“I don’t know,” he all but whispered, voice hoarse with uncertainty.

Ilya bit his lip, slid his hand into his lap, and over his cock. He held Hollander's gaze and squeezed himself through the loose fabric of the shorts he wore. Hollander’s breath caught.

Ilya decided to take that as permission to be a little more daring. He slid his hand up, lifting the damp fabric of his shirt and watching Hollander’s eyes track the motion, catch on the exposed skin of Ilya’s abdomen. Then he slipped that hand beneath his waistband and stroked his cock, long and slow, letting his head fall back with a satisfied groan.

Hollander watched him do it, his eyes torn between Ilya’s hand stripping his cock beneath his shorts and his face.

“Fuck off,” Hollander whispered, but he didn’t sound like he wanted Ilya to stop. He still watched, his own leg falling wide, pulling the fabric of his shorts over an obvious erection.

Ilya bit his lip. “Are you going to touch yourself, Hollander?”

The question seemed to shock Hollander into remembering where they were, what they were doing. His eyes flew around the room, looking for anyone who might be there, might see them like this.

“We’re in public!” he hissed.

“Is hotel,” Ilya said, pulling his hand from his shorts. “We do not have to be in public.”

He studied Hollander, watched him relax somewhat, now that Ilya wasn’t openly masturbating in a public space.

“What is your room number?” Ilya asked.

“My parents are next door!” Hollander protested. Ilya noticed that none of that was a denial of desire to be alone in a room with him.

“What if I tell you my room number is 1136?” Ilya asked, tilting his head.

Hollander took a moment to consider the offer. “I might come find it,” he said.

“I might leave it unlocked,” Ilya said in return, taking his water bottle off the floor and standing. He stretched his arms over his head, watched Hollander openly stare at the exposed skin of his abdomen, and winked at him. Then he left. Hollander would come, or he wouldn’t. Ilya needed a shower either way.

Back in his room, Ilya went through the motions of showering and brushing his teeth, wondering if Hollander would show. True to his word, he’d left the flip lock out to prop the door open and had just walked out of the bathroom in a clean set of sweatpants when the door creaked open.

Hollander was also freshly showered, a little wild-eyed and winded. He looked surprised to be there.

Ilya gave a small, pleased smile and tilted his head. “Well?” he asked. “Are you going to close the door?”

Hollander stepped in, closed the door behind him, and leaned back against it. Ilya walked over to him, keeping his movements slow and obvious.

“Okay?” he asked, stopping less than a foot away.

Hollander closed his eyes, knocked his head back against the door, and then opened them again, making determined eye contact. He nodded. “Yes,” he muttered.

Ilya reached out with one hand and cupped Hollander’s face. He ran his thumb over Hollander’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently, and studied his reaction.

Hollander sighed, melted back against the door, and tilted his head up ever so slightly. Ilya leaned in close enough to share breath and softly kissed Hollander’s parted lips.

Hollander moaned, mouth falling open. Ilya slipped his tongue inside, tasting the spearmint of Hollander’s toothpaste on his tongue, contrasting with the cinnamon of Ilya's own.

Ilya groaned and pushed forward, pressing Hollander back against the hard door, hand going to the bulge in Hollander’s sweats. A little whine slipped from Hollander’s lips as his hips bucked forward into Ilya’s hand.

“Do you want me to touch you, Hollander?”

“Yes,” Hollander admitted, breathless. Ilya pressed wet kisses into the side of his neck, Hollander letting his head fall to give Ilya more access, whining again when Ilya’s hand slipped past his waistband and wrapped around his cock.

He hadn’t worn any underwear under his sweats.

“Has anyone touched you here before, Hollander?” Ilya asked. Surely this wasn’t his first time, but Hollander had an innocence around him. A prudishness, even.

“Yes.”

Ilya decided to press for more information. He needed to know what he was getting into here. “Another man?”

Hollander shook his head no. So Ilya hadn’t been completely wrong. This was new for him, then.

“You will tell me to stop if you are not comfortable,” Ilya demanded. When Hollander didn’t respond, he pulled his hand away.

“Please,” Hollander whined, lips seeking Ilya’s again.

“I need you to say yes, Hollander. You will tell me to stop if I do something you do not like.”

“Yes,” Shane groaned. “Yes, okay. I’ll tell you.”

“Good,” Ilya praised, but instead of wrapping his hand around Hollander’s cock again, he pulled him over to the bed. “Let’s get comfortable, yes?”

Hollander nodded, following Ilya over to the bed and climbing onto the comforter. Ilya pulled his shirt off but left his pants on, pulling Hollander by the ankle until he was flat against the pillows, then leaning down to kiss him.

Hollander sighed into his mouth, and Ilya pulled his shirt up and off, trailing a hand down his chest and running a thumb over a beaded nipple. He followed his thumb with his mouth, and Hollander moaned.

“Shit,” he panted, squirming underneath Ilya’s weight and writhing against him. Ilya looked Hollander in the eye and grabbed his waistband, watching his expression as Ilya pulled his pants down and off, then pushed them to the other side of the bed. Hollander’s hand went to his cock as if to hide it, and Ilya caught the hand with one of his own, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss and bite at the skin of his palm.

Ilya pulled his own pants down past his hips and shifted up the bed to hover over Hollander. Their cocks slid together, the precum leaking from Hollander’s cock was almost enough that it wasn’t necessary, but Ilya spit into his hand anyway and wrapped his fist around them both.

Hollander keened, hips rolling up into Ilya’s fist, sliding against his cock. Ilya groaned and leaned down to kiss him again, tongue exploring the deepest corners of Hollander’s mouth. Neither of them lasted particularly long. Ilya would have been embarrassed if it hadn’t been so fucking long since he’d last come with any company aside from his own hand.

Ilya used some tissues from the nightstand to clean them both up and fell back against the comforter to catch his breath, turning his head to watch Hollander while he stared at the ceiling.

“This was good, no?” Ilya checked, hoping he hadn’t gone too far, scared Hollander off, or anything. He seemed nice, and it would be good to have another friend in this country.

“Yeah,” Hollander panted. He looked over at Ilya and bit his lip, eyes filling with uncertainty. “I should… ah- go.”

Ilya nodded. “Okay,” he said.

He stayed on the mattress while Hollander collected his clothes and got dressed, then watched him walk back out the door. Maybe now, at least, Ilya would be able to get some fucking sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Shane and Ilya aren't even together yet and Yuna has already decided to adopt him! With Shane being signed to the Raiders and Ilya going to the Centaurs, their relationship here will be very different from canon right from the very start. Only time will tell if it's any easier or if it's just as hard, but in different ways. And poor Yuna has to deal with Shane being signed to her rival team! She really puts up with a lot. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Until next time! <3

Chapter 3: Developing

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane both go through some growing pains as they adjust to life after the draft.

Chapter Notes

Ilya

Ilya’s first day of development camp in Ottawa left him exhausted and determined. He was grateful for the semester spent in school with Svetlana, immersing himself in English with additional support from teachers and Sergei’s insistence on speaking English at home as much as possible to get Ilya up to speed in the time they had together.

Because if he had still been operating on the level of understanding he had back in December, Ilya would have felt incredibly lost.

The day started with fitness testing, as expected, and then Ilya was walked through a personalized workout plan to improve his mobility and agility. While known for being a powerful skater with the force to back it up, the development coaches also wanted to focus on exercises that could help increase his versatility and stamina on the ice.

That was easy enough to follow, and probably would have been even before strengthening his English, but then they sat him down for more personalized nutrition plans, and that was confusing even with months of language practice. Ilya had the papers they gave him and would be going over them with Sergei later, just to make sure he understood everything.

They had group classes on teamwork and team-building exercises, as well as talks on “winning habits” and what that meant for a Centaur. Ilya had never been much for building relationships with his teammates off the ice in Russia. As their captain, he led by example and expected a certain amount of respect, but there wasn’t a single guy on his team that he spent time with outside of practices and games.

Here, they discussed going to the children’s hospital together, the importance of building connections with the community in Ottawa, and how trust off the ice led to success on it.

And that was just day one.

At least the on-ice drills they started the next day were more familiar to Ilya. They had one-on-one races for the puck and two-on-two corner drills and transition games. The development coaches encouraged them to cheer for each other and set the losing teams through short sprints at the end of each bout.

Ilya knew he was intimidating to share the ice with, and he was the only Russian player at camp. He didn’t expect to make fast friends with the other guys, though he did do his best to seem approachable and was quick with a joke to lighten the mood and keep everyone laughing. They still gave him space.

Well, most of them did.

“Sick goal, man!” a tall, wiry young defenseman cheered, high-fiving Ilya with a grin. Evan Dykstra was another draft pick that year, taken in the second round. He wore a lot of camo and didn’t seem to have any concept of personal space. He also had a considerable amount of raw talent and seemed to take every scrap of feedback seriously, incorporating it into his practice without hesitation.

Ilya liked him instantly. Of all the other guys there, Dykstra seemed like he might actually make the roster that year or the next.

“Hey, me and some of the guys are going to shoot some pool later. You in?” Dykstra asked after practice. He had his camo hat on backward, light brown hair still damp from the shower and sticking out from under it in odd angles.

“Pool? Like swim?” Ilya asked, not sure how you would shoot at water.

Dykstra laughed and shook his head, then pulled up a picture of a billiards table on his phone.

“Oh! Yes, I know this. Is popular game in Russia too. Have not heard this called “pool” before.”

“Sweet!” Dykstra cheered. “You in?”

Ilya nodded and agreed. Most of them were all at the same hotel for camp, so they met in the lobby and shared a car to get there. The bar was nothing like the clubs Ilya usually preferred. There was no loud music or pulsing lights, no dance floor to get lost on, and few women. What women were there already seemed to be with someone, either at the bar or trading shots at the various billiards tables spread throughout the open floor.

Dykstra led the way over to a couple of open tables with two high round tops between them, then left for the bar with another guy that Ilya didn’t remember the name of, and returned with two pitchers and a stack of clear plastic cups.

“First pitchers are on me guys, next ones are on the losers!”

The group laughed and cheered, ribbing each other and passing cups around. Ilya smirked. He didn’t plan to pay for a single pitcher of beer that night.

He almost got away with it, too, reveling in the dismayed looks on the other guys' faces when they realized Ilya kicked ass at pool almost as much as hockey, but Dykstra got him in the last game, and he bought the final round for their group.

“This Canadian pool game is too easy!” Ilya chirped, earning a groan as the others downed their beers. “Should play Russian pool! Much bigger table. Smaller pockets. Is real challenge, no? This like for babies who learn to play only yesterday.”

Dykstra wrapped an arm around Ilya’s neck and pulled him into a noogie. “You’re such an ass, Rozie!”

The others laughed, happy to follow Dykstra’s lead even if they weren't comfortable enough to give Ilya shit on their own.

While Ilya didn’t leave with a girl that night and had spent the evening drinking shitty beer off the tap rather than good Russian vodka, it was the most fun he’d had since moving to North America. Maybe he could learn how to have fun the boring Canadian way after all.

There was over a month between the development camp and the start of the actual training camp for their team’s rookies. Of course, not everyone who went to the development camp was there. Some played at the college level and were ineligible due to the start of the school year, while other prospects hadn’t made the cut for an invite back yet.

Ilya was glad to see that Dykstra was among those who made it to both.

There was an edge to the rookie training camp that contrasted sharply with the development camp. Where development camp had been easy-going and supportive, everyone here was competing for limited spots on the Centaurs’ roster. It was a delicate balance of not wanting to alienate yourself among potential future teammates while also wanting to show that you were the best option to sign on for the year.

Guys who hit the ice with confident smiles only a month before twitched with nervous energy, missing cues and simple plays as they got in their own heads. Ilya just skated the same as he always did, focused on putting pucks in nets, and set his jaw with determination. If there was to be no Junior League in Russia to return to, then Ilya wanted to make the roster for his team in the MLH for the first season. He knew what he was capable of, knew that he could outskate and outscore guys with years more experience. He just had to show it to the coaches.

He had spent the time between development camp and this one following the workout routine and nutrition plan laid out for him to the letter. He’d even stopped smoking; boxes of half-empty nicotine patches and gum littered the bottom of his duffel. He preferred the gum, especially when the anxious edge of his own brain had him craving the mechanical action of holding a cigarette between his lips, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.

It wasn’t the same, but it was better than the patches anyway. And it was getting easier, though Ilya knew it would take time to break a habit he’d started at fourteen. What was one more challenge, one more change in a whole sea of them? Ilya wasn’t that angry teenager stuck in Russia anymore. He couldn’t act like it.

Day one started with another fitness test, and Ilya’s chest puffed with satisfaction over the marked improvement made in just a month of dedicated effort. He would show this team that he was ready.

He gave his all to every practice, every drill, and every workout. He played exhibition games like they might be his last chance to hit the ice and kept his head down. He couldn’t afford to lose focus or spend late nights out drinking. There would be time for that after he had a spot on the team.

Then the veteran players joined, and soon enough, pre-season was in full swing. The goaltender that their GM traded for last season was fresh off an ankle injury that cut his last season short. While the team needed to bring in two forwards and two defensemen, Ilya had every intention of being one of those forwards. He hoped Dykstra made it for one of the defensemen.

And Ilya knew he was well in the running for those spots. The coaches were pushing him hard, trying him on different lines with some of the veteran members of the team and seeing how he might fit in with the players they already had. And he was playing some of the best hockey of his life.

So when the head coach asked to see him, Ilya expected to be told he was in a good place to expect a position on the official roster for the season. He wasn’t expecting the conversation that they had instead.

“Rozanov,” Coach started, gesturing with a hand for Ilya to take a seat. “How are you settling in?”

Ilya gave a cautious smile and took the indicated chair. “Good,” he said. “Is nice here, in Ottawa.”

Coach gave a warm smile and nodded in return. “Good, I’m glad you’re finding your footing here. Now, I know that you have been giving your all during this camp. I need you to know that that hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Ilya sensed that, while Coach's words were kind and his tone was easy, he was was preparing to have a difficult conversation. Ilya sat forward, working to keep his expression neutral while his gaze sharpened and he turned over the coach’s words to make sure he wasn’t missing anything in translation.

“Look, kid. You have talent. You could easily be on the team this year, and I wouldn’t think anything of it. But we have to look at your career with us in the long term, not just this season. Your hockey is top-notch, but I’m not convinced you’re ready for the stress of a full MLH season yet.”

Ilya tried not to react as he listened, sure now that this definitely wasn’t what he wanted to hear from the Centaurs’ head coach.

“You’re young, and you’ve had a lot of changes this year. I know the draft didn’t go as you expected. This is the second time you’ve had to move to a different country, and I know it wasn’t your choice to leave your home. That’s a heavy weight for young shoulders, and I’m not here to crush you under yet more responsibility. So I’m telling you now that I want to wait before adding you to the Cents' roster. In the meantime, I want you in the AHL, where you can take some time to get your feet under you. I've also asked Doc for a list of recommended therapists. This isn’t just a tough sport physically, son. It’s mental too. And there’s no shame in looking for help with that when life throws you curve balls.”

Coach slid a piece of paper across his desk, names and phone numbers listed for different therapist offices in the city, all of which offered mobile options that would help keep them available with Ilya hours away in Belleville or on the road for games.

“Thompson is an excellent center, but we won’t have him much longer before we lose him to retirement. I want you ready to take up that slack when he can’t anymore, and we have the time to do it right. This isn’t a punishment, kid.”

It sure felt like one. Ilya didn’t know what to say. Instead of answering through the thick wall that had taken over his throat, he nodded and pushed his chair back. The walk from the office felt like it took the whole rest of the day.

When the final roster was announced, Ilya wasn’t on it. He tried to smile for Dykstra at least when his friend was there. He deserved it.

Of the list of recommended therapists, only one spoke Russian. It made picking Dr. Molchalina a pretty easy choice. Going to see her for the first time, though, was a lot less easy. Here was just one more way his Canadian coaches were different from the Russian ones. None of his old coaches would have sent him to therapy.

Needing therapy was a weakness. At least, that was how Ilya had always been raised to think. What about Ilya had made his coaches think he needed it, anyway? Was it really just because he’d been outed and moved countries twice? Or was there something in him that raised some kind of red flag, something even Ilya hadn’t noticed? In the end, did it even matter? The end result was the same: walking into Dr. Molchalina’s office on his coach’s orders and the team physician’s recommendation. Not seen as fit for the MLH. At least, not yet.

Shane

Shane didn’t know what to make of the team in Boston. The Raiders’ development camp had been pretty standard: workout and nutrition plans that were basically the same as the ones he already did, team-building exercises, and the like.

Training camp was when it really started to get serious. Shane didn’t really expect to be on the team roster that first year. It was rare for a newly drafted rookie to make it, even one as talented as Shane knew he was. More often, teams like to have their new drafts mature in Juniors, college leagues, and even the AHL a bit longer before bringing them in for their first full season. Shane knew he already had a place waiting for him in Kingston.

None of that prepared him for the conversation with their head coach. LeClaire was a rough man, loud and sharp with a no-nonsense attitude and little patience for repeating himself. Shane had been extra careful to follow any and all instructions from him as soon as he received them, not wanting to earn the man’s ire.

“Hollander,” he started, leaning back against his desk with one ankle crossed over the other and both hands braced behind his back. His expression was just as stern as always.

“I’ll be honest with you. You were not my pick for this team, and I still don’t think you’re a good fit here.”

Shane felt like the rug had been ripped out from beneath his feet. He sat in the wooden chair in front of Coach LeClaire’s desk and waited for him to continue.

“You’re talented as shit, kid. Don’t get me wrong. But this city is going to eat you alive. Boston ain’t Canada. She likes her players rough and a bit dirty. Those cute little manners of yours aren’t going to get you very far here.”

Shane was lost. Coach didn’t like him because he wasn’t mean enough?

“Now, I’m not saying you need to start throwing gloves every game, kid. You’re not an enforcer. But you need to cut the nice guy shit and start showing people what you really think. None of this sweet little media-trained bullshit. Boston wants to know who Shane Hollander really is. I want to know who Shane Hollander is, too, but let me be honest for another minute?”

LeClaire phrased that part like a question, and Shane had no idea what to do with that. He just nodded.

“I’m not so sure Shane Hollander knows who he is, either. Now, we both know you’ve got another year with the Junior League before that becomes a problem. All I’m saying here is that I expect you to figure it the fuck out before camp next season, you get me?”

Shane bit his lip, nodded, and eagerly left the office as soon as Coach LeClaire dismissed him. What did all of that even mean, anyway? Of course, Shane knew who he was.

Didn’t he?

It was a thought that ran through his head constantly on his return to Canada. He joined his team back in Kingston and thought about what it meant to know yourself. He had extensive training from a young age in how to talk to the media, be a good role model for young players, and lead his team by example as captain.

The question was so strongly on his mind that, when a reporter asked how Shane felt about being drafted to Boston after his first game back, he hesitated.

“I’m happy to play hockey for the Raiders,” he should say, or “I’m looking forward to showing the people of Boston what I can do.”

He knew what to say, how to say it. He could say it in English and French. Instead, he said, “I don’t know.”

The small-time reporters, already used to Shane’s usual responses, shifted at the unexpected answer.

“You don’t know?” the reporter prompted.

Shane bit his lip. He remembered what Coach LeClaire had asked, thought about him watching Shane now and telling him to be honest, to let Boston know who he was.

“Boston has high expectations of their players,” Shane continued, a little more in line with his usual answers to these kinds of questions. “They’re a physical team with a hard-hitting play style. Getting to train with them over the summer really highlighted that for me. I tend to be more cautious, personally. I want to show my teammates that I have their back, but I don’t want to lose who I am either. So I’m not really sure how I feel about it yet. I’m excited to learn more from them, though, and play some really good hockey. That’s something we all have in common.”

The reporter smiled, looking surprised but happy with the answers to her questions, and let the next person have a go. Thankfully, the rest asked about the game itself, and Shane had an easy enough time answering them. He could talk about hockey in his sleep.

“What was that about?” his mom questioned over the phone later. She and his dad were driving back to Ottawa already after watching the game, but she had obviously watched the press conference.

Shane brushed off the question as best as he could. He knew his mom already had strong opinions about the Raiders. He didn’t want to make that any worse by telling her about his conversation with LeClaire and how it had left him feeling confused and uncertain.

Shane thought about what LeClaire said when he played that season, too. He didn’t want to just change how he played, either. Besides, that wasn’t what Coach asked him to do. That wouldn’t count as being himself. But he did work harder to be a little more forceful with the puck, backchecking harder and faster, getting into the other team's space more forcefully to regain control of the puck. He let himself feel a little more of his honest satisfaction over a good win during interviews, didn’t force a smile when he didn’t feel like giving one, and tried to give honest answers.

His mom noticed. She seemed worried about him, asking whether something had happened with his team or whether he was concerned about moving to Boston for the next season. Shane had never hidden his more temperamental side from his mom, had always been quick to tell her how he felt about things, but she wasn’t used to seeing that side of him with the media.

He just assured her again that he was fine. He wasn’t worried about going to Boston. Even though the last part was a lie. He was worried, a bit. What if he never fit in with the rest of the team there? Would they even want to share the ice with him if he couldn’t match their fierce play style? Would the fans accept him?

Shane hadn’t really thought about what the fans would think before. He stayed away from social media and speculative blog posts written about him. But now he was concerned about how fans received him differently. He made his own anonymous accounts, separate from the official ones monitored by his mom and Farah, and tried to pay attention to the reactions and comments others were leaving.

Some made him blush; a few were terrible for other reasons, calling him out for not having what it took to be a raider or calling him a pussy. He tried not to read too much into those either, even though he knew that, in a way, it was exactly what LeClaire was worried about.

Instead, he focused on the growing number of comments that said they could really see his personality these days. Where before there had been countless comments comparing him to a robot, now they seemed to compare him more to animals. He wasn’t sure he liked being compared to a kitten, which wasn’t exactly tough or intimidating, but at least kittens weren’t known for lacking emotion.

But would it be enough?

Shane pictured Rozanov in his place. Rozanov would have been perfect for the Raiders. Nobody would have compared him to an angry kitten. He was loud in his confidence, brash and physical on the ice. Was that who LeClaire had wanted? It had to be, right?

And what did it say about how much honesty was too much honesty from their players for management? If they passed on Rozanov for that scandal around him and his coach’s son, how would management view Shane’s actions with the Russian player after the draft all those months ago?

Shane wasn’t gay. Definitely not. He’d been with plenty of girls since the draft. Well, he’d flirted with them at least. Or, maybe saying he let himself be flirted with by them was more accurate. And he’d had a really nice blowjob right after getting back to Kingston. Though he had kept his eyes closed as he enjoyed the heat of her mouth and maybe wondered what it might feel like if her hair was curly and short between his fingers, her jaw lined with stubble.

So maybe that was part of being honest with himself, too. He had liked his time with Rozanov. A lot. Probably too much. But that didn't necessarily make him gay and it definitely wasn’t the kind of honesty his team wanted from him, he was sure.

Would they see each other again anytime soon? Last he’d heard, Rozanov was in the AHL over in Bellville, playing for the Centaurs farm team. They wouldn’t have another International Prospect Cup facing each other. Shane would have to wait until both were on their respective teams' rosters to face him on the ice again and get redemption for the loss last December. Even being chosen first at the draft felt hollow, all things considered.

So maybe Shane had a habit of using his anonymous accounts online to follow Rozanov, too. And maybe it was in the middle of doing so that he saw the announcement made, just weeks before the International Prospect Cup was set to start in Ottawa.

On his screen, there was an official team photo of Rozanov with “RECALLED” in bold font typed across it. With their second-line center out on LTIR for a lower-body injury, Rozanov would step in to fill the roster gap for the Centaurs.

While Shane was captaining his team in the International Prospect Cup, Ilya Rozanov would be making his MLH debut. It was yet another thing for Shane to feel confused about. If he was really trying to be honest, it almost felt like getting left behind.

Chapter End Notes

I really, really tried on the research for this one but honestly, hockey confuses me so I'm sure I still got some things wrong. I hope it mostly checks out? Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Might get one more in today, we'll see. Trying to have longer chapters this time around. Until next time! <3

Chapter 4: To Ottawa

Chapter Summary

Ilya moves to Ottawa and plays his first game with the MLH, meanwhile Shane comes home for Christmas and the International Prospect Cup.

Chapter Notes

Ilya

Ilya packed his bags and left Belleville feeling a nervous mix of anticipation and uncertainty. He was just starting to settle in for the season with the other guys on his team, and here he was headed back, joining the roster he thought he would need to wait another year for.

The Centaurs had been having an okay season when their second-line center went crashing into the ice with a torn ACL after catching a bad edge. Now Ilya would need to catch up quickly, if he wanted to help patch up the hole left behind on their bench without losing any momentum for the season.

He had to reschedule a session with Galina due to the move, though he would now be able to see her in person more regularly. He found that he actually liked Galina a lot. And it was nice not to have to translate his emotions into English every time he talked about what events had happened or what he was thinking. She pushed him to question some of the norms he’d grown up with, and was level with him about her concerns over how he buried his emotions under sex and alcohol.

They talked about his father’s reaction to finding out about Sasha and Ilya’s flight to Boston. How he could he never go home to Moscow. His mother and his concerns that without Ilya there, no one would take care of her grave.

How she killed herself, and how depression was a serious illness. One that Ilya might be fighting too.

He took medication for it now, though Ilya wasn’t sure he agreed that he had his mother’s illness. He didn’t feel sad often or unable to go through with his day. Instead, he felt angry and, on some days, numb. He felt tired. He questioned what the point of everything was, when he could never live up to his father's expectations even before the man knew that Ilya liked dick occasionally.

But he took the medication anyway, and he was honest about how it affected him, because at the end of the day, Ilya wanted to be successful here. He wanted to build a life for himself. Giving up felt like letting his father win.

So it was that he started to construct a new image of what it meant to have a successful life and build a legacy, one independent of the burden he felt to be a good son for his father. He went to practice and worked with his teammates, building camaraderie like he hadn’t bothered to before. He drank more moderately and tried to channel his need for sex in other ways. He still had plenty of hookups, but the need to lose himself in another’s body, the desperation to please and be needed, had at least eased somewhat.

Dykstra was the first one to welcome him back to Ottawa with a firm clap to the shoulder and a headbutt against Ilya’s helmet.

“Dude!” he cried. “I missed you, man! This is gonna be sick!”

Ilya chuckled and shook his head at Dykstra’s antics. The defensemen hadn’t seen a ton of ice time yet, but he’d played a few games, and Ilya was happy to see that some of his rough edges were polishing down with experience on the ice.

Ilya only had one full practice with the team before their first game. It was a home game against San Francisco, which was off to an incredible start. With a sudden change to the second line, Ottawa’s chances weren’t looking great, but Ilya was determined to do everything he could to not lose during his first game with his team.

“Hey, kid,” Thompson said, skating up at the end of practice. As their first-line center and captain, Nick Thompson was a well-respected veteran of the sport and the face of the Ottawa franchise for years. He’d carried the team to his fair share of playoffs, though they had yet to win the Stanley Cup. He was nice and approachable, the kind of guy who smiled so often it cemented in lines around his eyes and mouth.

Ilya stopped and gave Thompson his full attention.

“I know this is fast and all, but you’ve got this. Roy and Bouchard have your back. You just worry about the puck, they’ll make sure you’ve got good lanes when you need ‘em.”

Ilya nodded. He wouldn’t let the team down. This was his chance to show Coach that he was listening and could handle the pressures of the big leagues.

Thompson grabbed the top of Ilya’s helmet and shook it, smiling warmly. “Good luck, kid. I’m glad we’ve got you!”

And Ilya was true to his word. He slid right in with Roy and Bouchard, easily keeping up with the experienced forwards and netting his first career goal in the second period, followed up by an assist in the third.

“NOW THAT'S A DEBUT!” Fortin shouted, hauling Ilya into the locker room ahead of him with a booming voice and beaming smile. As alternate captain and left winger on the first line, he held almost as much seniority as Thompson.

The team cheered around them, stomping and slapping their sticks against the lockers.

“TWO FUCKIN’ POINTS! HOLY SHIT ROOK!” Bouchard cheered, clapping Ilya hard over the back.

Ilya smirked. “What do you think?” he asked Dykstra. “Can still get 50 goals this season?”

Dykstra’s laugh echoed through the lockers with everyone else.

“You got some guts, kid!” Roy chuckled, ruffling Ilya’s hair. “Nice job today. Always nice to win on home ice!”

Ilya went out with the team to celebrate that night at the same bar he and Dykstra had gone to before, taking the opportunity to show off again as he swept his teammates at the pool tables.

By the time he made it back to the hotel, Ilya felt the happiest he’d been since moving to Canada. He would have to call Sveta and tell her all about it in the morning.

Shane

Shane made it back to Ottawa for Christmas, knowing that he would get to stay through New Year's and into January for the WJHC. Because the championships would be held in Ottawa that year, his parents decided it would be best to skip the cottage and stay at their house in the city.

“The Cents are having a heck of a season this year!” Shane’s dad exclaimed over a cup of eggnog. While the Metros were and had always been his mom’s favorite team, Shane’s dad grew up in Ottawa and had been thrilled when the team first started back in ‘92, just a year after Shane was born. There were countless pictures in a binder that Shane hoped would never see the light of day, showing him in full Centaur regalia growing up, going to games with his dad, and standing with Chuck the mascot.

Shane acknowledged his dad’s enthusiasm over the Cents’ success so far with a nod because it was true. They were having a good season that year, and they had a good chance at the playoffs if they could keep it up.

“Boston is too, of course!” his dad continued. He at least didn’t seem to be having as hard a time cheering Shane’s new team on as his mom did.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “They’ve got a good run going so far!”

He felt strangely detached from the team that signed him. Sure, he had gone to training camp with them and been there for pre-season, but then Shane went right back to Juniors and lived pretty close to his parents back in Canada. In a way, those weeks in Boston were like a fever dream. And he hadn’t had much of a chance to really get to know the guys on the roster yet, either.

He knew that would change when he really started playing for them again the next season, once he felt more like a Raider.

The next morning, Shane escaped the house for his usual run. There was a little snow on the ground already, though it wasn’t as cold as it could be yet. His breath puffed out in foggy clouds against the morning haze, and the streets were quiet.

Shane enjoyed running in the cold. He liked that Boston was still far enough north that he wouldn’t lose this part of his routine when he moved. Only the most dedicated runners still braved the colder temperatures, and there was a camaraderie in passing someone else running by, head down and legs pumping against the frosted park paths and sidewalks.

“Hollander?” a rich, accented voice called out. Shane looked up across the small park to see Rozanov in a windproof running jacket, his gray hat pulled down over his ears and cheeks, flushed from the cold.

Shane slowed down, letting Rozanov fall into the space beside him. “Hi,” he said, kind of lame but unsure what else to say. He hadn’t exactly expected to run into Rozanov, even knowing that he had to be living in Ottawa since he got called up from the AHL. It was Christmas break, and, obviously, the guy wouldn’t be going back to Russia, but Shane thought maybe he'd spend the holiday with the Vetrovs in Boston.

Not to mention that Ottawa was a good-sized city. It was kind of ridiculous that they had managed to run into each other at all.

“You are here on holiday?” Rozanov asked, picking up the pace with a challenging smirk.

“Yeah, and the WJHC after that. So, uh. I’ll be here for a few weeks,” Shane panted, keeping up with Roz only for the other player to increase his pace to push them faster down the snowy running paths.

Rozanov’s expression fell a bit at the mention of the international junior competition, but he didn’t seem to dwell on it too long. Shane figured it probably helped that he was already getting MLH ice time.

“Congrats on your game, by the way,” Shane said. “Two points out the gate is pretty impressive!”

Rozanov grinned. “Thanks, Hollander,” he panted, not nearly as unaffected by the sprinting pace as he let on. “You will have to work hard if you want to match my debut, yes?”

“Match you?” Shane laughed. “I think I can do at least one better.”

Illya’s laugh came out as more of a wheeze, arms braced on his knees as he folded over to catch his breath. Shane leaned against a tree, chest heaving and a disbelieving smile on his face. He still had to get home, and here he was with sweat cooling on his skin, completely winded and exhausted because he couldn’t let this stupid Russian be faster than him.

“This was stupid,” Shane groaned, pulling a water bottle from his belt and taking a long pull before handing it over to Rozanov to share.

“Was fun!” Rozanov disagreed, laughing.

“I still have to jog back home, like, 10 miles that way!” Shane groaned, pointing back the way he’d come. He should have turned back ages ago. This wasn’t meant to be a marathon run this morning.

“Come with me then,” Rozanov offered. "The hotel is not so far. I was on my way back already.”

Shane bit his lip and thought about it. That was an incredibly bad idea. He had been staring at the sweat sliding down Rozanov’s neck since they stopped, wondering what it might taste like. He felt drawn to Rozanov in a way that he couldn’t explain.

Ever since the draft, Shane had been noticing men more. Not his teammates, or whatever, but like… men at the grocery store. Actors in movies. That damn poster of Thompson on his bedroom wall at his parents' house.

But none of them compared to the reality of Ilya Rozanov, sweat-soaked and breathless, inviting Shane to follow him to his hotel room. And Shane knew that Rozanov was just as interested. Neither of them would have any self-control, and this wasn’t going to end well.

“Okay,” Shane said, instead of the denial that he should have given. He texted his mom to let her know he had run into a friend and was going to spend some time with them, then put the phone away and followed Rozanov back to the snow-covered sidewalks of the main road.

“How are you liking Canada?” Shane asked, just to have something to say, something to think about that wasn’t how Rozanov’s giant hands had felt wrapped around his dick.

Rozanov groaned. “Is so boring here,” he complained. “I can only play so much pool and drink so much beer. I miss dancing in clubs. And vodka. I miss good, Russian vodka.”

Shane laughed and shook his head. “Montreal isn’t that far, you know,” he said. “Huge club scene there. Ottawa is kind of quiet, though.”

“Oh? You have been to this club scene in Montreal?”

“No,” Shane denied. “I’m not, ah, much of a club guy. I don’t know how to dance.”

Rozanov smirked. “Is easy, Hollander. Maybe we can go together while you are in town, yes?”

Shane stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Not really my thing.”

“Your loss,” Rozanov groaned. He nodded toward the hotel, indicating they should turn, and led the way up to the doors and through the lobby. They took the elevator up to the ninth floor.

The space was big for a hotel but would have been small for an apartment, with a kitchenette, a small living space, and a door separating them from what Shane assumed was the bedroom and bathroom.

“I need shower,” Rozanov declared, sliding off his shoes and leaving his windbreaker hanging near the door.

“Ugh, yeah, me too,” Shane groaned, pulling the sweat-sticky fabric of his shirt away from his chest.

Rozanov watched the action with intense eyes, seemed to consider something, and then crossed to the bedroom door. “You go first,” he said. “I will leave clothes on counter for you.”

Shane followed him over and thanked Rozanov for the clothes, then rushed through his shower, knowing that Rozanov had to be uncomfortable with his own sweat drying on his skin, too.

When Shane walked back into the kitchen in a clean pair of slightly too large sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, Rozanov was blending a protein shake near the sink, the grinding sound echoing off the walls. He looked up when Shane walked in and grinned, taking the pitcher off the blender base to pour the thick brown shake into two glasses. He slid one over to Shane, left one next to the blender, and headed for the bedroom and his own shower.

“Back soon,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Shane took the shake with him over to the couch and sipped from it while he flipped through channels on the TV. It was mostly news and Christmas specials, with daytime TV peppered in for a bit of flair. He turned it back off when nothing interesting stood out.

It didn’t take long for Rozanov to step back into the living space, chest bare and hair still damp from the shower. His sweats sat low on his hips, highlighting his Adonis belt and the curling hair on his abdomen.

Rozanov stayed in the kitchen to drink his own shake, leaning back against the bar and watching Shane. Shane knew he had been caught staring, turned as he was to watch Rozanov over the back of the couch.

“What are we doing?” Shane asked, rolling the empty glass from his shake between his hands.

“What do you mean?” Rozanov asked, putting his glass down on the bar and walking into the living room.

“This?” Shane asked, circling his finger between them and the room.

“Drinking protein shakes?” Ilya chuckled, smirking.

Shane glared, “That’s not what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“We are, how do you Americans say… hanging out? No?”

“I hang out with my teammates and get beers after games. We’re not ‘hanging out’, Rozanov.”

“We could be, if that is what you want,” Rozanov denied.

Shane bit his bottom lip again and stared at the glass in his hands. Thick brown residue still clung to the inside. “And if it’s not?”

“Not what?”

Shane looked up and met Rozanov’s eyes. “What I want,” he said.

Rozanov walked over and took the glass from Shane’s hands, setting it on the coffee table. He sat on the couch, one knee resting against the back with the other foot on the floor, and faced Shane fully.

“What do you want, Shane?”

Shane closed his eyes as a shiver ran through him at how easily his name spilled from Rozanov’s lips, at how right it sounded.

“I want you to kiss me,” he said, keeping his eyes closed tight. Rozanov reached for his hand and pulled it towards him.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Shane opened his eyes, meeting Rozanov’s steady gaze with his own.

“This does not have to be a big thing,” Rozanov stated, his tone gentle and quiet in the silence of the hotel room. “We do not see each other often, yes? We can have some fun when you are in town. We do not have to figure everything out today.”

Shane swallowed and nodded. “Okay,” he whispered, choked through tight vocal cords.

“I am first man you have been with, no?” Rozanov prompted, though Shane knew he already knew the answer.

Shane nodded.

“And after draft?”

Shane shook his head. He hadn’t been with any other men since his time with Rozanov. “Only women,” he said. “Well, woman, I guess. Just the one, really.”

Rozanov nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We go slow, Shane. We have fun together, no? If it is not fun, you tell me and we stop.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered again. That was twice now. Twice, Rozanov had said his first name. “Ilya,” he tried, testing the syllables on his tongue.

Ilya’s eyes darkened, gaze falling to Shane’s lips.

“Yes?” Ilya murmured.

“Kiss me?” Shane asked.

Ilya surged forward and crowded Shane against the couch cushions, covering Shane’s mouth with his own. He devoured Shane, threading his tongue past Shane’s parted lips, slipping into the furthest recesses of Shane’s mouth. He tasted like chocolate protein shake and cinnamon toothpaste and something that was just him, just Ilya.

Shane moaned and relaxed back, letting Ilya’s weight settle over him and block out the world around him. Why did it feel this good with Ilya? What made him so special? Would it be like this with any man, this overwhelming desire and need for surrender? With women, Shane felt like he never knew what to do, where to put his hands, if he was kissing them right, or making them feel good. He was so in his head that he could never relax and get into it.

With Ilya, he didn’t have to think. Ilya put Shane’s hands exactly where he wanted them. He never gave Shane time second-guess.

“So pretty,” Ilya complimented, breaking the kiss to run his thumb across Shane’s cheek. He bit Shane’s bottom lip and licked it in apology. “These freckles. Fuck.”

Shane chuckled. “You like my freckles?” he asked, bewildered.

Ilya groaned and leaned down to lick them. “Yes,” he murmured against the skin, nibbling Shane’s cheek with his teeth.

Shane felt his face scrunch with the confused expression he couldn’t hide. “That’s kind of weird,” he said.

Ilya laughed and returned to kissing Shane. He reached down and slid his hand up Shane’s shirt, splaying his fingers over Shane’s abdomen.

Shane ran his own hands over the bare skin of Ilya’s back. “Please,” Shane whined.

“You want me to touch you?” Ilya confirmed.

“Yes,” Shane sighed. He felt like he should be protesting this more, but he just didn’t want to. Nothing about this year had gone as he expected. What was one more thing on top of the rest?

“Let’s do this on the bed,” Ilya decided, standing and holding a hand out for Shane to take. He pulled him up off the couch and led him to the bedroom. Once there, Ilya started stripping. He locked eyes with Shane with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his briefs.

“You too, Hollander,” he commanded.

Shane didn’t waste any time arguing. He slipped the shirt off his back and left it on an armchair, hastily folded, then followed it with the sweatpants Ilya loaned him earlier. He wasn’t wearing anything else underneath them.

Ilya hooked his thumbs in his briefs and slid them down, revealing the hard cock underneath. He climbed backward onto the bed and rested against the pillows. “Shane,” he said, catching Shane staring. “Come here.”

Shane walked up to the end of the bed and climbed on. He stopped before he could reach Ilya’s face, eyes locked instead on the cock that lay flushed against Ilya’s stomach. He felt the urge to taste it overwhelm him and succumbed, leaning down to lay an open-mouthed kiss against the spongy head of it.

“Fuck, Shane. You want to suck me?” Ilya asked.

Shane looked up at him with his mouth still hovering over Ilya’s cock and licked the head in answer.

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. reaching down to run his fingers gently through Shane’s hair. “Fuck, Shane. Okay.”

Shane used one hand to angle Ilya’s cock up toward his mouth. He salivated at the sight, eager but wary of fucking everything up. He kept his jaw open wider than it probably needed to be, not wanting to accidentally hurt Ilya with his teeth, and took the rigid flesh into his mouth as far as he felt comfortable.

Ilya murmured encouraging praise, resting his fingers in Shane’s hair at the base of his skull. Shane gave an experimental suck, and Ilya moaned. He bobbed his head up and down, using his hand on Ilya’s shaft to cover the places his mouth couldn’t reach.

“Stop,” Ilya groaned and pushed Shane off his cock. “Fuck, Shane, stop.”

Shane did, immediately nervous that he’d fucked up somehow, that it hadn’t been any good. Instead, he watched Ilya take over and pump his dick roughly, coming all over his hand and stomach, and Shane realized he’d been saving him from having that in his mouth.

It was probably a good thing. Shane wasn’t sure how he would have reacted, having Ilya’s cum suddenly filling his mouth. It probably didn’t taste that great.

“You looked so hot with my cock in your mouth,” Ilya praised, running a thumb over Shane’s bottom lip, then using his grip to pull Shane up to his mouth for a deep, filthy kiss. Shane groaned, his own cock thick and weeping with arousal.

Ilya reached out to the nightstand and cleaned himself up with a few tissues before rolling Shane onto his back. “Let me show you how is done, no?”

“Wha-” Shane started to ask, cutting himself off with a groan when Ilya licked up his shaft like he was chasing melted ice cream up the side of a cone, enveloping the head in his warm mouth.

“Ilya,” Shane cried, hips bucking off the mattress. Ilya used one arm across his hips to hold him down and sucked, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing rapidly, taking Shane all the way down to the base until the head of his cock filled the back of Ilya’s throat.

“Oh fuck, Ilya, shit,” Shane panted. “Stop, fuck,” Shane warned. Hardly any time had passed at all, but Shane was going to come. His balls were tight, his body tense. Ilya had to stop, he-

Shane came, and Ilya stayed right where he was, drinking him down, swallowing around Shane’s cock, fucking milking him for more.

Shane had never felt anything like it. He’d had blowjobs before, but none like that. Shit, how many times had Ilya sucked his coach’s son’s dick to get that fucking good at it?

Ilya slipped from Shane’s dick and licked and bit his way up Shane’s stomach and chest to his lips, parted while Shane panted to catch his breath. He enveloped Shane’s mouth with his own and kissed him.

Shane could still taste himself in Ilya’s mouth. He expected to hate it, but it wasn’t that bad. Certainly not bad enough to make him want to stop. He moaned and kissed Ilya back, falling back into the mattress and letting his legs fall wide, cradling Ilya against his own body.

“How are you so good at that?” Shane asked, Ilya’s head resting on his chest while Shane played with his curls. Ilya laughed.

“Practice,” he joked, then bit Shane over the sternum. “Is okay, if you want to practice some more. Can be arranged.”

Shane laughed and pushed Ilya off of him. Theirs was definitely a weird friendship, but Shane thought it just might be his favorite one he’d made in the MLH so far.

Chapter End Notes

I love getting to explore these two with a friends-to-lovers dynamic. Don't get me wrong, the rivalry is HOT in cannon! But also... how cute for them to get to know each other as rookies and support each other early on? Sure, they are still in the same division, but their teams don't have the same intense history, and Shane isn't even playing for Boston yet, so... it's just a bit different. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Like I said before, I'm trying to keep these a bit longer so there will definitely be fewer updates than you're used to from me. Also trying to research things a bit better and take my time with developing everything a more fully. ITAV and FTT were a mad dash to the finish line. I'm taking my time with this one! Until next time! <3

Chapter 5: New Year's Celebration

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya ring in the New Year together.

Chapter Notes

Shane

It’s not that Shane didn’t have friends in Ottawa. He did, they just weren’t there anymore. Most had moved for different colleges, and maybe a few were in town for Christmas break, but Shane hadn’t asked. So maybe he could be trying to spend some time with them, but instead, Shane found himself spending most of his time with Ilya.

“Are you doing anything for New Year's?” Shane asked, head resting on Ilya’s lap with a movie playing in the background. The volume was so low you couldn’t even hear what the characters were saying, and Shane couldn’t have told you what it was called if he’d had a gun to his head. Neither of them was watching it.

“Not really,” Ilya sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions. Shane had been upset when he learned that Ilya hadn’t had anyone to spend Christmas with. He would have invited him over for the day if he’d known. His parents would have welcomed him right in, Shane was sure.

“Nothing with the team?” Shane asked.

Ilya groaned. “Boring team party at Monks, but I do not think I will go.”

Shane sat up and draped his legs over Ilya’s lap, looking him in the eye. “Why not?” he asked.

“Team is nice,” Ilya groaned. “Friendly. Very Canadian. I don’t know. I just do not want to go and do the same thing as always. Play pool and drink shitty beer.”

“We could go to Montreal,” Shane suggested. “They do a big party every year in Old Port. With fireworks and a DJ and all that.”

“Oh? You will let me take you to clubs after all?” Ilya teased.

“I didn’t say that!” Shane denied. "It’s just a big New Year's celebration, that’s all. Could be fun.”

Ilya’s smile stretched across his entire face. “Okay,” he agreed. “Let us go to this New Year's party with a DJ but no dancing. Sounds fun.”

Shane punched him in the shoulder, and Ilya leaned forward to bite his upper lip. Naturally, this devolved into more making out until they were both out of breath and hard again.

“This is ridiculous,” Shane groaned, rolling his hips against Ilya’s lap. He’d never had so many orgasms in his life.

“Hmm, I am very hot. Hard to resist, I know.”

Shane flipped him off. Ilya sucked the digit into his mouth and bobbed his head in a mimicry of what Shane really wanted on his dick.

“I have to go soon,” Shane denied, pulling his finger from Ilya’s wet mouth.

“We have time for one more blowjob, I think. You are very fast,” Ilya taunted. Shane narrowed his eyes at him.

“Rude,” he complained. “But yeah, if we’re quick. Dinner’s in, like, an hour, and my mom has been getting suspicious with how often I’ve been late the past few days.”

Ilya wasted no time in pushing Shane back against the couch cushions, slipping his pants down off his hips, and swallowing around his eager cock.

He slipped off when Shane was close, licking teasingly along the shaft, and Shane groaned. Ilya traced a finger over Shane’s balls and down to his hole. He pressed against it.

“Have you touched yourself?” Ilya asked. “Here?”

Shane shuddered. “Yes,” he admitted. He’d taken to experimenting there recently. Fingering his own hole with lube when he got himself off. He’d been considering buying a... thing. A dildo. Just hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.

“Is okay?” Ilya asked, then clarified. “If I touch you here, too?”

Shane swallowed to clear his throat and nodded. “Yeah,” he choked.

Ilya sucked one of Shane’s balls into his mouth, rolling it over his tongue. He slipped off and traveled lower, using both hands to spread Shane’s legs further apart, then used a firm grip on his ass cheeks to expose his hole. Ilya dipped forward and licked across the puckered ring of muscle, and Shane keened.

“Shit!” he whined, throwing his head back against the cushions. “Holy shit.”

Ilya moaned, the sound reverberating against Shane’s twitching hole. He sucked it, then ran the tip of his index finger over it again and slipped the tip in, dipping in and out of Shane’s sensitive rim.

“Ilya!” Shane cried. He felt like he could come just from this. Shit, maybe he would. Ilya pulled his finger out and slipped his tongue in instead. He reached up to stroke Shane’s cock, and that was it. Shane shouted as he came, writhing against the couch cushions.

He was still panting and too overwhelmed to be of any help when Ilya reached into his own pants and pulled his cock out, fucking his fist in rapid strokes until he came over Shane’s bare chest. His cum smeared between them when Ilya lay down to kiss him again.

“Hmm,” Ilya hummed into the kiss, stroking his hand over Shane’s chest and smearing his own cum into Shane’s skin. “Very good, Shane. You liked, yes?”

Shane nodded into the kiss, still at a loss for words.

“Can I fuck you?” Ilya asked.

“Okay,” Shane agreed. They both knew he didn’t mean today. Shane was already going to be late for dinner. He needed to leave.

They lingered on the couch for a minute more, then got up and went to shower together. Luckily, Shane’s clothes had survived the mess, and he wouldn’t have to explain to his mom why he was wearing someone else’s.

“Which friend is it you’re spending all this time with?” his mom asked over dinner, her eyes lit with an edge of suspicion that had Shane nervously swallowing around a bite of food.

“Rozanov, actually,” he said, deciding not to even bother with a lie. She didn’t have to know how they were spending time together after all. And it would only make it worse if she later caught him in a lie about it.

“Ilya Rozanov?” she asked, the surprise spinning her off track of the suspicion from before. Good, maybe she would think he had been hesitant to share because of who Ilya was instead of what they were doing.

“Yeah, I ran into him during my morning run the other day,” Shane explained.

“How is he?” his mom asked, genuine concern filling her voice. “He never did reach out. I hope he’s settling in okay.”

“He’s good,” Shane hurried to reassure. “Just getting used to being in Ottawa now and all that. Seems to be getting along with his team well.”

His mom smiled. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad. You should bring him over for dinner sometime while you’re here.”

That did not sound like something Shane wanted to do. At all. His mom was way too observant, and Shane had the poker face of a sugar-high three-year-old. His only saving grace was that he was self-aware enough to realize it.

“Sure,” he said, not committing to anything. “We were talking about going into Montreal for New Year's, actually.”

“That would be fun!” his dad cheered. “You kids are young, you should be out there enjoying these things while you can.”

His mom looked a lot less sure. “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Let him be, Yuna,” his dad chided. “We were young once, too, you know.”

His mom rolled her eyes at the statement but didn’t say anything else in protest, so Shane took it as a win.

He knew when to take what small victories he could get.

Ilya

“Are you sure you’re not going to come out with us?” Dykstra groaned, spotting Ilya at the gym.

“Yes,” Ilya said, face red from the effort of the bench press he was finishing. He rested the bar in the rack and sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel. “Some of us have real plans.”

“Oh?” Dykstra smirked. “You got a hot date or something?”

Ilya laughed. “Or something,” he agreed.

“What’s he like?” Dykstra asked.

“Who says is a he?” Ilya goaded.

Dykstra blushed and stuttered through his response. “I mean, I know your old team, that is… the thing with Russia and all… it’s cool, dude. Like, you being gay. Doesn’t matter to me or whatever-”

Ilya cut him off, laughing, and slapped him over the back. “I like both,” he explained. “Not gay.”

Dykstra flushed an even deeper shade of red. “Cool,” he said. “Yeah, uh, that’s cool, man. Either way. You know we’re good, right? Friends? I don’t give a shit who you sleep with.”

Ilya’s smile turned from teasing to warm. “Yes,” he said. “I know. Thank you, Evan.”

Evan grinned at the use of his first name and held his fist out for Ilya to bump.

“So which is it, then?” he teased.

Ilya smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said. He didn’t say anything else, and Evan didn’t press him on it. Instead, they swapped places, and Ilya played spotter. Maybe it was for the best that Ilya didn’t have to hide this part of himself from his team. Evan was a good friend.

He still couldn’t tell him about Shane, though; that wasn’t his story to tell.

They finished up in the gym and parted ways. Ilya headed back to the hotel to drop everything off after practice. Shane was supposed to be coming over in a couple of hours.

He didn’t know what to think about what they were doing, exactly. Ilya had never done this with a hookup, and it felt like more, but it also had a deadline. They would be in completely different cities again soon enough. It was a weird limbo of not really being in a relationship or planning to start one, but also not nearly casual enough to just be someone Ilya had sex with on occasion. He genuinely cared for Shane, and he knew the feeling was returned.

They were friends, that much Ilya knew. And Ilya had fucked his friends before. He and Sveta had even slept together regularly before Ilya moved in with her and Sergei. Then it had just felt kind of weird, and they’d both agreed to stop without needing to talk about it. These days, she was more of a sister than a friend.

But he also hadn’t obsessed over Sveta in the same way. Shane was all Ilya could think about, even when he wasn’t around. Maybe it was something he should talk to Galina about.

Ilya double-checked that he had everything ready for the night. Shane was planning to come over for dinner and had let his parents know he would be staying over at Ilya’s for the night. He wondered what Shane’s parents thought, if they even suspected what Shane might be doing here. He knew Shane had told them that he and Ilya were friends, but Shane’s parents knew Ilya had been caught with another man. Did they suspect what he was up to with their son?

If Shane was worried, he hadn’t let on about it. So Ilya tried not to dwell on it either.

When he was sure that he had everything they would need and that it was all in easy reach of the bed, Ilya walked into the kitchenette and set about making dinner. He kept it simple, since he didn’t have much to work with in the small space, with stir-fried vegetables and chicken. All foods he knew Shane would eat, even with his strict adherence to the nutrition plan made up for him by his own team.

It wasn’t like Ilya could give him shit for it. He'd been trying pretty hard these days to meet his team's expectations, too. He didn’t want them to have any reason to second-guess their decision to let him start early.

“Oh wow, that smells really good,” Shane complimented, slipping his shoes and scarf off at the door. The bag on his shoulder slid off and he let it fall next to his shoes.

Ilya smiled at him. “Yes, Hollander. Some of us actually know how to use seasoning when we cook.”

“You’re such an ass,” Shane laughed, walking over to the island and sitting on a barstool.

Ilya plated the meal and walked around the island to join Shane in the second chair.

He told Shane about practice while they ate, watching Shane smile with appreciation for the food and joking with him over anecdotes from Shane’s experience with his own team. He had his own practices to attend with the Canadian juniors, and Ilya knew they would be right back in the tournament the minute New Year's was over.

Ilya watched him for any sign of nervousness, but Shane seemed comfortable, like this was any other time he had come over to Ilya’s hotel room.

It made Ilya feel warm, that level of trust. He knew that this was all new for Shane, that he hadn’t been sleeping around with various men and women all through his teen years and could probably count his sexual partners on his fingers, maybe even on one hand. Ilya didn’t want to rush him or scare him off.

He wanted Shane to feel good and comfortable. To be safe here.

The happy little hums Shane made over the food Ilya cooked for him seemed to show that he was. Ilya just had to make sure that it stayed that way.

When they were finished, Ilya washed their plates in the sink, and Shane helped with drying them. He was starting to get antsy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, watching Ilya through his lashes with careful glances full of bashful desire.

Ilya took the towel from his hand when they were finished and ended the torture, backing Shane up against the counter and cupping both sides of his face to kiss him.

“You are sure?” he asked, pulling back to look Shane in the eyes.

Shane bit his lip and nodded. Ilya used one thumb to pull Shane’s bottom lip from between his teeth.

“Words, Hollander.”

“Yes,” he murmured, licking the pad of Ilya’s thumb. “I’m sure.”

Ilya pushed his thumb into Shane’s mouth and kissed the corner of his lips while Shane sucked his thumb.

“Bedroom,” Ilya demanded, putting enough space between them for Shane to do as he asked. He followed Shane to the bedroom and pulled his shirt off over his head, throwing it to the far corner. Shane folded his clothes as he took them off, laying them on the chair like he always did. He was so beautiful.

“On the bed, Hollander,” Ilya added, waiting for Shane to lie back against the pillows before joining him. He cupped Shane's face and gently kissed his lips. He would go slow, here. Shane deserved to have Ilya take his time with this. There was no rush.

Shane whimpered when Ilya rolled his hips against him, sliding their cocks together. Shane's was already weeping against his stomach.

“So wet for me,” Ilya praised, wrapping his hand around the shaft and giving a light pull. Shane moaned, licking into Ilya’s mouth, drawing him into another kiss.

Ilya broke from the kiss and trailed a path down Shane’s chest and stomach to his flushed cock, swallowing around him with a few good sucks before popping off and continuing lower. He pushed Shane’s legs apart and buried his mouth against his twitching hole.

Shane cried out, bucking at the abrupt stimulation, and fisted his hands in the sheets. Ilya ran a hand soothingly over one trembling thigh.

He fucked Shane with his tongue until he was a trembling, whimpering mess and then reached for the lube, sliding a finger easily inside the loosened rim. He took Shane’s cock in his mouth before adding a second, searching for his prostate.

“Ilya!” Shane warned. “Fuck, I’m going to come!”

Ilya slid Shane’s cock from his mouth, stilled his fingers, and made eye contact. “Is okay,” he assured. “Will help you relax, yes? You can come.”

He took Shane’s cock back into his mouth and added a third finger, rubbing relentlessly against Shane’s prostate. It wasn’t long before Shane did exactly as he warned he would and came down Ilya’s throat. Ilya pulled away, slipped his fingers from Shane’s ass, and tucked a pillow under his hips. He crawled up Shane’s body and kissed him, licking into his mouth and across his tongue, catching Shane’s sighs with his own lips.

“Okay?” Ilya asked, drawing Shane’s attention back. Shane met his gaze and nodded, then murmured “yes” when he remembered that just nodding wasn’t enough.

Ilya stroked a hand over his cheek. “Good. You are doing so good, Shane.”

He rolled a condom on with one hand, made sure his own cock was covered in a liberal amount of lube, and lined himself up with Shane’s hole, watching his face as he pushed inside for any sign of discomfort. He stopped with the head just past Shane’s rim and kissed him again.

“Breathe,” he encouraged, running his hand over Shane’s cheek again. Shane took a deep breath and exhaled on a moan when Ilya slipped further inside.

“Ilya,” he breathed. “I- fuck.”

Ilya kissed him again, murmuring soothing encouragements into his lips. When he was all the way in, he stilled again, letting Shane adjust.

“Okay?” Ilya asked again.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Kind of weird. But good. I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya sighed and rocked forward, rolling his hips into Shane, keeping them close and laying gentle kisses across his lips. He moaned when Shane wrapped his legs around him in encouragement and Ilya picked up the pace.

“So good for me, Shane,” Ilya praised, wrapping his hand around Shane’s thickening cock, whispering the words right into his ear and licking the shell for good measure. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you? So wet and hard for me again. Are you going to come for me again, Shane? Come on my cock this time?”

“Close,” Shane murmured, little broken whimpers catching in his throat with each thrust that rocked him back into the pillows. Ilya cupped the back of his head to protect him from the headboard and fucked into him harder, faster, stripping Shane’s cock and chasing his own release. He was close too.

Shane came first, spilling over Ilya’s fist and crying out into the space between their lips. Ilya lost control of his own rhythm, thrusts stuttering as he came and stilled deep inside.

He peppered kisses across Shane’s freckled cheeks. Licked across his lips and delved inside to taste the last whimpers from between them.

When they had both come back down, Ilya slipped out, tied off the condom, and dropped it into the small waste basket next to the bed. He used the tissues on the nightstand to wipe the cum off Shane’s chest and his own hand before it could dry, and then pulled Shane into his own chest, wrapping his arms and legs around him.

“You are okay?” he asked, when they both had a chance to catch their breath, and Shane was tucked up under his chin.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “I need a shower, though. I feel gross.”

Ilya snorted, the puff of air blowing Shane’s hair away from Ilya’s mouth and nose. “Okay,” he agreed, then helped Shane from the bed.

They took a lazy shower together, and Ilya helped Shane wash his hair before the two dried off and brushed their teeth. They didn’t bother with clothes before falling back into bed together, cuddling up and falling asleep.

Shane

Shane woke the next morning, still tucked against Ilya’s chest, and groaned against the light hitting his eyes from the crack in the window curtains. He took a minute to study Ilya’s profile in the early morning light, noting the way the sun glowed against his light brown hair and highlighted his curls.

There was a warmth in his chest that he didn’t want to name. Shane had never felt like this with anyone before. Not even Jess.

He shouldn’t be feeling this way about another guy, right? He wasn’t gay.

He definitely liked having Ilya’s cock up his ass, though, and that was pretty fucking gay. But when Shane pictured his future, he didn’t see himself with a man. He saw himself with a loving wife that his parents adored, children running around the yard for them to spoil. This thing with Ilya was just fun. A curiosity. He was just… exploring a bit. It’s not like it was time to start settling down with kids anyway. Tons of people experimented when they were young.

He would eventually find a girl he liked. One he could see himself building a future with. And he and Ilya would be friends, though probably without the sex part. That would have to stop eventually.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy their time together while they had it. With that thought in mind, Shane opened his mouth to lick a path down Ilya’s chest and stomach, nuzzled into the deep V of his Adonis belt, and sucked Ilya’s soft dick into his mouth, humming around the warm flesh as it hardened on his tongue. He knew exactly when Ilya woke up, his half-asleep thrust into Shane’s mouth making Shane gag and tear up.

Shane had a lot of practice sucking Ilya’s dick over the last week, but he still couldn’t take him into his throat without warning like that. He coughed, taking Ilya’s cock into his hand when he couldn’t keep his mouth around it.

“дерьмо,” Ilya cursed. “Shane? Fuck. Sorry-”

Shane ignored him, getting his coughing under control and wrapping his mouth around Ilya’s dick again. He hummed in acknowledgment, appreciating the way Ilya groaned and cursed again, fisting Shane’s hair between his fingers. He’d gotten a lot rougher with it in recent days, once he realized that Shane got really fucking turned on from having his hair pulled.

Maybe he should grow it out some. Give Ilya more to hold on to.

Ilya came down his throat, and Shane swallowed around him, another development he was proud of.

“You are getting so fucking good at that,” Ilya praised, sliding down to return the favor. Shane didn’t take long to lose it, already on a hair-thin trigger from having Ilya’s cock in his mouth. Even choking on him had been… kind of hot, actually.

They ate breakfast together before getting ready for the day, planning to drive out to Montreal to get checked in at the hotel Shane had booked, so they wouldn’t have to worry about making it back to Ottawa.

“This is what you are wearing?” Ilya asked, looking Shane up and down and gesturing with one hand from his head down to his feet.

“Yes?” Shane asked, not sure what the problem was. It was cold out, so he wore a plain black Henley and a thick cable-knit sweater, with some plain, dark-wash jeans.

Ilya wore pants that looked painted on and a silk button-up shirt with what appeared to be a tiger on it. It was an interesting choice, that was for sure. And cold, it definitely looked like he would be cold. “Aren’t you going to be cold?” Shane asked.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “I am Russian,” he said, like that somehow meant he was immune to hypothermia. “I will wear coat. You look like we are having dinner with parents.”

“We are going to be outside, at night, in fucking Canada, Rozanov. We’re not dressing for the club.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “I am always dressing for the club,” he denied. “Come on, boring Canada boy. Let’s go. You can wear your grandpa sweater.”

Shane sighed and threw his coat over his arm before grabbing his bag and following Ilya out the door.

The drive to Montreal was, frankly, terrifying. Ilya defied all traffic laws as he sped there in half the time it should have taken, engine roaring the whole way. Shane was never letting him drive them anywhere ever again.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Ilya complained, brushing off Shane’s very valid concerns for the millionth time. “Come on, we should check in, no?”

The room they booked had double beds, no different than the kinds of rooms they would share on the road with teammates for away games. They each had their own key and decided to leave their bags in the room before going to find a place to get lunch.

By the time night fell and the two had made their way to the Old Port for that year’s New Year's celebration, Shane was happy for his sweater and the extra-thick tuque he’d packed.

Annoyingly, Ilya didn’t look cold at all in his silk shirt, with his coat left open over it and a significantly thinner hat. He smirked at Shane, seemingly reading his mind.

“Russian,” he said again. Then he pulled a flask from his coat pocket, took a swig, and handed it to Shane.

Shane took a sip and coughed. “Vodka?” he sputtered.

“What? You think is orange juice? Is in a flask, Shane.”

Shane glared at him and took a more determined sip, refusing to so much as make a face over it the second time. “Some warning would be nice, that’s all,” he rasped.

Ilya rolled his eyes again and took the flask back, swallowing several times on a long pull before capping it and putting it back in his pocket.

With a few more swigs from Ilya’s flask over the next hour, Shane was feeling loose and relaxed by the time the DJ started up. So much so that he let Ilya pull him into the crowd of dancers, grinding against him through the layers of their clothes like they were in a club.

They were still there when the countdown started, and the fireworks went off. In the chaos of the crowd, Ilya pulled Shane into a deep kiss, biting his bottom lip when he pulled away.

“Happy New Year!” Shane shouted over the roar around them.

Ilya grinned at him, alight with the energy of the crowd. “Happy New Year, Shane. I think this will be best one yet.”

If Shane had been even a little more sober, he might have worried about the crowd around them a bit more. He might have considered that they could be recognized, even though that was pretty unlikely outside of the most intense hockey fan circles. Or he might have cared that someone would see him kissing Ilya, kissing another man in the streets of Montreal for the world to see.

But Shane wasn’t sober, and nobody was likely to recognize him anyway. So he kissed Ilya again, lips pulling into a smile at the corners that he knew Ilya would be able to feel, and he decided that for right now, for this moment even, he would let himself not worry so much about the consequences and let himself be young and a little stupid while he still could.

Chapter End Notes

This one was a lot of fun to write. So much for the angst lol, apparently we had to have a holiday break from that so these two could be cute together! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! Until next time <3

Chapter 6: Rookie of the Year

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane return to life as normal after the holidays, with Ilya focusing on his new team and the season ahead while Shane finishes out his last year in the Junior League.

Chapter Notes

Ilya

Ilya started searching for a real apartment from the day Shane left. They had spent Shane's time in Ottawa together, practically living out of each other’s pockets in Ilya’s hotel room, and with Shane gone, the space felt too small, too impersonal.

He was likely enough to spend the rest of the season this year with the team, and even if he didn’t, next season would come soon enough, and he would need a place here to stay. Something that was his.

So with that in mind, he dedicated his time not at the rink to apartment hunting. Following Sergei’s advice, he set himself a significantly smaller budget than his contract could afford and set the rest of the money aside in savings for now, managed by the same woman who ran Sergei’s accounts. You never knew when an injury could end your career early, and Ilya didn’t have the option to move back to Russia if that happened. He needed to be saving for a life here.

He also worked diligently with the immigration lawyer who was helping him with his Canadian citizenship application. With any luck, Ilya might even be able to play for them at the Olympics, and there was a certain amount of vindictive glee that Ilya harbored just at the thought of the sour look on his father’s face if Ilya played for Canada and kicked Russia’s ass.

The sudden shift in gears didn’t exactly go unnoticed by his teammates, either.

“Everything okay?” Evan asked after catching Ilya checking his phone for probably the tenth time since they got on the bus.

Ilya groaned and sat back in the chair, pushing his knees into the hard plastic back of the empty seat in front of him. “For hundredth time, yes.”

“Your beau break up with you?” Evan prodded. It might have sounded teasing if it wasn’t full of a sickening amount of genuine concern.

“I do not know this word. What is ‘beau’?”

It was Evan’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. ‘Beau’ like sweetheart.”

“I do not have ‘beau’ or ‘sweetheart’ I have told you this.”

Evan chuckled, “Yeah, and you’re not nearly as good a liar as you think you are.”

Ilya flipped him off and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Evan was convinced that Ilya had met someone over break, and he wasn’t wrong exactly, but he also couldn’t be further from the truth. He and Shane were together some while it was convenient, and it wasn’t convenient anymore. They hadn’t even texted since the brief message from Shane letting Ilya know he’d made it back to Kingston.

Luckily, they made it to the airport soon enough, and Evan dropped it. They had an early flight to New York, then a game that night at Madison Square Garden, and a late flight the next day over to Chicago. Ilya was excited for New York. The city had an actual nightlife for one, and their flight the next day wasn’t until late in the afternoon. Their rookie had won the Calder the year before, and Ilya was eager to meet him on the ice to see what all the fuss was about. From the footage Ilya had seen, the guy looked pretty boring.

Ilya was happy to learn that he was both right and wrong. Scott Hunter, center for the Admirals’ second line, was incredibly boring. He was uptight, by-the-book, and skated around with such a serious look on his face that he seemed constipated. He was also incredibly fun to rile.

“Tell me Hunter, are your knees bad already?” Ilya taunted over their next face-off. “Could not make it pro out the gate and had to go to college, no? You know what they say, if you can’t do, teach. Professor Scott Hunter-”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up, Rozanov?” Scott growled, face tomato red through the patchy beard he was trying to grow. Ilya cackled. When the puck dropped, he got it from Hunter easily and chased it back down the ice, taking a pass from Roy that left him wide open to shoot it cleanly into the net for his second goal of the game.

“I think I will get first hat trick of MLH here, in Scott Hunter city!” Ilya cheered, passing Hunter on his way to the bench for celebratory high-fives from his teammates. They were already up 4-1 with all of the third period left to go. A hat trick would just be adding insult to injury.

Ilya loved adding insult to injury.

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Ilya shouted at Evan in the locker room amidst their team’s celebrations.

Evan, still half-dressed in his hockey gear with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, pulled Ilya into a hug with an arm around his neck.

“You’re a fucking beast, Rozanov!” Bouchard shouted from several lockers down. “How many goals is that this season? 20? You just got here!”

Ilya laughed and pulled his face into a serious expression. “Is true,” he agreed. “Is hard burden, to carry this team. But is burden I accept.”

“Fucking cocky ass rookie!” Fortin bemoaned while Thompson laughed and shook his head in amusement.

“Keep it up,” Thompson said. “I’d love a Centaur to take home the Calder. Hasn’t been done since ‘96.”

“Ah, so is you who won then, Thompson?” Ilya smirked, taking the hit to his shoulder when Thompson slapped him with a glove. They both laughed.

“Ain’t that fuckin old you little shit!”

“All right, everyone hit the shower!” Fortin shouted over the mayhem. “I want to fuckin celebrate tonight. Be in the Hotel lobby after 30 if you’re in, yeah?”

With excited shoves and mild chirping, the team set about showering and changing to make it to the bus faster.

The club they went to didn’t bother with IDs, letting the jazzed-up group of hockey players through to a roped-off section saved just for them. The vets paid for bottle service, pouring shots in celebration, and before Ilya knew it, he was drunk on good Russian vodka and dragging Evan with him out to the dance floor.

“Fucking HAT TRICK!” Evan crowed, laughing and throwing his arms up in celebration. Ilya grinned, high off the vodka singing in his veins and the beating music. He pulled a gorgeous blonde in to dance and fell into the way her hips swayed to the music, the spicy smell of her perfume, and her flirtatious smile.

She kissed his jaw, and he dipped lower, catching her full lips, devouring the fruity gloss she’d coated them in as he took her mouth and ground their hips together. Her breasts pressed against him, soft and spilling out of the deep cut of her silver dress.

“What is your name?” Ilya asked as he slid his hand to her ass and squeezed. He swallowed the moan that spilled from her lips and pulled back to give her the space she needed to answer.

“Liz,” she replied, speaking the name right into Ilya’s ear so he could hear her over the music.

“You are very beautiful woman, Liz,” Ilya complimented and followed her encouraging hand at the back of his head to kiss her neck, sucking against the skin but carful not to leave a mark.

He pulled her over to the ropes that separated the section his team was in from the rest of the club and encouraged her to order a drink from their server. She took the drink and turned to straddle Ilya's lap, the team catcalling around them.

Ilya flipped them off. It was obviously exactly the reaction Liz was going for, and Ilya could appreciate a bit of exhibitionism himself, but the team didn’t have to be so damn obnoxious about it all.

“You want to get out of here?” Liz asked after a few more drinks and some banter was traded back and forth with the team. She was a spitfire, quick with a comeback and brash. So fucking fun, and funny. Ilya liked her a lot.

“Your place is okay?” Ilya asked.

When Liz agreed, Ilya let Fortin and Evan know that he was leaving, then followed her from the club and out to the street to hail a taxi.

The next morning, Ilya woke up to a cup of coffee being pressed into his hand and a kiss to the cheek from Liz. She was already dressed in a power suit with her hair pulled back and a full beat of makeup.

“Morning, handsome,” she teased. “Some of us have work today. I left a key on the island. Just give it to the front desk on your way out.”

Ilya groaned. “What is this? So sexy. You will leave me like this?” he whined.

Liz narrowed her eyes and leaned in to bite at his lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth one last time before pulling back.

“You text me anytime you’re back in New York, alright?” she offered, eyes alight with good humor, and turned to leave the bedroom.

Ilya smiled and took a sip from the coffee she’d given him. He might have to do that. Liz was a lot of fun. And an excellent dancer.

He didn’t linger in her apartment too long, using the key she left to lock the door behind himself and doing as she asked by leaving it with the front desk on his way out. The sun was way too bright when he stepped out on the sidewalk, and Ilya instantly wished for a good pair of sunglasses. He would have to remember to bring those with him the next time he went out.

There was still plenty of time to shower and change when he got back to the hotel, and he even used the bed in his room for a brief nap before meeting the team in the lobby to head for the airport. Everyone looked exactly as you would expect after a night of bottle service, obviously hungover and hiding under baseball caps pulled low and dark sunglasses.

“Dude,” Evan groaned when Ilya joined him. “What a fucking night, man.”

Ilya smirked. “Yes. New York is very fun. We need clubs like this in Ottawa, no?”

Evan laughed, and a few of the guys gave a chorus of denials.

“Nah, man,” Roy whined. “I start doing that shit regularly, and I’m toast.”

Evan nodded in fervent agreement, then regretted the action and reached up to hold his head. “This flight is gonna fuckin suck.”

Ilya laughed at him. “Hungover Dykstra? Canadians cannot handle alcohol?”

Evan flipped him off. “Shut the fuck up, Roz. You’re hungover too.”

“Am not,” Ilya denied. “Speak for self, Evan. Russians do not get hangovers.”

Thompson, their captain and one of the few guys on the team who looked no worse for wear after the night of clubbing, grinned and gave Ilya’s curls a noogie.

“Play nice, Rozie,” he chastised. “Or I’ll have you all doing bag skates next practice.”

“Fuck Thompson, don’t even joke about that right now,” Fortin complained, looking sick. He’d been the one pushing shots for most of the night.

Somehow, they made it to the airport without anyone throwing up on the bus, and almost everyone slept the whole flight to Chicago.

Shane

Shane still kept track of social media through his anonymous accounts, a habit that was probably becoming a bit unhealthy. Especially since he spent a lot more time these days tracking Ilya’s social media appearances and mentions than his own.

And by March, Ilya was everywhere. He had taken the league by storm with a frankly ridiculous number of goals and points accrued after not even starting the season at the same time as everyone else, and already there was talk of rookie of the year contention. For a player who, only a year before, had been speculated over losing his career entirely in the aftermath of being outed by one of his old teammates, Ilya had skated onto the scene like he had something to prove.

And his team was doing incredibly well, second in the division with the playoffs not too far off and a definite ticket there as long as they kept it up. Their 11-game winning streak from mid-January to early February set a franchise record and the Centaurs were having the best season they’d had in years.

But the posts that really caught and held Shane’s attention had nothing to do with hockey. Ilya had taken to celebrating his team's wins by going out in various cities along the way, eager paparazzi excited to catch the breakout rookie out on the town with whoever had managed to catch his attention for the night.

More often than not, he was pictured taking home beautiful women in shimmering, skin-tight dresses, though one or two shots had him leaving different clubs with equally glamorous men.

Men that, Shane couldn’t help but notice, looked nothing like him.

Not that they should. Ilya could do what he wanted, sleep with who he wanted. Shane wasn’t anything to him. They hadn’t even texted since Shane got back to Kingston.

So Shane did his best to focus on his own season, his last year spent with the Junior League, and stay off social media. He went out with his team and celebrated their wins, spent a fair amount of his own time kissing girls in bars, and even went home with a few. That’s just what guys their age did.

And when the playoffs rolled around, and the Centaurs got eliminated 4-2 in the first round, Shane tried to be supportive of his friend and not bitter over the early success as Ilya left him behind. Shane would have plenty of time to catch up the next year.

When Ilya accepted his award for rookie of the year, Shane broke their radio silence and pulled out his phone to congratulate him.

Shane: congrats on the Calder!

Of course, Ilya was in Vegas at the award ceremony, and it wasn’t like Shane was going to get an immediate text back. A few hours later, his phone buzzed with an incoming message.

Ilya: thank you. next year is for you, no? think you can keep up, Hollander?

Shane glared at the bright screen of his phone. Leave it to Ilya to be an ass even when he was accepting praise.

Shane: you had how many goals this season? 50?

Ilya: 51

Shane: bet I can make it 60

Shane bit his lip as he hit send. That was an incredibly cocky thing to say. The average goals scored for Calder Trophy winners was probably somewhere just over 20. It was rare for a rookie to beat the 50-goal mark.

Ilya: you’re on, Hollander

Shane smiled. Who cares if he actually did it or not? He could sure as fuck try. Someone had to keep Rozanov’s ego in check.

That summer, Shane went to the cottage with his parents like he always did, though their time was cut short by the need to get Shane settled into Boston. They went together to find a good apartment near the team’s practice facility, and his mom helped him furnish it, oddly obsessed over even the little things like lamps. Shane had moved out the year before, but Kingston was nothing compared to Boston. While he had been only a couple of hours away from home before, Boston was over seven hours away with an international border to cross besides.

So while Shane was happy to have sponsors and pick up a contract with Reebok, he was also grateful that the shoot for it would be held in New York, so he didn’t have to travel too far.

He wasn’t expecting to share the shoot with Ilya Rozanov.

“I’m just so glad the two of you were able to make it this week,” the director of the campaign enthused when both Shane and Ilya were in the room. “Rookie of the year for 2010 and one of the league’s most promising hopefuls for this next season.”

He went on about his vision for the ad and how it connected with the greater “I Am What I Am” campaign. He wanted to highlight Ilya’s resilience through the start of his career and Shane’s experience as the first Asian-Canadian hockey player drafted to the MLH. The focus was meant to be a celebration of individuality and self-expression.

Shane just wanted to get it over with. While Ilya had apparently embraced being some kind of queer sports icon, Shane kind of hated being the face of inclusivity in hockey. He knew that young boys out there would look at him and see themselves in the future of the sport, but that was never a driving factor for him. He just wanted to play.

And, with Coach LeClaire’s words and a season of speaking his mind to the press at his back, Shane said that in his interview. He talked about the pressure to do well as a role model for other Asian kids in sports, and how, at the end of the day, all Shane wanted was to play good hockey.

And it worked. The director liked the honesty. The videos they shot on the streets of New York were raw and a bit gritty. Most of the shots were taken of Shane and Ilya individually, but eventually they moved to a rink and showcased them together, competing to make better, more accurate trick shots at different puck pyramids on the boards.

Their banter was fun, competitive, with little chirps and familiar grins that made it obvious the two were well versed in each other’s sense of humor if nothing else.

When the crew called it a wrap at the end of the day, Shane and Ilya were both exhausted and hit the showers together to change and head back to the hotel.

After a day spent laughing and cutting up in front of the cameras, the silence between them was awkward and full of uncertainty. It didn’t help that Shane couldn’t stop staring at Ilya’s ridiculously toned ass.

“You’re staring, Hollander,” Ilya pointed out, smirking. He took his time lathering soap across his chest, making eye contact as he did so.

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“Hmm,” Ilya agreed. “Would be more fun together, no?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “What? Couldn’t find some girl to take home for the night?”

Ilya’s gaze sharpened, eyes narrowed. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, Shane.”

“I’m not fucking jealous.”

“I think you are,” Ilya denied. “You have missed my cock this much?”

Shane flipped him off and left the shower, going to dry off and get changed before he got too tempted to punch the smirk off Ilya’s face. So maybe he was a bit jealous? What did it matter anyway?

“I am not your boyfriend, Hollander,” Ilya said, following Shane into the locker room.

“Obviously,” Shane replied, clenching his eyes shut in annoyance. He opened them again to glare up at Ilya, pointedly not looking at the water rivulets that ran down his defined chest to the towel wrapped low across his waist.

“You want to fuck or you want to be baby about it?” Ilya asked then, shifting his hips in a way that purposefully drew Shane’s attention to his dick.

Shane really should say no. But Ilya was right there, and Shane really wanted to fuck him again. Had all day, in fact.

“Yeah, whatever,” Shane agreed, turning to pull his socks on.

“What is your room number?” Ilya asked, giving Shane some space as he went to his own locker to get dressed.

Shane gave him the number and grabbed his bag, heading out of the locker room to get a bit of breathing space.

He debated not opening the door when Ilya knocked on it later that night. Or maybe he should let him in and tell him they couldn’t do this anymore, that it was a bad idea, and Shane needed to focus on his debut season with the Raiders. Instead, Shane pulled Ilya into the room and pushed him up against the door, falling to his knees and freeing Ilya’s cock to fit his mouth around it.

“Fuck, Hollander. So eager,” Ilya groaned, burying his fingers in Shane’s hair, pulling at the strands. It was longer than the last time they’d done this. Shane told himself that it was just because he was too lazy to get it cut.

When Ilya got close, he used his grip on Shane’s hair to pull him off his cock. Instead of falling back to let Ilya tell him what to do, Shane pushed Ilya over to the bed and climbed over him, rolling their hips together as he sucked Ilya’s tongue into his mouth.

Ilya groaned and helped Shane strip out of his shirt before taking his own off, exposing both of their chests to each other’s wandering hands and mouths. Shane moaned when Ilya sucked his nipple into his mouth and arched into the touch.

Their pants and underwear went next, tossed aside and forgotten in the push and pull of limbs and teeth. Shane’s cock hung heavy and leaking when he raised his hips to reach behind himself and finger his hole, lube easing the way as he slid first one and then two fingers inside.

“Holy shit, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, watching Shane open himself up to take Ilya’s dick. Shane moaned eagerly into his mouth, not even bothering with a third before rolling a condom onto Ilya’s rigid dick and slicking him up with a good amount of lube. He probably hadn’t stretched himself enough, but he really didn’t care.

Ilya reached out to steady Shane with his hands on Shane’s hips as he sank down onto Ilya’s cock. Shane cried out at the stretch, closing his eyes and breathing in deep, letting the breath go in a long exhale as he finished taking Ilya as far inside as he could go.

“Ilya,” he whimpered, rocking his hips in Ilya’s lap.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised, encouraging Shane to ride him with one hand still on his hip while the other reached up to thumb across one of Shane's nipples. Shane moaned and covered Ilya’s hand with his own, pulling it into his chest. He bit his lower lip and caught Ilya’s gaze, then used his free hand to brace himself on Ilya’s chest and rock against him harder, using his powerful thighs to slide up and down Ilya’s dick, fucking himself, using him.

Ilya surged forward to take Shane's mouth and wrapped a hand around his weeping cock. “Where did this come from?” Ilya asked. “You miss my cock this much, Hollander? You need it this bad?”

Shane whined and bit at Ilya’s lips. He was so close. Just a little more and he’d be there.

“Ilya,” he begged. Ilya jerked him faster.

“Shane,” he murmured. “Is okay. Come for me, yes? Come on my cock?”

Shane spilled over Ilya’s fist, shuddering, and collapsed against him. Ilya let him catch his breath, licking into his open mouth and laying kisses along his jaw. When Shane’s breathing had leveled out, Ilya rolled him onto the mattress, slipped his still-hard cock from Shane’s ass, and turned him so that he was face down in the pillows.

“Not done with you yet, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, spreading Shane’s knees wide against the rumpled comforter and biting the back of his neck. He lined himself up and fucked Shane again, balls slapping against him with every hard thrust, each smack of his hips echoing through the room and underlining Shane’s whimpering moans as he drooled against the sheets.

When they were finished, Ilya pulled Shane from the bed and dragged him over to the shower. He lathered them both with soap and washed the evidence of their time together down the drain, then stripped the soiled comforter from the bed and pulled Shane under the sheets and blanket.

They were asleep before Shane had enough time to consider that Ilya hadn’t gone back to his own room.

Chapter End Notes

Aaaaaaaaand back to our regularly scheduled angst. For those of you worried about the boys being outed after the New Year's celebration, I get you but I'm not worried about it for them. They were both still pretty unknown outside of the most dedicated of hockey circles at the time, and let's just say they got lucky. They have enough problems ahead without that being one, though who knows? Maybe it will still come back to bite them eventually. No CCM photoshoot in this timeline, but I decided to let them both have Reebok instead. Next up, Shane's rookie season and the boys first chance to face each other on the ice in almost two years! Woo!
Until next time <3

Chapter 7: New Season

Chapter Summary

The 2010-2011 season kicks off with Shane and Ilya facing each other on the ice for the first time since December 2009.

Chapter Notes

Shane

Shane showed up to the 2010-2011 training camp with a year of working on the more physical aspects of play under his belt and the determination to prove to LeClaire that he could be a Raider. He knew that, regardless of his potential, the grizzled coach wouldn’t give him a spot on the roster otherwise.

When coach wanted a battle for the puck, Shane fucking gave him one. He fought tooth and nail against every hopeful there to prove he had what it took, that he wasn’t all hockey IQ and footwork. And when the guys chirped him, he chirped them right back.

“Well, if it isn’t pretty boy Hollander here trying for a spot in the big leagues,” Anderson teased. As one of their veteran defenseman, the man was a wall of muscle and fake teeth. They were one-on-one, Shane doing everything he could to get his puck to the net while Anderson aimed to stop him.

“I’m going to look real fucking pretty for this celly when I score on you too, asshole.”

Anderson laughed while Shane used his smaller frame to take advantage of his opponent's more limited mobility and slip past, netting the puck with a smug grin and his stick held high in the air. A few of the other rookies mobbed him, clapping him on the back and congratulating him on getting one past the talented defenseman who had kept them all in check for the duration of the drill.

“HOLLANDER!” Coach LeClaire bellowed, waving Shane over to the boards.

Shane immediately turned and rushed over, sliding to a stop in front of the head coach.

“Yes, sir?”

“Nice work, kid. Get showered and meet me in my office.”

With nothing else to say, Coach turned and walked off, leaving Shane to follow his orders. Figuring the coach wanted to talk to him again and hoping it at least went better this year, Shane rushed to comply.

The office was the same as the year before, with Coach LeClaire leaning back against his desk in almost exactly the same way. Shane closed the door behind him and stopped a few feet into the room.

“I see you took my advice to heart,” LeClaire grunted, then gave a wicked smile and held his hand out for Shane to shake. “You got guts, kid. Come sit down.”

LeClaire walked around his desk and sat in his chair, leaving the two wooden chairs in front for Shane to choose from.

Shane pulled one out and sat down, back straight and met LeClaire’s gaze.

“You’ve done some growing up this past year, Hollander. How do you feel about Boston?”

“Excited to be here,” the Shane of a year ago would have said. “Happy for a chance to represent the team on the ice.”

“Kind of fucking nervous, actually,” Shane admitted with the same newfound honesty he’d taken to giving the press.

Coach guffawed and slapped a meaty hand against one knee. “Fuckin’ right you are, kid, Boston’s nuts.”

“Now,” the coach continued. “We have each other’s backs on this team, and that’s doubly true for our rooks. Anybody gives you any shit, and not a man on that ice is gonna hesitate to drop gloves for you. But that kind of loyalty gets returned, you hear? It’s all right to be a bit competitive in training camp, but if you make that roster this year, every guy in that locker room is your brother, not your competition. Got it?”

Shane nodded, worried now that maybe he had gone a bit too far in his determination to show the coach that he could stand shoulder to shoulder with the other members of the Boston team. He also noted that coach wasn’t promising a spot on the final roster yet.

“Caught that part, did you?” LeClaire smirked. “Nothing on that roster is set in stone until I announce it, kid. But you got a good shot. Now get the fuck out. I don’t want to see you back until tomorrow. Rest is important too if you want to keep up with a real MLH season.”

Shane nodded and left without another word, wooden chair scraping against the linoleum as he pushed it back.

“How did it go?” Marleau asked in French when Shane walked back into the locker room. He’d taken to talking to Shane almost exclusively in the language since learning Shane was fluent, though Shane wasn’t sure if that was because it was the most comfortable for him to speak in or if it was just to fuck with their teammates who couldn’t understand him.

It could go either way with Marleu. A year younger than Shane, he had been the team’s first round pick back in June and already fit in with the others like he’d been there his whole life.

“Good,” Shane replied. “I think.”

Marleau gave a wolfish grin and an eager nod. There were a few open positions for forwards for the coming year, and both he and Shane were hoping for a spot on the final roster. Shane hoped he got it too. Marleau had a huge personality; he was Shane’s total opposite in many ways, but he always made Shane feel included in the team dynamic.

He was also incredibly attractive, but that was something Shane tried not to let himself think about too much. He couldn’t afford to let himself be attracted to his very straight, definitely not interested in Shane, potential teammate.

“We should go out tonight. Leave these dinosaurs to their boring late-night TV and hit the club,” Marleau continued when Shane had his bag over one shoulder, ready to head out.

“HEY! Fuck off, Marleau! Some of those dinosaurs can understand you, asshole!” Simard shouted from across the locker room.

Marleau shot the man the finger, and Shane heard him grumble about disrespectful rookies. Shane sent Marleau a glare before responding.

“I don’t really do clubs, remember?”

“And I don’t care. Don’t be boring. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

And that’s what got Shane in the end. Because he was trying to be a part of this team, and that meant sometimes he was going to have to go out of his comfort zone.

“This is what you wear? Really?” Marleau asked, meeting Shane downstairs in the lobby of his apartment so they could share a car.

Why did Shane always end up drawn to people who ended up giving him shit about his wardrobe? There was nothing wrong with jeans and a t-shirt. Meanwhile, Marleau was dressed in a sheer black button-up over skin-tight jeans. You could see his fucking nipples.

“You think I’m going out looking like that?” he questioned.

“You should,” Marleau contested, but let the matter go.

The club they went to took the bribe Marleau handed over at the door and didn’t ask for any kind of ID. Shane just shrugged. America was weird anyway; he’d been able to drink for over a year already in Canada.

The music was loud and throbbed between Shane’s ears, threatening to give him a headache, while the pulsing lights were disorienting enough to make him almost nauseous.

“I need a drink,” he explained as soon as they neared the bar. Marleau nodded and walked over with him. He ordered a round of shots and a beer, sliding one of the shots over to Shane.

“Lighten up, dude,” he prodded, throwing the liquor back with a challenging glint in his eyes and a smirk. Shane followed suit, thankful that his experiences drinking the shit Ilya kept in his flasks at least let him keep a straight face.

He chased it with a cold beer and turned his back to the bar. The dance floor was packed; everyone on it looked sweaty and wasted. Shane wasn’t sure he wanted to be within 10 feet of it.

So, of course, Marleau grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him right into the mess of bodies. He slid through the crowd until he found a pair of women who probably weren’t that much older than them, both tall and bottle-blond with their hair pulled up and skimpy dresses.

“Mind if we join you, ladies?” Marleau asked in English, a bright grin on his eager face. The girls turned and looked at each other, then the one on the right grinned and pulled Marleau in by the fabric of his shirt, while the one on the left stalked up to Shane in impressively high heels.

“Uh, hi,” Shane said, not sure what to do with his hands. Marleau already had his tongue in the other girl's mouth.

“Hey, cutie, first time out in a club like this?” she asked, slipping a finger into one of Shane’s belt loops and pulling him closer.

Shane swallowed nervously, cleared his throat and settled on nodding instead of trying for a verbal answer.

“What’s your name?” she asked with an encouraging smile.

“Shane,” he replied, having to shout and lean close to be heard over the music.

“Lena,” she replied, offering her own, her lips brushing his ear as she did. Shane let her guide his hands to her waist and did his best to keep up with the sway of her hips as he tried to go along with the music. He’d tried this before, on New Year's with Ilya, but he hadn’t felt very confident then either. He missed the tame bars of Kingston, the more casual flirting over a game of pool.

Lena leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. Her lipstick tasted chalky and bitter, but Shane got used to it a bit as he kissed her back, rolling his hips along to the beat of the music and lowering one hand to the small of her back to draw her close.

She was tall, almost as tall as Shane in the heels she wore, but her waist was tiny under his hands, her frame delicate. She smelled like roses and something sweet.

“Don’t be nervous,” she soothed, rubbing one hand up Shane’s chest, stopping with her fingers brushing the exposed skin at the base of his neck.

Shane sighed and tried to follow the advice, closing his eyes in an attempt to lose himself in the press of the crowd and the heavy beat of the bass.

The four of them left together, taking the girls back to Shane’s apartment since he had plenty of room, and Marleau was still in a hotel the team put him up in for training camp. Once they were upstairs, Shane grabbed the lone bottle of Vodka he kept in his cabinets and some ginger ale from the fridge, bringing them out to the coffee table while Marleau followed him with cups for everybody.

“Sorry, I don’t have a lot of drink options,” Shane explained, shrugging with an apologetic grimace on his face.

“We’re really not picky!” Lena assured, smiling and taking one of the offered cups. She poured some vodka and ginger ale into one and passed the bottle on to her friend. Shane hoped the vodka was okay; it was the brand he’d seen Ilya keep around his hotel room, so he assumed it couldn’t be too terrible.

“So you play for the Raiders?” Lena’s friend asked excitedly, taking a sip from her glass while Marleau and Shane made their own drinks.

“Final roster hasn’t been announced for the season, but yeah. Should be,” Marleau agreed confidently.

Lena smiled over at Shane. “Explains how fit you are, then,” she grinned.

Marleau and the girls carried the conversation from there, talking about what there was to do around Boston and how Marleau and Shane had gotten into hockey. Eventually, the conversation died, with Lena’s friend straddling Marleu’s lap, his hand under her dress while she moaned into his mouth. Lena was likewise occupied, her legs on either side of Shane’s waist and mouth over his. She had one hand buried in his hair, the other up his shirt, tracing the lines of his abs.

“What do you say we take this to the bedroom?” she murmured, dropping her hand to run across the line of Shane’s waistband.

“Okay,” Shane agreed. He led her out of the room and away from whatever Marleau was doing.

He tried to stay in it, he really did, but when he couldn’t bring himself to come or even stay hard all that long, Shane blamed it on the alcohol and apologised. Lena assured him it was okay, and they both fell asleep not long after that.

The next morning, Lena and her friend left pretty early while Shane cooked up breakfast for himself and Marleau, thankful that they didn’t have practice for a few hours yet.

“You look like shit,” Marleau said, taking a swig from his coffee and grimacing at the lack of sugar. Shane watched him hunt through the cabinets and slid a little bowl over to him. It wasn’t really sugar, because Shane didn’t have any, but stevia was probably close enough.

“Gee, thanks,” Shane grimaced, taking a long sip from his own coffee and appreciating the bitter bite against his tongue.

“Seriously, man, you got laid last night! Lighten up!”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“No, I’m a slut. And Mel was fuckin hot. We’re going out again next week. You?”

Shane waved his hand in a so-so gesture and hoped Marleau would drop it.

“Dude!” he said instead. “Lena’s fucking gorgeous! You’re telling me you didn’t get her number?”

Shane groaned and buried his head in his hands on the counter, shrugging.

“Do you even like girls?” Marleau teased. Like it was a joke. Like it wasn’t a question that looped through Shane’s mind like a scratched record every time he so much as tried.

Something about Shane’s posture must have given him away, though, because Marleau froze.

“Wait? Really?”

Shane’s head shot straight up, shoulders rigid as he prepared what he could say for a believable denial. But Marleau didn’t look upset or disgusted. He looked like he’d just found the lost piece to a complex puzzle.

“Hey,” he said, noticing Shane’s shift in body language. “It’s okay. That’s cool, man. No worries.”

Shane felt like he might cry. What the fuck? How was this going to be his day? But he could see that it was too late, that Marleau probably wouldn’t even believe him if he tried to deny it, or doubled down.

“I don’t know,” he said instead of the fierce denial he wanted to shout across the space between them.

“You don’t know?” Marleau asked.

Shane nodded. “I do like girls. I think. I mean, Lena was really pretty-”

“Liking girls and wanting to have sex with them are two completely different things, dude.”

Shane balled his hands into fists on the countertop. “I fucking know that, Marleau.”

“So? Do you want to have sex with them?”

Shane thought back to the night before, how it had felt to be inside Lena and how he just couldn’t get himself to stay interested, to stay hard. He thought of the waxy, bitter taste of her lipstick and how he missed the hint of cinnamon that he really wanted on his tongue.

“No,” Shane admitted. “I’m not so sure that I do.”

“I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, Shane.”

Shane bit his lip and nodded, pretty sure that he knew where this was going and not sure he wanted to answer even if Marleau was being surprisingly cool about everything.

“Have you been with a guy?”

Shane went beet red and nodded.

“And did you like having sex with him?”

Shane nodded again, skin prickling with sweat and breath going short as he fought the need to run.

“Have you considered that you might be gay?”

“I CAN’T BE GAY!” Shane shouted in English, standing abruptly, the barstool falling to the floor with a loud bang. His hands went to his hair, tugging it into clenched fists. “Fuck, Marleau! I’m trying, okay?”

Marleau took the language change in stride, also switching back to English. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to be fucking normal! For me! For my mom! What, it’s not enough to be the first Asian player in the league, now I have to be the first gay one too? Fuck off, okay?”

Marleau looked like he’d been slapped. He held his hands out like he was trying to gentle a wild horse.

“Hey, Shane, buddy, calm down, okay? You don’t just decide to be gay, or not to be gay, it doesn’t work like that, yeah?”

“What the fuck would you know about it?” Shane demanded, wild-eyed.

“My uncles are gay!” Marleau protested. “It’s not the end of the fucking world, Shane!”

“It sure as fuck feels like it!” Shane denied.

Marleau walked over and pulled Shane’s hands from his hair, crowding him back against the kitchen island until he was closed in on all sides. He pulled one of Shane’s hands to his chest, over his heart.

“Breathe, Shane,” he demanded. “Follow my breath, yeah? You’re fucking panicking. Just breathe.”

Shane sucked in air through his seizing chest and did his best to match Marleau’s breath.

“Good,” Marleau encouraged. “You’re fucking safe here, Shane. I’m not telling anyone shit.”

When Shane had his breath back under control, he started crying, loud sobs thick with mucus and tears, his whole body shaking. Marleau pulled him into a tight hug and let Shane cry it out on his shoulder, soaking his shirt. He rubbed a heavy hand up and down Shane’s back, soothing him in a mix of English and French until Shane had cried himself out.

“Sorry, Marleau,” Shane apologized, wiping his face on his own shirt when he was done. He needed another shower before practice, now. He felt disgusting.

Marleau shook his head and playfully shoved at Shane’s shoulder. “No more fucking Marleau from you, eh? You ruined my shirt now, might as well fucking call me by my actual name, dumbass.”

Shane gave a weak laugh and nodded, then turned to go shower. Cliff was already gone by the time he made it back to the living room, probably having rushed back to the hotel to get ready before practice.

Ilya

Ilya settled into the new season with the cocky reassurance of a rookie who had just won the Calder. He knew this year would be different, that he would be starting the season with a certain level of expectation to perform well, but he also felt confident that he could meet those expectations.

“I can’t believe you listened to Papa and got this tiny ass apartment,” Svetlana complained, sprawled out on the couch in the living room in her underwear and a t-shirt. Frozen waffle in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“I can worry about a bigger apartment later, Sveta. When I get a real contract and that sponsorship money starts rolling in. You know I need to be smart about things until I get my citizenship.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes and grumbled. The apartment really wasn’t that small. It had two perfectly normal bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms, a reasonably large kitchen, and a living room. It was in a nice part of town, close enough to walk to the practice rink if that’s what he wanted, with decent soundproofing and unobtrusive neighbors.

“Why are you even here?” Ilya complained. Svetlana flipped him off.

“I don’t know, asshole, maybe I missed you. You hardly even call me anymore.”

Ilya scowled when she put her waffle down on the coffee table without any kind of plate or napkin. Rude.

“Because you are annoying and I don’t care what you have to say.”

“That’s a lie,” Svetlana laughed. “You’re mad because I called you out for being hung up on Hollander, and you’re even more mad that I live in the same city as him. Don’t lie to me, Ilya. I fucking know you.”

Ilya groaned and collapsed onto the couch. He regretted ever telling her about Shane. Now she refused to leave him alone about it.

“I’m not hung up on him,” he denied.

“What do you call obsessively watching all of his interviews, then?”

“The season has barely started! He only has like two interviews to watch!”

“Which you know, because you obsessively watch for any news about him.”

Ilya glared. This was character defamation. He did no such thing. So what if he happened to notice when Hollander happened to have an interview? He was just keeping an eye on the competition in his division.

“The Raiders are doing well,” he stated. “Hollander is getting good ice time. I am only paying attention to the competition this year.”

Svetlana snorted and tipped her mug back to drain the rest of her coffee.

Ilya had gone to Boston to spend time with her and Sergei over the summer, but it hadn’t felt like enough. It was refreshing to speak so much Russian again and to explore Boston’s Russian district and club scene. Ottawa was so boring in comparison.

Svetlana made a point of telling him so, too, complaining about the lack of good restaurants and things to do. He had already taken her into Montreal for a night out, but he couldn’t leave for longer than that with the season gearing up. She would be leaving soon anyway. The Centaurs were going on a roady in a few days, and she planned to fly out the same day.

He would see her again hours later, because their first game of the road trip was in Boston.

“Are you excited to get to play against him again?” Svetlana asked while Ilya finished his own breakfast and got ready to leave for practice.

“I guess, yeah,” Ilya agreed. “He is a good skater. A challenge. It will be nice to beat him and make him cry.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes. “I can think of other ways you want to make him cry,” she teased.

Ilya shot her the bird on his way out the door. Most annoying friend ever. He wanted a refund.

The plane ride to Boston was short, early enough in the morning that most of his team was asleep. The bus took them straight to the arena for practice. Coach kept it light, focusing on strategy so as not to wear anyone out, and when they were finished, the bus took them on to the hotel.

Ilya pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the messages he had with Shane. He hadn’t sent anything since New York.

Ilya: ready to lose?

Shane: as if. fuck off Rozanov

Ilya: hmm… is plan yes. address?

The little dots in the chat window flashed across the screen, disappeared, and reappeared. Ilya watched on in amusement, picturing Shane biting his lip and shifting his weight around on his couch. He would pretend he didn’t want to, probably.

Instead of a no, Shane sent his address. And a door code. Ilya tried not to let the surprise show too obviously on his face in case Evan was paying any attention. Unlikely, but he could never be sure.

As centres on the second line for their respective teams, Shane and Ilya shared a lot of ice time together. Shane’s style of play had gotten a lot more… aggressive since the last time Ilya had been on the ice with him.

“You are big bad Boston boy now?” Ilya taunted, waiting for the puck to drop.

“I think you know exactly how big I am, Ilya,” Shane smirked.

Ilya lost the face-off.

“Who the fuck even are you, Hollander?” Ilya groaned, chasing Shane down the ice. “What has this city done to you?”

Shane laughed, passing the puck to his winger. Moments later, the Cents managed to get possession, and Ilya received the puck to charge back down the ice, only to get fucking boarded by Shane motherfucking Hollander. He took his penalty with a sheepish, apologetic little Canadian grin and saluted the ref on his way over to the penalty box.

The game was brutal, the way physical games usually were, as the Raiders hit them like a battering ram until the whole bench was exhausted. So, of course, it went into overtime. And a shootout.

The victorious grin on Shane’s face when he netted the winning goal in the shootout might have been the hottest fucking thing Ilya had ever seen.

Ilya didn’t wait around at the hotel. He changed into street clothes, grunted at Evan to let him know he was heading out to get fucking laid, and took a car straight to the address Shane had sent him. The apartment was still empty when Ilya got there, so he sprawled out on the oversized sectional in the living room to wait and pulled his shirt off. He pulled his pants down just low enough to free his erection, angled the front-facing camera of his phone so it caught only his chest, abs, and the hand wrapped around his flushed cock, and sent it to Shane.

If Shane didn’t hurry through whatever press scrum or team celebration was keeping him, Ilya was going to come without him.

Chapter End Notes

Got to get some work done, limited editing on this. Enjoy! Until next time <3

Chapter 8: A Very Bad Idea

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya's season continues as the upcoming All-Star game in Nashville looms.

Chapter Notes

Shane

Cliff pulled Shane aside before they could split ways outside the rink and dragged him over to a side alley some of the guys used for smoke breaks.

“Rozanov?” he asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

Shane shrugged out of Cliff’s grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nope, no way, I’m not blind. You’re fucking Rozanov?”

Shane groaned and leaned back against the wall with an exaggerated sigh. “Sometimes.”

“Tonight?” Marleau asked.

Shane grinned, expression smug. “Yeah, probably.”

“Holy shit, Shane, you don’t do things by halves. How did you two even meet?”

“Same draft. He lives in my hometown now, you know? We spent some time together around Christmas and New Year's.”

Cliff whistled appreciatively. “I did not see that coming, or think that Rozanov would be at all your type.”

“What? Masculine?”

“No,” Cliff laughed. “Cocky asshole. Figures, though. You’re a fucking brat.”

Shane laughed. “This isn’t… weird?”

Cliff choked and had to take a minute to get his breath back. “No, it’s definitely fucking weird. Good for you, though, I guess. Rozanov is pretty fucking hot.”

Shane rolled his eyes. He had very quickly learned, from hanging out with Cliff Marleau, that he might be the gayest straight man Shane had ever met.

“Whatever. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Enjoy your dick appointment!” Cliff teased, waving mockingly. Shane flipped him off. He wondered if he could get arthritis in his hand from the overuse of his middle finger, what with being friends with Cliff of all people.

Shane checked his phone on his way to his car and saw a text from Ilya. Opening it, he blushed. How had Ilya gotten to his apartment so fast, anyway?

Shane was still buzzing out of his skin with adrenaline from the game when he walked in and found Ilya half-naked on his couch, exactly where he’d been when he sent Shane that picture.

“Couldn’t wait?” Shane teased.

Ilya stood up from the couch and crossed the room, crowding Shane against the kitchen island. Shane laughed.

“What? You think it is funny that I am so turned on right now?” Ilya demanded.

Shane shook his head, breathless with laughter. “It’s not that. It’s just that Cliff backed me against this same counter, less than a month ago. I’m starting to wonder if I should put a sign here or something.”

“Cliff?” Ilya asked, eyes growing dark. “Who the fuck is Cliff?”

Shane caught the clenched muscle defining Ilya’s jaw, the rigid line between his brows, and the hard glint to his eyes. “Now who’s jealous?”

Ilya growled. “Who is Cliff, Shane?”

“Jesus, Ilya. Calm down. He’s my teammate, and I was having a panic attack. It’s not like that.”

Ilya did calm down, expression flipping from anger to concern in the space of a breath. His grip on the counter softened, head tilting. “Panic attack?”

“He figured me out,” Shane explained. “That I might be gay, or whatever. I panicked.”

Ilya let go of the counter to settle his hands gently on Shane’s hips. “He took it okay?”

Shane nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, he’s cool. Took it better than me, honestly.”

Ilya laughed. “That is not a difficult thing to do, Hollander. You are very… what is the word? Uptight?”

Shane glared. “Fuck you, Rozanov. I’m allowed to figure my own shit out at my own pace. You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

Ilya

Ilya grinned at Shane’s bravado. “I think I like this Shane. Boston is good for you.”

“Yeah? Maybe you could stand to learn a thing or two in Ottawa. You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm, I think you like my dick,” Ilya denied, stepping closer until their hips were flush together, licking teasingly across Shane’s lips.

Shane cupped Ilya’s face and kissed him, closing what little space was left between their chests as he moaned into Ilya’s mouth. “I can think of a few things I would like you to do with it, that’s for sure,” Shane murmured, whispering the words into Ilya’s skin as he brushed a path across his jaw to his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and tugging it with his teeth.

Ilya pressed Shane back against the counter and lifted his legs to wrap around Ilya’s waist, then walked to the door that he’d found led to Shane’s bedroom in his earlier explorations. Shane used the opportunity afforded to him by not having to walk to suck a necklace of hickeys onto Ilya’s neck.

Just another thing for his team to give him shit for in the locker room, really. Thompson liked to keep him humble.

“You looked so fucking hot tonight, Hollander,” Ilya praised, setting Shane down to strip him of the suit he still wore from the game. A few of the buttons scattered across the floor when Ilya lost his patience with them and ripped the fabric open.

He distracted Shane from getting too annoyed by leaning down to suck one of his nipples into Ilya’s mouth. Shane, always so sensitive there, folded around him, hugging Ilya’s face to his chest. Ilya went to his knees and undid Shane’s belt, nuzzled his cock through the fabric of his pants, and pulled the zipper down with his teeth.

“Holy shit, Ilya. Fuck. Please,” Shane begged, petting through Ilya’s hair and slumping boneless on the edge of the bed. Ilya pulled his pants and briefs down to the floor, slid them off his socked feet, and then stripped him of his socks too for good measure until Shane was a puddle of naked flesh flushed with arousal. Ilya sucked his balls and licked up his shaft, dipped his tongue into the slit of Shane’s cock where it met his stomach, and drank the precum that leaked from the tip.

Shane whined and fell back against the mattress, legs falling open around Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya left him there, stepped back, and watched Hollander tremble against the sheets as he stripped his own pants and briefs off and kicked them aside.

“Get your fucking lube before I fuck you dry, Hollander,” Ilya demanded, watching Shane groan and climb fully onto the bed, crawling over to the nightstand to pull a bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer. He flopped back against the pillows and let his legs fall open, hiking one knee up higher to give Ilya clear access to his twitching hole.

Ilya followed him onto the mattress, pulled a pillow under his hips, and buried his face between Shane’s ass cheeks.

“Holy shit,” Shane panted. “Fucking hell, Ilya. Some warning would be nice.”

Ilya moaned, fucked his tongue into Shane’s hole, and ignored the admonishment. Shane whined at the combined stimulation from his wet tongue spearing him open and the vibration of his moans against Shane’s rim.

Ilya slipped a finger in alongside his tongue and hunted for Shane’s prostate. He wondered how many times he could get him to come that night. It wasn’t something he’d ever explored with Shane before. The most he had ever tried for was two.

He added a second finger and spread Shane’s hole wide, fucking his tongue between them before slipping his mouth up and away, licking up Shane’s perineum to his balls. He laved them each with their own special attention, sucking them into his mouth and rolling them across his tongue before working his way up Shane’s shaft to his drooling cockhead. He took him down all the way into his throat and bobbed against him, thrusting a third finger inside until Shane was all but screaming, coming down Ilya’s throat and pulling at the sheets.

Ilya pulled his fingers from Shane’s ass and pinned him into the mattress as he surged back up to bite his jaw and lick a trail across his freckles from the bridge of his nose to his temple and then back down to his slack lips. Ilya dipped his tongue inside, savoring the fucked out way Shane just lay there and let Ilya do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this, Hollander. Fuck-dumb and hot for my dick. You want me to fuck you now, sweetheart? How do you want me? On your back, your stomach? You want to ride me again?”

Shane whined, chasing Ilya’s lips with his own. “Please,” he moaned. “Don’t care. Just fuck me, Ilya.”

Ilya groaned and split the condom packet open with his teeth, taking a minute to roll it down his shaft and slick himself up. He pulled Shane’s legs over his shoulders and slid all the way inside in a single thrust.

Shane gasped, squirming against the sheets but not really able to go anywhere, do anything, pinned as he was in this position. Ilya braced his hands on either side of Shane’s head and fucked him hard, crushing Shane down into the mattress with every desperate thrust of Ilya’s hips.

Little breathless whimpers escaped Shane’s lips as he writhed beneath Ilya, shuddering, legs trembling against Ilya's arms. Shane's dick slid against his own stomach with every thrust. Ilya reached down to wrap his hand around it, providing a fist for Shane to fuck up into with the pounding of Ilya’s hips.

Tears ran down Shane’s cheeks, warm and salty against Ilya’s tongue when he licked them off the constellation of freckles there and shared them with Shane by pressing them into his open mouth with his tongue.

Shane whined and came again, cum spurting over his own chest and pooling against his sternum. Ilya lowered Shane’s legs to his hips and leaned down to lap the liquid from his heaving chest, hips stuttering as he found his own orgasm.

He pulled out and slid the condom from his dick, tying it off and tossing it into the waste bin Shane kept next to the nightstand. Then he turned right back to Shane and continued his ministrations, finding every bit of release spread across his chest and licking it from his skin, making his way down to Shane’s soft cock, then licking that too.

“Ilya,” Shane whined, writhing in the sheets. His eyes were still closed, tear tracks limned his cheeks, and his lips were kiss-swollen, parted just slightly as he sucked air into his lungs.

“Do I need to stop?” Ilya asked, looking up at him.

Shane sighed and chewed his lip. “No,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

Ilya licked his cock again, then sucked it into his mouth and just held it there for a minute, feeling it twitch and start to grow heavy on his tongue.

“Shit,” Shane whined. It was a high-pitched sound that caught in his throat and echoed through the space between them. Ilya hummed around his cock and sucked, hollowing his cheeks. His finger found Shane’s loose rim, and he slipped one inside, gently pumped it in and out, just barely brushing against his prostate. He kept it slow, steady, relentless.

Shane wasn’t just crying again; he was sobbing, sucking in breaths around whimpers and whines, hands tangled in the sheets, his eyes clenched shut. When he came for the third time, his release was almost nonexistent. Spent, his frame melted into the sheets, unable to so much as twitch when Ilya pulled his fingers from him and wrapped him into his arms.

“Sleep, любовь,” Ilya murmured, nuzzling into Shane’s neck. “My beautiful boy. I will wake you for shower later, okay?”

If Shane heard him, he didn’t answer. He and Ilya fell asleep.

Shane

Shane woke the next morning feeling sore and sticky, and quickly realized that they hadn’t showered before falling asleep. He slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Ilya, and went to take a hot shower. Practice that day was optional for Shane, and he was seriously considering skipping it. Luckily, Ilya didn’t have to be on a plane until later that afternoon since his team didn’t have a game that night.

He was still lathering shampoo into his hair when Ilya joined him.

“Good morning,” Ilya murmured, reaching over Shane’s shoulder for the soap and shooting him a wink.

“You’re the worst,” Shane complained, swatting Ilya’s hand away from his ass. “That’s off limits. I’m fucking sore today, asshole.”

Ilya chuckled. “Yes, okay,” he capitulated. “Is dick too sore for my mouth, too, or is that okay?”

Shane rolled his eyes and leaned up to pull Ilya’s bottom lip into his mouth. “I think I can handle a blow job,” he decided.

Ilya went to his knees in the warm spray of the shower and obliged. When he was finished, Shane returned the favor with a soap-slick hand wrapped around Ilya’s dick. He kissed him while he came and then helped wash his release away and down the drain.

They left Shane’s apartment to go get coffee and breakfast together, then Shane drove Ilya to the hotel so he could catch the bus to the airport with the rest of his team.

Ilya smirked, sunglasses perched on his face, and one hand still on the door, prepared to close it. “Bye, Hollander!” he cheered, waving.

Shane flipped him off. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I hope you lose again.”

Ilya laughed and shouldered his bag, then walked to the lobby doors and out of sight.

Shane should probably worry about people seeing him drop Ilya off, but plenty of players had friends on different teams, and it was well known that Ilya lived in Shane’s home city of Ottawa. It couldn’t be that weird, and would be easy enough to shrug off if the press ever brought it up. It wasn’t like they were making out on the streets of Boston.

Still, Shane kept an eye on his social media accounts, just in case they were spotted, and was relieved when no one seemed to have noticed.

Just because he was gay didn’t mean he had to be out to the fans about it. Besides, for all that Rozanov was well known to swing both ways, it wasn’t like Shane resembled his usual type as far as the public was concerned. They were probably safe enough, as long as they played their cards right.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Thinking it was Ilya, Shane pulled it out to check his messages.

Marleau: what? dick so good u cant come to practice now?

Shane rolled his eyes, typing out a response and kicking his socked feet up onto the couch.

Shane: fuck off

Marleau: awe, i bet u say that to all the guys

Shane sent back an emoji of a middle finger and turned his phone to silent, deciding it was about time for a nap anyway. Cliff could go fuck himself.

The next month was a whirlwind of exhaustion and exhilaration as Shane settled into life as a star rookie in the MLH. By the time Christmas break rolled around, Shane was in desperate need of the time off. He liked his team for the most part, and he loved Cliff, but they had huge personalities, and the quiet promise of Ottawa called to Shane.

He wished he didn’t have to find out about Ilya's holiday plans on social media, that he would be spending the holiday in Boston visiting the Vetrovs.

The thumbnail he studied, sitting on the couch in his parents' living room, showed Ilya leaving some holiday party with Svetlana and a willowy woman with long brown hair and fuzzy white earmuffs. The dress she wore hugged her form with a subtle pattern of snowflakes, and her cheeks were rosy in the cold. She smiled up at Ilya in the picture, obviously enamored.

It was pretty tame as far as pap shots of Ilya went, but it still set something crawling under Shane’s skin that Ilya was there in his city with some woman under his arm when, if Shane had still been in Boston, he would have the man squirreled away in his own apartment.

Shane reminded himself that they weren't together. What they did wasn’t serious or exclusive. As Ilya said, he wasn’t Shane’s boyfriend.

It didn’t change that Shane was in a terrible mood for pretty much the rest of the holiday, much to his mom’s frustration and his dad’s mild amusement, and by the time he made it back to Boston, he was ready for the chance to work some of that frustration out on the ice.

Ilya: are you trying to compete with Price for most time in penalty box?

The message glared up at him from Shane’s too-bright phone screen, and he scowled, shutting it off.

“What is even up with you tonight?” Cliff asked, pulling his shoulder pads off and propping a foot on the bench next to Shane.

Shane glared at him, too.

Cliff held up his hands in mock surrender and backed off. “You need to get fucking laid!” he declared, shouting over one shoulder.

And how the fuck was Shane supposed to do that, exactly? It wasn’t like he could just hit the clubs like Cliff and bring some chick home to work the edge off with. He wasn’t famous, exactly, but he was gaining a lot of attention in the league and among hockey fans. It only took one person recognizing who he was to fuck everything up, and the chance for quick sex wasn’t worth it.

Apparently, Cliff had an answer for everything, though, because he stole Shane’s phone on the bus the next morning, and Shane let him have it, figuring it wasn’t worth the fight to wrestle it back.

“What are you doing?” Shane sighed, annoyed.

“Downloading an app,” Cliff replied vaguely.

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you have any shirtless pics on here?” Cliff complained not long after, scrolling through Shane’s photos. “A gym selfie? Anything?”

“Why would I take shirtless pictures of myself?” Shane scoffed. “I know what I look like.”

It was Cliff’s turn to roll his eyes. “So fucking hopeless,” he muttered under his breath. Cliff crowed with victory a moment later, and Shane leaned over to see him pull up a picture of Shane at the lake. His chest was bare, water beading across his skin from swimming, and his swim trunks were soaked and clinging to his thighs.

Cliff made a copy of the picture, cropped out Shane’s face, and removed most of the background.

“Something you need to tell me, Cliff?” Shane teased.

Cliff stuck his tongue out at Shane and went back to whatever app he had downloaded. When he handed Shane’s phone back, he left the app open.

“What the fuck is this?” Shane hissed.

“You’re welcome,” Cliff smirked. “It’s a… dating app. Of sorts. Don’t worry, I made your settings super private. Your face isn’t on there. Just… loosen up a little, would you? There’s more fish in the fucking sea than just Rozanov.”

Shane’s face was on fire. There was no way he was going to use this. What if someone figured him out? Or harvested his kidneys? There was no way something like this was fucking safe.

But it burned a hole in his pocket the whole road trip. He kept taking it out in different cities, opening the app to scroll through nearby men's profiles.

Maybe he would just chat with one or two; that couldn’t hurt, right? Even the thought was overwhelming. What would he say?

But Shane kept picking at the thought, turning it over, until he caved. He had been ignoring messages, not even wanting to consider replying, but in the dark of his LA hotel room, with Cliff snoring nearby, Shane caved.

He stared at the grid. Shane had noticed early on that he wasn’t the only guy on there who didn’t show his face. He figured sticking to profiles like that was probably his best bet. Other closeted guys probably weren’t going to air his laundry either, right?

He tapped the picture of a man with a dusting of curly brown hair over his chest and read over the profile. This was a terrible idea, but Shane was horny, Cliff was asleep, and LA was about as far from Boston as Shane was likely to get.

“Hey, man,” the message started. Shane almost dropped his phone, considered closing the app, but his thumb lingered too long, and eventually he messaged back with a single word: “hey.”

Ilya

January in Ottawa was incredibly cold and snowy. So, in many ways, it felt like home. Though Moscow was a lot less boring. He’d had fun in Boston with Svetlana, cruising holiday parties and cutting up with his friend. This time last year, he at least had Shane to provide entertainment and distraction, but this year Shane was playing for his own team out on the road, and Ilya was stuck in Ottawa for a home stand.

“I think this Boston rookie might be even better than you, Rozanov!” Thompson cheered from the living room, watching the game between Boston and LA with a few of the other guys. Most of the team was there hanging out and drinking beers. Someone had a beer pong table going out back, and the WAGs lounged about, joking with their partners and enjoying the time spent together at home.

It was all very domestic.

“Lies!” Ilya groaned, plopping himself on the couch with a glass of vodka in one hand. Let the Canadians and Americans have their beer. Ilya was over it.

“That’s his 27th goal of the season!” Fortin exclaimed. “I bet he beats your numbers at this rate!”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “I did not even start season until December. Is unfair advantage.”

“Eh, that sounds like an excuse!” Evan crowed. The girl on his lap was wearing his camo hat backward, cards held in one hand as she stared down some of the other defensemen around the coffee-table turned poker-table.

“I bet he makes rookie of the year,” Fortin added.

“Probably,” Ilya agreed.

“Whoa!” Roy shouted. “Was that a compliment?”

Evan laughed and pulled a card from his girlfriend’s hand, tucking it back in a few cards over, then turned to face Ilya and the others on the couch.

“He and Ilya are friends, apparently,” Evan laughed.

“Friends?” Thompson muttered, mouth struggling around the word like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “I didn’t think Rozanov had friends.”

“We have been friends since the draft!” Ilya protested. “We did the Reebok ad together. Is not such a big deal.”

“Do you think we should set them up on a play date next time we’re in Boston?” Fortin teased. “We could get with Anderson, take the rookies out to the park. Let them run around, burn off some steam.”

Ilya threw an empty Coke bottle at him, but the winger caught it easily and smirked.

“I am not a dog!” Ilya protested.

Evan grinned. “Nah, I think a play date would be fun. That Marleau guy seems pretty funny. Bet the two of you would get on, Ilya!”

“You only say this because he is slut like me,” Ilya griped. “Always in clubs with beautiful women. He has good taste.”

“Wait, didn’t you hang out with Hollander when we played Boston?” Evan asked, the poker game forgotten as he focused on the conversation. It was fine, Evan was terrible at poker, and Ilya was pretty sure his girlfriend could do better without his advice anyway.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “I told you this. He drop me off at hotel that morning.”

Thompson looked even more confused at the entire concept. “Friends?” he muttered again. Ilya flipped him off. Of course, Ilya had friends! He wasn’t that much of an asshole.

When the game ended, the conversation turned quickly enough to something else, and Ilya was able to relax now that he didn’t have to have constant reminders of Hollander. The man was too pretty. Ilya really needed to get over him. He was just another hookup, that’s all.

When the team left on their next roady, Ilya looked forward to seeing some of the bigger cities again. Miami had some excellent nightlife, and they had an entire day off there. He would even get a break from all of the snow.

There were over two weeks left before the All-Star weekend in Nashville. Ilya and Shane were even set to be on the same team, with the two conferences facing off. He wondered what it would be like to work together on the ice. Would they be able to get along? How would it feel to receive a pass from Hollander? To send him one?

Their chemistry off the ice was like nothing else. How would that translate on it?

Ilya couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be some of the best hockey he would ever get to play. Shane could read Ilya like nobody else, keep up with him like few players in the league ever could. It was probably unfair to the other team to let them play together like that.

Maybe he could even convince Shane to let loose a little, hit the town, and party with Ilya and some of the other guys. He seemed to have loosened up some, often pictured out at clubs with the other rookie on his team. While he didn’t seem to go home with nearly as many women as Marleau, Shane was always there regardless. Countless pap shots and bad cellphone angles showed him dancing in clubs, sweat-drenched and smiling.

Ilya wished he could have been the one to get Shane to come around like that, to let loose and live a little. New Year's still stood fresh in his mind, with how awkward Shane had been when Ilya pulled him close to dance in Montreal. How stiff he had been, until Ilya plied him with enough vodka to let go a little. How his lips had felt, the hint of that same vodka on his tongue.

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea for Ilya to take Shane out in Nashville. He might end up doing a little more on that dance floor than Shane wanted the press to be able to see. Ilya had never been the best at controlling himself when it came to beautiful dance partners after all. He loved to chase a bad idea.

And just like he always had been, Shane Hollander was a very, very bad idea.

Chapter End Notes

I hope this reads as realistic enough. At the end of the day, Ilya and Shane are still only 19 here and they definitely don't have their shit together yet. They are young, stupid, and a bit hormone driven for now. It will take them some time yet to figure out the relationship side of things. Next up, All-Star weekend! And the boys get to play on the same team a bit early in this AU. Wonder how that interview will go for them now? Let me know what you think! Until next time <3

Chapter 9: All-Star Weekend

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya meet up in Nashville for All-Star weekend. Oh, and Scott Hunter is there too, I guess.

Chapter Notes

Updated Note (4/27/26)

Okay, guys, updating this note before the chapter and not just the tags (which I ask that you go ahead and read, since they have also been updated) or the closing notes, so as not to take anyone else by surprise here. I want to start by saying, I did not expect the level of dislike some of you have for seeing Shane/Ilya with other characters and/or OCs, which is definitely a failing of mine, considering I have never been much into the social media side of fandom and haven't produced any fanworks of my own before this year. So, for those of you that have really strong feelings around that, I'm sorry. Consider the strength of those feelings noted for the future.

That said, in the name of warning people so they can DNF now and not feel further disappointment later, you should know that I like writing stories with complex characters who go through very human experiences, relationship foibles, and experimentation as they grow and develop. This chapter explores that kind of experimentation in a fun, sexy way with Shane and Ilya bringing Scott in for a threesome after a night bar-hopping. While I hesitate to give too many spoilers for those of you who enjoy not knowing exactly where the story is going, I will also say now that at least one of the main pairing will date someone else for a time, exclusively, and Ilya and Shane will not be seeing each other during that time period. Unlike my other fic ITAV, this Shane and Ilya are younger and just figuring each other (and themselves) out. In canon, they weren't together until exclusively until 2017 (when they are both 26) and slept around with and had relationships outside of their hookups (ex: Rose Landry) with other people before figuring things out. That need to figure themselves out isn't any different in this fic just because Ilya is out. Their relationship here will be just as, if not more, messy in its own ways, as they figure out what they mean to each other. This side relationship is still minor, though just as plot-pivotal as Rose Landry in it's own way, and will not be a focus of the story but will be present for the span of about a chapter and a half.

If any of this surprises you or is not what you were hoping to hear from me, I'm sorry. I don't mean that in a sarcastic or placating way, either. But at the end of the day, I like to write the kinds of stories that I like to read. Sometimes that is fluffy and fun, sometimes its angsty and messy. Always, I like to capture the human experience of characters. I hope that, even if this means my writing isn't for you, that you still understand and respect my choices. There are fics out there for everyone's taste, and at the end of the day I know that my taste won't always fit everyone else's.

Additionally, I am a discovery-style writer. You may have noticed that my fics don't have an exact chapter count when I first start writing them, because my outlines are very nebulous, especially in the beginning. I often start a story knowing the major events I want to hit along the way, but I don't have an exact map for how to get there. When you see me add the chapter count, that's literally the same day that I figure out what each chapter needs to include in order to reach my goals for the story. So I can't promise that, even as I do learn how to tag more explicitly and learn what tends to upset people, that I will have all the tags for anything that might bother anyone from the very beginning. If that means you want to wait until I finish a story to read it, then that is understandable. If that means you just want to avoid my fics altogether, then that's okay, too. You need to move through fandom in a way that makes you happy, and I need to write in a way that makes me happy. That's not always going to be compatible for everyone.

And again, as I have said in fics past, I openly encourage you to let me know what tags you want to see on my fics. If you notice something missing, please don't stay silent when I ask for advice only to be upset later. I'm new, I'm figuring things out too, and I'm doing my best with what I've got.

Ilya

Ilya arrived at the hotel in Nashville first and was already lounging at a booth in the bar, waiting for Shane to arrive, when Scott Hunter of all people slid onto the vinyl next to him.

“Hey, Rozanov, congrats on the Calder last season,” Hunter said with a big grin, taking a sip from his beer and sitting back against the seat.

“Hunter,” Ilya acknowledged with a nod.

“Look, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. We’re playing on the same team this weekend. What do you say we try again?” Scott asked, holding his hand out for Ilya to shake.

Ilya grimaced a bit but returned the handshake. “I am surrounded already by boring North Americans who drink boring American beer. What is one more?”

Scott laughed and gave Ilya a pointed look from the corner of his eye. “We’re not all so boring, you know. Maybe you should give us a chance.”

Was Scott Hunter flirting? What the fuck was this?

Ilya watched the door, hoping Shane would walk through. The last thing Ilya needed was another regular hookup with a closeted hockey player of yet another team in his division.

Hunter was easy on the eyes, though. Ilya would give him that.

Just then, the door opened, and Shane walked through, still dressed head to toe in athleasure like he wasn’t pulling in a ridiculous amount of money from a very successful start to his professional hockey career. Shane waved when he saw Ilya and walked over to sit at the same table.

“How did you even get that?” he asked, looking at the rocks glass in Ilya’s hand. Ilya smirked. “We aren’t even allowed to drink here!”

“So?” Ilya chuckled. He gave the very cute, very interested bartender a pointed look and winked. These adorable little Nashville cowboys were doing it for Ilya, and he definitely wasn’t upset that a little flirtation got him the drinks he wanted without being carded.

“Fuck, you and Marly. I swear. Do you ever not think with your dick?”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at Shane and made a point of licking his lips. “Why would I do that?”

Shane kicked Ilya’s foot under the table. “Don’t be so fucking obvious,” he grumbled.

“Wait,” Hunter interrupted, “are you two… ?”

Shane’s eyes widened, his face going cherry red. “I- no… that’s-”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “What?” he asked. “Jealous Hunter?”

Scott Hunter spluttered, choking on his beer and reaching for a napkin to wipe up the mess.

“Is okay,” Ilya soothed, seeing that Shane was still freaking out over Hunter clocking them. “Pretty sure Hunter here is on our team too. And I don’t mean the Eastern Conference.”

“What the fuck, Ilya-”

It was Ilya’s turn to kick Shane under the table. Scott was staring back and forth between them like he was tracking the ball in a game of table tennis. Ilya shot him a flirtatious wink.

“Isn’t that right, Hunter? You were talking me up only a few minutes ago, no?”

Hunter flushed, his blush an even deeper shade of red against his pale skin than Shane’s. These American boys were so easy to rile.

“It’s fine, Hollander. Your secret’s safe with me, yeah?” Hunter said eventually, turning his focus to Shane. “So the two of you are together, then?”

“We just fuck,” Ilya grinned. “Is fun friendship we have going, isn’t it, Shane?”

Shane rolled his eyes but finally relaxed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

The three of them let the conversation shift to hockey and what players from which teams would be there. Eventually, the conversation stalled, and Ilya looked from Shane to Hunter and back before grinning mischievously.

“We should go out,” Ilya decided.

Shane groaned. “Again, if it’s not Marly, it’s you. How is this my life?”

“Oh, how sad for you, Hollander. You have friends who make you have fun and not stay home like a boring old man. Let’s go.”

Hunter laughed at Shane’s dramatics, and after insisting that Shane go upstairs and change into something less sad, the three of them went out.

Ilya immediately pulled them both into a tourist shop a few streets down that had cheap, straw cowboy hats on display. He plopped a pink one on Shane’s head and laughed.

“I will buy this for you!” he crowed.

Shane glared and took off the hat. “I’m not fucking wearing that, what the hell, Ilya?”

“Sure you are! When in Rome, no? Look, I will get one too,” Ilya grabbed another off the display and set it on his own head. It was a dark brown, with a big silver medallion on the front and a leather band that ended in tassels. “Hunter! You too! I will buy this and the drinks, no arguments!”

Hunter smirked and played along, choosing an off-white straw hat with a red band and a star woven into it.

With the hats paid for and a goofy smile on his face, Ilya led the other two down the street until they hit Broadway. It was still daylight, but the bars were packed with live music spilling out into the streets. Ilya pulled them into the first bar and watched Shane cringe at the volume. He ignored Shane’s little whine of protest and pulled him over to the dance floor to join in on a line dance that had just started.

Ilya followed along with the steps easily enough, but he laughed at Shane and Hunter struggling to keep up.

“I don’t even like country music!” Hunter complained after turning the wrong way and bumping into a busty blond with tassels on her boots that dangled all the way to the floor.

Ilya laughed at him. “Don’t be boring, Hunter! Is just dancing. Dancing is fun!”

As the night progressed, Ilya led the way in hopping from bar to bar, enjoying the rooftops and live music. Not every bar played country music, at least not all the time, and there were plenty of places where they just sat around high tops and had a few drinks.

He thought Shane looked like he was having a good time, despite his protests. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, and the pink cowboy hat on his head was squished and a little crooked by the time they called it a night.

They walked back to the hotel together, stumbling a little in the dark and laughing at each other. Even Hunter had been surprisingly fun all evening. Ilya pulled them both into a little alley next to the hotel to catch their breath before walking into the lobby, and gasped when Shane pushed him up against the wall, pulling his collar down and to the side to suck a mark into Ilya’s throat.

“Shit, that’s hot,” Hunter groaned. Ilya watched him step forward, sandwiching Shane between them, and pulled Hunter in for a filthy kiss with a hand on the back of his head. Hunter groaned low in his throat and rolled his hips against Shane’s ass.

“We could take this to my room,” Ilya suggested, pulling away to meet Hunter’s heavy-lidded gaze. Shane whined and rolled his own hips against Ilya’s leg. Ilya could feel how hard he was even through the layers of clothes between them.

They separated enough to straighten their clothes and make themselves a little less obviously disheveled, then Ilya led the way through the lobby and to the elevator. His room was at the end of the hall on his floor, and the only other player on it, as far as he could tell, was Hunter. Who wouldn’t be a problem for obvious reasons, considering he was joining them.

They got lucky and didn’t run into anyone on their way up. Ilya swiped his key and let them both in. He walked over to the chair and set his hat on the back, turning to face the other two. He had the perfect view as Hunter pulled Shane into a kiss, hands rucking his t-shirt up to his chest, the fabric catching under Shane’s arms as Hunter made a point of exploring his bare skin.

The pink cowboy hat on Shane’s head tilted and almost fell off, pushed back by the brim of Hunter’s as he bit and licked into Shane’s mouth. Shane moaned when Hunter’s thumb found his nipple and whined when Hunter took the hint and pinched the sensitive bud between his fingers.

Ilya pulled his shirt off over his head and slid his pants and briefs down far enough to wrap a hand around his dick. It caught Shane’s attention when he moaned appreciatively, and Hunter broke from the kiss to stare at Ilya jerking himself off while Shane watched.

“How do we want to do this?” Hunter asked, setting his own hat on the dresser and pulling off his shirt.

Ilya let go of his dick and crossed the room to lay a kiss on Hunter’s lips, battling his tongue for dominance. He reached over to the dresser, grabbed Hunter’s hat, and put it back on his head.

“How good do you ride, cowboy?” Ilya teased. Hunter’s answering grin was dark and filthy.

“I guess you’ll find out,” he murmured.

Ilya turned to Shane and pulled him in for a kiss. “Why don’t you get him ready for me while I eat your ass, sweetheart?”

Shane whined against his lips and nodded.

“And leave the hat,” Ilya added. “Hunter isn’t the only one showing off how good he can ride tonight. Pink looks good on you.”

He helped Shane out of his clothes while Scott lay back on the bed, knees spread. Ilya retrieved the lube and condoms from his bag, then turned Shane to face the bed with his back to Ilya and tossed the lube to Hunter. Ilya kissed the side of Shane’s neck.

“Hunter can start getting ready while you watch, yes?” Ilya murmured, then met Hunter’s eyes over Shane’s shoulder.

“Be a good boy and get your hole wet for Shane, Hunter. I want him to watch.”

“Fuck,” Hunter panted, popping the lid of the lube and coating his fingers. “Just call me Scott, will you? Hunter’s a bit weird when you’re going to fuck me in a minute.”

Ilya smirked. “Okay, Scott. Whatever you say.”

Scott rubbed his lube-coated fingers against his hole and kept his legs spread wide for Shane to see. Shane moaned when Scott slipped the first finger past his rim, and Ilya slid his hand down to cup Shane’s dick.

“So fucking hot, isn’t it, Shane?” Ilya murmured, stroking his hand up Shane’s dick and pulling him back so that Ilya’s erection rubbed against his crease. “Do you think Scott likes having his hole full like you do? Will he whine as pretty?”

Shane demonstrated exactly what Ilya was talking about by whining and turning his face to seek Ilya’s lips. Ilya licked across them and slipped his tongue inside, stroking Shane’s cock torturously slow. He moved his free hand from Shane’s hip to his jaw and turned him to face Scott on the bed again. Scott had two fingers in his hole, stretching himself as he watched them together.

Ilya stepped back until only his hands were touching Shane, one over each of his shoulders, and lightly pushed him toward the bed.

“Go show Scott how good your mouth is,” Ilya commanded.

Shane did, the pink cowboy hat on his head should have looked ridiculous when he leaned down to hold Scott’s dick in one hand and guide it between his lips, but Ilya was so turned on he might come just from watching them together.

Scott’s fingers slipped from his hole when he moved his hands to hold Shane’s head, the hat falling to the bed. Shane’s fingers replaced them, adding a third as he went.

“He likes having his hair pulled,” Ilya hinted, meeting Scott’s gaze, and watched Scott tighten his fingers in Shane’s hair. Shane whimpered, and Scott moaned, thrusting up into Shane’s mouth. Ilya leaned forward and bit the globe of Shane’s asscheek, then used his thumbs to spread him wide and expose his clenching hole.

Ilya licked the flat of his tongue across it, closing his eyes to savor the way Shane’s ass thrust back against his face and the hitching gasp Scott made from the feel of Shane’s spasming throat around his dick.

“Holy shit,” Scott panted.

Ilya slid a finger into Shane and backed off just far enough to look at Scott, who looked like he might come down Shane’s throat any minute.

“Easy, Shane,” he murmured, punctuating the statement with a nip to Shane’s ass. “You’re going to make old man Scotty lose it.”

Shane pulled his mouth from Scott’s cock and tucked his face lower to play with his balls, his fingers still teasing at Scott’s prostate, stretching him for Ilya.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised. He poured some of the lube over his own fingers and pushed a second into Shane’s ass. He was opening up so easily for Ilya, so beautifully, moaning as he sucked and licked at Scott’s balls.

Ilya took in the easy press of Shane’s fingers into Scott’s ass, the relaxed way Scott melted against the pillows, and figured he was probably ready enough to move onto that ride Scott had promised him. Ilya pulled Shane’s hand back from Scott's hole and sat Shane up in his lap. Moving his own hand, Ilya slid it around Shane's front so that Scott could watch Ilya fuck his hole open with slick fingers.

“Isn’t he pretty?” Ilya asked Scott, making heavy-lidded eye contact over Shane’s shoulder again. Shane whined, maybe at the change in angle or maybe from Ilya putting him on display like that, but he settled into Ilya’s chest either way and rocked against his fingers, head tilted to give Ilya free access to the skin of his neck.

Scott groaned. “Really fucking pretty,” he agreed.

Ilya smirked. “You will suck him while you ride me,” he said, then he kissed Shane and pulled his fingers from his ass. He helped him lay back on the bed facing the headboard, and grabbed a pillow to prop his hips up. Then Ilya pulled Scott forward and guided his mouth to Shane’s cock, Scott’s ass in the air, and his hat lost somewhere in the sheets.

“He may come,” Ilya warned Scott. “Is okay, he will come again.”

Scott moaned and sucked Shane’s dick into his mouth. With the two occupied, Ilya situated himself against the pillows and headboard behind Scott and settled Scott’s knees to each side of his hips. Catching on to what Ilya wanted from him, Scott angled his hips to help Ilya guide him onto his cock.

“How about that ride?” Ilya asked, using both hands to help Scott find a good rhythm to rock back on his dick while sucking Shane’s cock.

Ilya could only see the muscular planes of Scott’s back, his flexing hips, and Shane’s flushed face from this angle. While he couldn’t see what Scott was doing, it was obviously working for Shane, who was moaning and fisting the sheets at his sides, back arched and mouth open.

Shane was the first to come, crying out in pleasure while Scott stayed on him through it, then he released Shane’s cock from his mouth and tucked his face in the divot of Shane’s hip, panting and pushing back against Ilya harder and faster. He seemed to catch his breath and used his arms on the mattress to push himself up and give himself more room to ride, stroking his own cock while he watched Shane collect himself against the sheets. When Scott came, his cum shot over his own fist and across Shane’s stomach and chest. Still riding the high of his earlier orgasm, Shane lay there and took it, panting to catch his breath and lax against the sheets.

Ilya pushed Scott’s hips up and off his dick, just barely managing to stave off his own orgasm. He helped Scott roll to one side and took the opportunity of having their mouths so close together to kiss him long and deep, tasting Shane’s release which still lingered on his tongue.

“Okay?” Ilya checked in. Scott looked like he was about to fall asleep then and there.

Scott gave a tired little grin and nodded. “Shit, yeah. So okay.”

Ilya laughed and rolled back onto his back. Shane was alert again, watching Ilya and Scott together. Ilya made a show of licking his lip, sliding his thumb under it, and watched Shane’s blown pupils track the movement.

“Ready, cowboy?” Ilya asked. He found Shane’s pink cowboy hat in the sheets and leaned forward to plop it back on his head before settling down. “I’m all yours.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but reached up with one hand to check that the hat was secure before crawling up the bed to straddle Ilya’s hips. He sat back on his knees and held Ilya’s gaze while one hand reached back to take Ilya’s cock and guide it to his hole.

Ilya groaned, watching Shane sink onto him like a fucking pro, and tucked his hands under his head to keep from reaching out and taking over. He hoped the move made him look relaxed, unbothered by the sight of Shane in a ridiculous pink cowboy hat bouncing on his dick and playing with his own nipples. Could Shane see how close Ilya was just from this? Just from having his dick enveloped in the heat of Shane's ass while he put on a fucking show for him?

“Holy shit, Hollander,” Hunter moaned next to them. His hand was wrapped around his dick, hard again as he watched Shane ride.

“I thought we were using first names,” Ilya teased, the breathless wheeze in his voice giving away how close he was to losing control.

Shane’s answering grin was small and pleased, fucking proud of himself as he held both men’s attention and sped up the pace, stroking his cock in time with his movements.

Ilya needed to close his eyes and get himself under control but he couldn’t possibly close his eyes and miss a single fucking second of this.

He wasn’t sure who came first. The next thing Ilya knew, he was blowing probably the biggest load of his fucking life while Shane’s cum shot over his own fist and Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya helped Shane roll to the sheets and licked the cum from his hand, eyes catching Scott still watching them, pumping his own dick furiously, so Ilya gave him a show and sucked each of Shane’s fingers into his mouth one at a time until his whole hand was glistening from Ilya’s spit. When he was finished, Ilya shifted closer to Scott, pulled Scott's hand from his dick, and sucked him into his mouth. It only took a few good pulls before Scott was coming down Ilya’s throat.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Scott panted a few minutes later while they all caught their breath, stretched out in a mess of limbs on the mattress.

“Hmm, was fun. Did not know you could have fun, Hunter.”

“You put up with this regularly?” Scott groaned, talking to Shane over Ilya’s head.

Shane laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, I know. He’s just like that.”

Ilya smirked. Shane liked Ilya being an asshole.

“Okay, everyone out,” Ilya commanded. “I need a shower, and there is no room for three. I will see you tomorrow, go away and let me sleep.”

Shane hit him with a pillow, then climbed from the bed, still laughing with Hunter, while Ilya was left sputtering.

Ilya wondered if every All-Star weekend would be this fun.

Shane

The next day, Shane and Ilya were called to do an interview together before the Skills Competition. The room was chock full of press, humming with reporters eager to have two such high-profile new players in one space.

“Ilya,” one reporter started. “You were Rookie of the Year after a legendary rookie season last year, scoring 51 goals despite getting a late start. It’s the kind of start you don’t see very often, yet here Shane Hollander is with 31 goals already and well on his way to passing your achievement last season. What are your thoughts on that?”

Shane saw Ilya shift and wondered if he was as nervous about this as Shane was. Ilya had a whole extra season to get used to this kind of attention, but that didn’t necessarily make it much easier.

Shane shifted his foot under the table to brush against Ilya’s in reassurance, then shot him a friendly smile.

Ilya gave a soft smile back and returned his attention to the reporter.

“Shane Hollander is a good friend and a very good hockey player. Probably the second-best player in the league. I am happy he is doing well and being recognized for this.”

“Ilya!” another reporter called. “Your friendship with Hollander is speculated about a lot lately. Can you tell us more about how you became friends? Is it difficult to play against someone you’re so close to?”

“Speculate?” Ilya murmured, turning to Shane for help.

“Like, talked about. People are talking about how we could have become friends,” Shane explained. He wished the reporters would do a better job of remembering that Ilya had only lived here for a couple of years and that English wasn’t his first language. The shouting and flashing lights were stressful enough.

At least they gave Ilya time to think it through.

“I first met Shane as a junior playing for Russia in Saskatchewan. In a way, he is the first player I knew in this country. When I was drafted to the Centaurs in his hometown, Mama Hollander offered to help me get settled. The Hollanders are a very nice family. Very Canadian,” Ilya chuckled, shouldering Shane at the end.

Shane laughed and shook his head.

“Shane!” another reporter cried. “It was a surprise for everyone when you were drafted to Boston! Their play style is known for being very rough and different from yours. Has it been difficult to adapt?”

That was a fair question, but not an easy one to answer. Shane took his time mulling it over, wanting to keep his response both honest to himself and media-appropriate. It was a delicate balance he still struggled with.

“I mean, it hasn’t always been easy,” Shane started. “Boston’s preferred type of play is very physical, and you’re right, it’s not really the kind of hockey I’m known for, but it’s helped me become a better player. I take risks now that I wouldn’t have before, and they don’t let me be shy and modest about my skills. I think I’ve grown a lot.”

Ilya nodded along with Shane’s answer. “Yes,” he agreed. “Has been good for him. He is much less boring now!”

Some of the reporters laughed and asked a few more questions about the upcoming events and what Shane and Ilya’s experience in Nashville had been like so far.

Shane was just grateful he managed not to blush at that one. His experience in Nashville definitely hadn’t been very press appropriate, even by Boston’s standards. He still had that terrible pink hat in his hotel room, thrown in a corner where he wouldn’t have to look at it all the time and get simultaneously embarrassed and turned on at the memory of what he’d done while wearing it.

He couldn’t believe he had ridden Ilya while Scott watched like he was some wasted rhinestone cowgirl on a mechanical bull in an Alberta bar. There’s no way that was his life.

And Ilya was probably never going to let him live it down, either.

The Skills Competition went off without a hitch. Shane even managed to shave a second off of Ilya’s record-setting time at the accuracy competition.

“Is not surprise!” Ilya chirped when Shane made it back to the bench. “You always shoot fast, don’t you Hollander?”

Scott choked on his own spit, and Shane glared. Leave it to fucking Ilya to say shit like that in front of the entire fucking bench of MLH All-Stars.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Shane replied, having held his own after starting the season with the Raiders. “If you miss targets like that as often in bed as you do here, then it’s a good thing you’ve got the stamina to make sure your partners actually get off, isn’t it?”

Ilya barked out a surprised laugh, and Scott looked like he would rather be absolutely anywhere else than sitting right next to them.

“Are you always like this?” Scott asked.

Ilya smirked and shrugged. Despite his big words, Shane was still flushed with embarrassment at his own comeback. He knew Ilya noticed too, could see the other man’s humor in the subtle twist of his lips.

That night, he and Ilya stayed in, ordering room service and not giving a fuck if Scott could hear them through the walls. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there to participate in basically the same thing the night before, anyway.

The next day was the 3-on-3 tournament between conferences. Shane, Ilya, and Scott on one line was a combination that, frankly, was unfair to any other line there. They blazed their way through the competition with Shane at center. When Ilya’s pass connected solidly with Shane’s stick, giving him a shot for the tournament-winning goal, Shane hoisted his stick into the air to celebrate netting it and Ilya crashed into him.

“Nice goal!” Ilya cheered, smacking a kiss onto Shane’s cheek below his visor.

Shane turned and grinned at him, watching the way Ilya’s entire face lit up with joy and excitement.

“Well, folks!” the announcer called. “Friends off the ice and now on! That’s chemistry you don’t see every day! Could you imagine if they didn't play for opposing teams?”

Shane could absolutely imagine. Now that he’d had a taste of what it was like to play with Ilya instead of against him, it was all Shane really wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time hockey had been that fun, definitely not since things ramped up with Juniors.

And as much as Shane felt like he was starting to get comfortable in Boston, he didn’t exactly have fun with them either. Not with the constant need to prove himself.

“See you in a few weeks!” Ilya called out, parting ways at the airport to go to his own gate.

“Yeah, when we beat you again!” Shane agreed, laughing. It was his team’s turn to go to Ottawa for a game, and Shane’s mom was already making plans to cook them both dinner. She really seemed to be doubling down on the plans to adopt Ilya into the family these days.

His flight to Boston was uneventful, and soon enough, Shane was asleep in his own bed, the rest of the season like one long highlight reel that spread out before him.

Chapter End Notes

(Update): Well, I didn’t really think this needed to be said, but please keep any and all comments supportive and genuinely constructive. I love hearing from you guys, and I’m always happy to grow, change and adjust if ever you think I’ve made an error whether that is with tagging or with the content of what I write. I want you to feel comfortable letting me know, just remember to do so in a respectful way. Please know that anyone writing and posting stories on this site is doing so for fun and for free. I don’t like having to block people, but I will if it gets too negative. I guess this is a year of firsts lol. First time posting a fic, first time writing smut, and now first time blocking someone for being rude in the comments. Please keep it kind <3

Chapter 10: Vegas

Chapter Summary

The Raiders play against the Centaurs in Ottawa, Ilya attends family dinner with the Hollanders and when the season is over he presents the 2010-2011 season Calder Trophy in Vegas.

Chapter Notes

Aiming for a short note after the novel of one I wrote yesterday at the start of the last chapter. If you read the last chapter before yesterday and haven't had a chance to read the updated note, please give it a read. Also, please note the updated tags and understand that I will likely update them again periodically as I go, as needed.

For those of you used to me posting long before now, I'm sorry for the wait. It's been a long month, and I got sick over the weekend. Which, between that and some of the negativity around the last chapter, meant my usual productivity was pretty shot. I took this morning to read through the story so far, editing it and also letting myself get excited over the progress again, because I had lost some of that excitement. I think I've hit my stride again with this chapter, and hope you enjoy it. Anyways, there are more warnings for this story in particular in that last updated note before chapter 9, so please take the time to read through it.

Thank you to those of you who have been a cornerstone of positivity and support. I promise I haven't given up on this fic! Just needed a little reset <3

Shane

Returning to Ottawa in a Raiders hoodie to play against the team Shane had grown up supporting was surreal enough to almost feel like an out-of-body experience. They arrived a day before the game and spent the afternoon practicing. Their game in Pittsburgh the day before had gone well, and the team was in good spirits as they chirped each other through drills and Coach LeClaire called plays for the lines to work through.

Shane’s mom finally got what she wanted, and Ilya was planning to come over for dinner that night at the house. Shane hadn’t even been there for more than a few minutes when the doorbell rang, and Yuna went to open it, apron still tied around her waist and a beaming smile on her face.

“Come in!” she greeted, taking the bottle of wine from Ilya’s hands so he could slip his coat and shoes off at the door.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya returned, his accented voice deep and even. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course!” his mom enthused. “I have been telling Shane to bring you over since Christmas before last. It’s just so lovely that the two of you have become friends. He can be like that, though. He never has been great at sharing his friends with his family.”

“It’s like we embarrass him or something!” Shane’s dad called from the kitchen. He had mitts on to protect his hands as he pulled the chicken out of the oven.

Shane glared at him. He wasn’t shy. He just didn’t ever want to explain to his parents that he and Ilya were fucking. That was a completely legitimate concern.

Shane heard Ilya laugh, then saw him walk into the living room with his mom. “He can be very shy, yes.”

“Shane!” Ilya grinned, spotting him leaning against the couch. “Ready to lose in front of your parents and hometown tomorrow?”

Shane glared and looked at his mom as if to say. See? See why I don’t bring him here?

But instead of chastising Ilya like Shane half expected her to, his mom laughed. What the hell? His mom hated empty bragging!

“Mom!” Shane exclaimed, scandalized.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Shane. You know I just can’t cheer on the Raiders. It’s sacrilege.”

Shane pouted. His dad left the kitchen and pulled him in for a side hug. “If it makes you feel any better,” his dad said. “She still cheers for Montreal over our home team. She’s a stubborn woman, your mother.”

Yuna smirked, pleased with herself. Ilya laughed at the exchange and grinned over at Shane.

Soon enough, the table was set with plates full of chicken parmesan and salad. Shane tried not to laugh at the way Ilya’s shoulders danced while he ate.

“So,” his mom started. “How was All-Star weekend? It looks like you managed to play together just fine.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It was a lot of fun, actually.”

“You know,” Yuna continued. “The Olympics are a few years away, but if Ilya gets his citizenship finalized in time, you could both play for Canada. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Ilya grinned and nodded around a mouthful of pasta, slurping noodles into his mouth. “Is true,” he said. “This is goal, no? My lawyer is thinking we can make this happen.”

“Now that really would be something!” Shane’s dad agreed jovially. “I’d bet good money on gold if that happens.”

Shane hadn’t even thought about it, but now that he did, he couldn’t help but agree. He imagined sharing Olympic ice with Ilya, how it would feel to bring home matching medals for Canada. Ilya getting a chance to shove his success in the face of the country that abandoned him.

The rest of dinner went just as smoothly, with Ilya and Shane’s parents carrying the conversation easily while Shane soaked in the amicable chatter. After dinner, Shane’s dad started a fire in the backyard, and they all sat around with drinks and blankets over their laps, talking about summer plans.

“I was thinking,” Yuna said. “You and Shane did that Reebok ad together last summer, and your friendship has been a huge point of interest since the All-Stars. Would you be interested in doing some more campaigns together over the summer?”

Shane groaned. “Do we have to talk about work?”

Ilya smirked at him. “Don’t be rude to Mama Hollander, Shane. She has all the good ideas in this house. I think this would be fun, no?”

Shane sighed dramatically but agreed. It wasn’t a bad idea, and it would be fun. It would also give Shane some guaranteed time with Ilya over the summer.

Ilya left not too long after that, claiming he needed to get back home to rest for practice in the morning and Shane took the opportunity to excuse himself as well. His mom had offered for him to stay in his own bedroom, of course, but Shane had waved her off by saying he wanted to stay with his team for morale.

Meanwhile, his team believed that Shane was staying with his parents. Only Cliff knew where he would actually be staying that night.

Ilya didn’t even give Shane a chance to finish slipping out of his shoes before he had his tongue down Shane’s throat. Shane tripped over his sneakers, stumbling into the living room. Ilya caught and steadied him, pulling him further into the space and through the open door to his bedroom.

“I am going to fuck you so hard you still feel me at practice tomorrow,” Ilya warned. “Strip, Hollander. On your knees.”

Shane hastened to follow the order, leaving his clothes roughly folded on the dresser and sinking to his knees on the plush carpet the minute he was finished. His hands fell to his knees, palms up, and eyelids heavy as he struggled to keep them open. Ilya grabbed him by the jaw and held his mouth open, then shoved two fingers down Shane’s throat until his eyes watered and he choked on them.

“I am going to fuck your mouth, Shane. You want me to stop you tap me here,” Ilya pointed to his thigh. “Twice.”

Shane moaned, mouth falling open as he waited for Ilya to follow through.

“No,” Ilya said, using the same two spit-soaked fingers to force Shane’s jaw closed. “You give me a verbal answer Hollander, yes?”

“Yes, Ilya.”

“Good boy,” Ilya praised. “Show me how you will tell me to stop.”

Shane raised one hand from his knee and tapped Ilya on the thigh. Twice.

“Good. You are ready?”

Shane forced himself to meet Ilya’s eyes. “Yes,” he murmured, letting his mouth fall open again.

Ilya’s hands dug into Shane’s hair, pulling at the dark strands as he tilted Shane’s head back and fucked his cock into Shane’s mouth. He went slow at first, giving Shane time to adjust, until he was fucking relentlessly down Shane’s throat, chasing his own release, using Shane and pulling his hair with every thrust of his cock.

Ilya groaned when he came. Shane swallowed reflexively as the hot fluid filled his throat, some still flooding his mouth, and a small trail leaking from the corner of his lips. Ilya pulled out, used his grip on Shane’s hair to pull him up off his knees, and licked the cum from his lips and chin.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised. “I got a special present for you. It’s with the lube and condoms in my drawer. Go get it and take it to the bed.”

“Yes, Ilya,” Shane agreed, stumbling over to the nightstand and pulling the drawer open. He was so hard, it was a struggle not to hold his cock for any kind of relief. He knew if he did that Ilya wouldn’t be pleased with him.

His hand froze over the drawer when he saw what was inside it. A blue silicone toy sat next to the bottle of lube and box of condoms. Shane pulled it out first, tracing a finger over the knobby surface. He had a dildo at home, of course. It was a lot smaller and simpler. This looked strange, almost alien. Shane held it up so Ilya could see it.

“You like?” Ilya asked, grinning mischievously.

“What the fuck, Ilya?” Shane asked, fog clearing against the strength of his surprise and confusion.

“Is fun. Don’t forget condom and lube.”

Shane rolled his eyes and grabbed everything, then closed the door and climbed onto the bed. He set the supplies Ilya wanted next to himself and waited for further instruction.

“Hands and knees, Shane,” Ilya ordered. Shane turned and positioned himself so that his head hovered over the pillows, ass facing Ilya at the end of the bed, and waited. He shivered in the chill of the bedroom, feeling exposed.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised, the mattress dipping as he settled behind him. Shane shivered again when Ilya’s cool, lube-slick fingers massaged his hole. It was the only place he touched him, carefully massaging the rim before pushing first one and then two fingers inside. Shane whined, struggling to hold himself still while Ilya did as he wanted.

The fingers retreated, and Shane whimpered, burying his face in the pillows. Instead of the fingers coming back, or Ilya’s dick, even, Shane felt the cool silicone of the toy against his rim and whimpered again, biting the pillow under his mouth and shaking from the effort of staying still.

A sudden sound split the air as the toy loudly vibrated against his ass. Shane yelped, springing forward from the shock. One of Ilya’s hands caressed his ass, steadying him, as Ilya murmured soothingly, still holding the toy against him while Shane squirmed until he settled.

“Okay?” Ilya checked.

Shane released the pillow to clear his mouth, then moaned. “Okay,” he sighed, settling back against the toy. He felt Ilya’s teeth against his ass, the small nip he left there, then felt the vibration stop. The room went silent except for Shane’s heavy breathing. Ilya pushed the toy past his rim and fucked him with it.

“Ilya,” Shane cried, pushing his hips back and whining into the spit-soaked pillow beneath him.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised. He shoved the toy back in and held it there, then turned it on. Shane screamed, the vibration pulsing across his prostate. He fisted the pillows beneath him and shook while he cried. Ilya pulled the toy almost all the way out, then angled it and fucked him again, hitting his prostate and holding the toy there. Shane keened and came, cum spilling across the sheets beneath him.

Ilya removed the toy, turned it off, and rolled Shane over to lay on his back on a dry section of the mattress.

He leaned down and kissed Shane, tongue invading his mouth, and Shane sighed, still trembling from the intensity of his release. He whimpered again when Ilya reached down to roll a condom over his cock and lined up with Shane’s hole, the head of his dick pressing against Shane’s sensitive rim and staying there while Ilya bit a path down Shane’s jaw to his throat.

He slid in, and Shane let his legs fall open, ankles slipping to rest over Ilya’s calves. Ilya reached down and lifted Shane’s legs up, hooking them over his arms. He fucked Shane like that, driving into him hard and fast, using him.

Shane’s breathing hitched with every thrust, lips parting around broken pleas and whimpers, his cock taking interest again and leaking a steady stream of precum over his stomach. Ilya left his hands on the mattress, ignored Shane’s cock entirely, and fucked him until he came, hips stuttering and breathing heavy. When he was finished, he slipped down and sucked Shane’s cock into his mouth, humming around it and teasing the head with his tongue. Shane came again with a choked scream, hands burying in Ilya’s curls while Ilya licked him clean.

Ilya

Ilya changed the sheets while Shane showered, then gave Shane a kiss on his way to the bathroom for his own shower and nightly routine. By the time he made it back to the bed, Shane was already asleep. Ilya pulled the comforter over them both, wrapped his arms around Shane, and fell asleep also.

The next morning, they woke early for practice, and Ilya dropped Shane off on his way to meet up with his team. Evan was right there with everyone else, teasing Ilya over the hickey on his neck that Ilya didn’t even remember Shane leaving, and the scratch marks down his back. He made up for his late night with a nap before the game and made it to the stadium feeling refreshed and ready to kick some Raider ass.

Playing against Shane for the second time that season was just as electric as the first, even better when his team won, and the stadium erupted in cheers. Evan was the first to dogpile him for the game-winning goal with less than a minute to go in regulation time.

With Shane’s team headed to the airport directly after the game, the only goodbye they had time for was a brief wave from opposite sides of the ice. They would see each other at least one more time before the end of the season. Another game was scheduled in Boston before the playoffs.

When first Thomas and then Roy got injured, the season quickly spiraled. Despite Ilya and the others doing their best to hold everything together, the Cents didn’t even make the playoffs that year. Instead, Ilya watched from his apartment in Ottawa as the Raiders got swept in the first round. He knew that had to sting, but he had a hard time mustering up genuine sympathy when his own team hadn’t even qualified.

It felt weird going to Vegas when Ilya knew he wasn’t up for any awards, but Yuna was right, and his friendship with Shane had continued to be a major talking point among the media. Considering Ilya won the Calder the year before, he guessed whoever was in charge of choosing announcers thought it was worth bringing Ilya on board to hand over this year’s award, an award that they would be crazy not to give to Shane after an astonishing 67 goals in his rookie season. The other two candidates didn’t even come close.

When Ilya stepped back onto the stage, he dutifully announced the name of each candidate and stood for the short clip of their season’s highlights, but when he announced Shane last, he couldn’t help the smirk from taking over his face. Shane’s highlights played first, but then the screen was filled with a different kind of video. A tiny Shane skated out onto wild ice, his little legs wobbling to catch his balance after turning to look back at whoever held the camera. He was wearing an Ottawa Centaur’s jersey, his front two teeth missing as he gave a gap-toothed grin and waved.

“You see,” Ilya said to the laughing crowd. “Shane Hollander is big Centaurs fan, no? Is why I am his favorite hockey player! So it is a great honor to present to you this year’s Calder Trophy winner, the Rookie of the Year and my number one fan, Shane Hollander!”

Shane’s betrayed face showed on the screen as he stood, gesticulating wildly with one hand and yelling while Yuna covered the bottom of her face with one hand and laughed. No doubt, Shane was demanding to know how Ilya and the league had gotten that footage.

“I hate you,” Shane said, walking up the stairs of the stage to accept his award. “Number one fan my ass. I can’t believe you did that! What the fuck, Ilya!”

“Language!” Ilya chastised. “This is very important event, Hollander. Very formal. Your parents are here, and the commissioner.”

Ilya saw Shane’s eye twitch, his hands curled into fists. Oh, this was very fun. Ilya would have to find more ways to embarrass him like this in the future. It was an effort not to lean in and lick his cheeks, see if they felt as warm against his tongue as they looked.

Shane took his award from Ilya and stepped up to the mic. Ilya saw his shoulders settle into something approaching relaxed as he pulled on a media smile. “Thank you,” Shane started. “Though I will definitely be having words with Ilya and my mom later about embarrassing me in public. This year couldn’t have happened without the support of my team and my coach, and despite what some Russian who’s had too many concussions might say, it has been an absolute honor to play for Boston. You may not have been the city of my childhood, but you’ve helped shape the man and pro hockey player that I am today. Go Raiders!”

His teammates and various others in the crowd cheered in support. Shane waved to them all and stepped off the stage with Ilya in tow to go sit beside his parents.

“I’m not talking to you for at least a week,” Shane griped to his mom, sitting down and getting sandwiched in by Ilya. “Either of you.”

“Liar,” Ilya disagreed. “You love us. Would be very boring week for you, Hollander.”

Yuna chuckled and high-fived Ilya over Shane’s head.

“Congratulations, son!” David cheered. He had been just as involved in the planning, though Ilya would never tell Shane that.

“Besides,” Yuna said. “This is the perfect way to boost attention on you two before the summer. We’ve got several campaigns lined up, and a little extra attention can go a long way for your sponsors.”

When all of the awards had been announced, the audience and players all made their way to the reception for drinks and hors d'oeuvres. With Shane’s parents there, Ilya did his best to behave and stuck to the champagne that various servers walked around with, rather than indulging in the open bar.

It was maybe an hour into the schmoozing, and Shane’s parents were off networking halfway across the room. Well, Yuna was networking while David stood as supportive arm candy, when Scott Hunter joined them near the bar.

“Cute video,” Scott teased. “No teeth, very hockey appropriate.”

Shane elbowed him in the ribs and looked completely unapologetic over the champagne that spilled over Scott’s suit.

“I still can’t believe my mom worked with this asshole and did that!”

Ilya laughed. “Only born Hollanders are boring. Yuna married in. She is exception.”

“We should celebrate,” Scott insisted. “Shots on me?”

Ilya scoffed. “Is open bar, dumbass. But yes, okay. Let us do shots.”

Scott called over a few other players he knew, some guy from his team named Eric Bennett, who won the Vezina that year, a couple of players from Scott's draft year that played in the Western Conference, and one of Bennett’s friends.

The bartender poured a round of shots and they downed them together, Shane spluttering over his. Ilya laughed at him.

“What?” Shane groaned. “I thought it was vodka, not tequila! That shit’s lethal!”

Scott thumped Shane over the back. “That’s what happens when you let Benny choose. I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen that man drink, and for whatever godforsaken reason, he always picks tequila. Go figure.”

The night pretty much wound down to a close shortly after that, and through unspoken agreement, Shane followed Ilya up to his hotel room.

“You looked very cute, all embarrassed over baby Shane video,” Ilya teased, taking off his tie and throwing it over the back of an armchair.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t remind me that I’m pissed at you if you’re expecting to get any tonight, Rozanov.”

Ilya chuckled. “I think you would be more upset by that than me, Hollander. Come, I want to shower before I fuck you.”

Shane followed Ilya into the bathroom and the large hotel shower, though he couldn’t seem to resist licking across Ilya’s bare chest within minutes of the water turning on. Ilya moaned and pushed Shane up against the tile.

“What do you want, Shane?”

“Your mouth,” Shane groaned.

Ilya grinned and went to his knees, happy to oblige. Shane was already hard, the warm water of the shower beading on his erect cock where it jutted from his hips. Ilya sucked him into his mouth and down his throat, setting a brutal pace while one finger reached back to massage against Shane’s hole. He didn’t last very long before he was coming down Ilya’s throat.

Ilya stood and took Shane’s hand, bringing it to his dick while he kissed Shane’s open mouth and shared the lingering taste of Shane’s cum on his tongue. Shane moaned and obediently started jerking Ilya off, thumbing his slit just how he knew Ilya liked it. Ilya came almost as fast, his own release quickly washing down the drain.

He helped Shane wash his hair, then scrubbed through his own while Shane lathered soap across Ilya’s body, following the path of his hands with his mouth. By the time they were finished, both Shane and Ilya were hard again.

Ilya helped Shane dry off, then pushed him toward the bedroom. He crossed over to his bag on his way to the bed, digging out the lube and condoms before following Shane to the large bed. His frame was lit by the lights of the Vegas skyline that spilled through the window.

Ilya blanketed Shane’s body with his own, kissed him long and slow and deep. He was tired from a full day, felt languid and bubbly from the champagne and tequila shots. He wanted to take his time, go slow, watch Shane fall apart one hitched breath at a time. Ilya helped Shane lay down on his side, pushed his top leg so that his knee was up near his chest, and massaged the pads of two fingers against Shane’s hole.

He kissed his shoulder, felt Shane’s body melt as he relaxed into the pillows. Ilya added lube to his fingers and languidly slipped one inside, finding Shane’s prostate and massaging over it.

“Ilya,” Shane gasped, one arm reaching behind Ilya’s head to pull him into a kiss. “Please,” he whispered against Ilya’s lips.

Ilya hadn’t spent as much time preparing him as he normally would, but Shane was ready enough. He rolled the condom on and guided his dick with one hand to Shane’s rim. Shane moaned when he slowly pushed in.

“Fuck,” Shane sighed. “Feels so good.”

Ilya hummed, just resting there, letting Shane adjust and brushing their lips together, his tongue slipping out to taste and sip the sighs from Shane’s lips. He rolled against him like waves kissing the shore, one hand loosely wrapped around Shane’s cock as he gradually took them both closer to the edge.

Ilya had never taken his time like this with anyone. It was all-encompassing. Completely overwhelming. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything stupid and ridiculous, like telling Shane how beautiful he looked tonight under the Vegas lights, or that Ilya thought he might be falling in love with him.

Because Ilya couldn’t fall in love with Shane Hollander. What a stupid mistake that would be. They were too young, far too busy. They had their whole careers in front of them. One rookie player who sometimes slept with men was one thing, but two star rookies in a relationship? Together but playing for different teams in the same division? That would never go over well.

And Shane wasn’t out. Didn’t have to be out or want to be out. Probably shouldn’t be out.

So Ilya bit his lip and tried not to even let himself think the words, not in English or Russian. It could never happen. He would never let it happen.

Ilya's orgasm rolled over him like the tide, followed soon after by Shane’s own, and he barely moved to tie off the condom before wrapping Shane back up in his arms and falling asleep.

Chapter End Notes

Well, it's safe to say that Ilya at least is starting to catch the actual feels. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Hoping to get the next one finished and up tomorrow. Until next time <3

Chapter 11: Benign

Chapter Summary

In which Shane and Ilya shoot commercials and ads together over the off-season, and there are definitely no feelings involved.

Chapter Notes

Shane

While Shane’s mom had definitely lined up their off-season with various ad campaigns, Shane appreciated that she still made sure to give them a break at the start of summer to rest after the season. Their first photoshoot, a spread for Speedo, wasn’t set until July. Then there was City Seltzer, some underwear ads, and Rolex.

Ilya wouldn’t be joining him for all of them, but he was scheduled to do the Speedo shoot and the City Seltzer commercial.

In the meantime, Shane had time to burn at his parents’ cottage. He had started putting out feelers for buying some land nearby to have his own built. While he knew his parents were always happy to share their space, something about moving out and having his own place in Boston had really emphasized for Shane how nice it was to have room for just himself.

It was the reason he had taken his laptop out originally, though he had quickly abandoned any actual research and planning for scrolling through social media on his anonymous accounts. He had just finished reading an article on Dallas Kent, Toronto’s new rookie for the next season, when another post caught his attention.

It wasn’t a news post at all, more of a video compilation that seemed to splice together different clips of Shane and Ilya from the All-Stars weekend and the MLH awards in Vegas. Underneath was a tag Shane had never seen before: Hollanov.

Are you seeing what I’m seeing? The text of the original post read. Underneath it was a string of comments.

They’re too cute, I can’t even!

Not this again…

He worked with Hollander’s MOTHER to get that clip!

What? Are guys not allowed to have friends now?

KISS! KISS! KISS!

I mean, can you blame a girl for wishful thinking here?

And on and on it went. Now, Shane knew he wasn’t always quick on the uptake with anything to do with people or social interactions, but you didn’t have to be to see what was going on here either. He followed the tag to other posts. There was fan art of them. Some benign enough, showing the two of them holding hands. Some was nonsensical, with them drawn as faeries or aliens. Others were… explicit. Shane tried to repress the blush overtaking his face.

Were they that obvious?

He found the original post on his phone and sent it to Ilya.

Shane: are we that obvious?

It didn’t take very long for Ilya to respond.

Ilya: they would do this even if we were rivals. why are you on tumblr???

Shane: i try to keep track of what people say about me

Ilya: that is bad idea. not healthy

Shane: are you saying you don’t?

There was a long pause where Ilya didn’t respond. Shane did his best to ignore how much he was anticipating said response by going back to the real estate listings he took his laptop out to search through earlier.

Ilya: i am not always healthy

Shane chuckled. He should probably be worried about the new tag that was trending about them. But Shane had been lurking on social media for almost two years now. He knew this was just the kind of thing that people did. No one was out there taking it seriously.

Shane: these ads are going to make it 10x worse

Ilya: pretty sure Mama Hollander is in on it

Shane: 100%

Shane: she has never met a flame she didn’t want to fan

Ilya: ?

Shane: she likes to stir the pot, cause drama

Ilya: o

Shane: it’s “good publicity”

Ilya: your mom would have made good hockey player

Shane laughed, imagining his mom chirping other players and starting shit on the ice. For all her proclaimed hatred for the Raiders, she would have fit in on the team a lot easier than Shane had. There was a reason Shane found it so terrifying that she and Ilya were on good enough terms to work together.

Ilya

While Ilya didn’t think he ever wanted to live anywhere warm, it was always nice to visit. The photoshoot for Speedo was set in California, so the company flew them both out to LA and put them up in a hotel within walking distance of Santa Monica beach. With Ilya flying in from Boston and Shane from Ottawa, they were both busy from the minute they landed and didn’t have a chance to actually see each other until the start of the shoot the next day.

“I look ridiculous,” Shane complained, pulling at the chin strap of his helmet with a grimace. They were both in swim trunks with matching helmets, elbow and knee pads to go with the inline skates the crew wanted them wearing.

Ilya laughed and Shane shoved him. “You’re supposed to disagree with me, asshole!”

“What is it Americans call this? Fishing?” Ilya teased.

Shane rolled his eyes. He wasn’t wrong, though, they both looked ridiculous. Why wear swimsuits to go roller skating?

They spent the morning skating down the beach, views of the pier and palm trees in the background, then took a break for lunch with plans to get some shots on the pier itself after. Shane and Ilya both were a bit breathless and covered in sweat when they collapsed with boxed lunches at a picnic table.

“You’re getting burned,” Shane pointed out, poking one of Ilya’s shoulders, leaving his finger there and slowly pulling it away to reveal a white patch that took a while to turn red again.

Ilya groaned. “I put on sunscreen. At least four times today, I put on sunscreen.”

Shane laughed at him. “It’s that pale Russian complexion. I don’t think sunny California agrees with you.’

Ilya looked Shane over to see if he had burned at all. It looked like little freckles to match his cheeks were forming across his shoulders. Maybe the sun in California didn’t agree with Ilya’s pale skin, but it certainly did wonders for Shane’s. How could Ilya be expected to control himself with more freckles?

Shane caught him staring and stuck his tongue out at him. Ilya retaliated by flipping him off, then tore a bit of bread from his sandwich and threw it out to a nearby seagull.

“You’re going to get us ambushed and shit on. We’re not supposed to feed the seagulls.”

“Live a little, would you Hollander?” Ilya replied, tearing off another bite to throw. He was definitely earning the interest of quite a few birds nearby. Luckily for Shane, it was almost time to get back to work and Ilya didn’t have time to draw in a full mob.

The rest of the day was spent sweaty and sandy on the beach, with a few shots of them out of their skates and pads actually swimming in the surf. The good news was that the shoot itself was pretty much over and they would have the next day to enjoy and explore LA before heading back to their respective summer homes.

Luckily, the studio they started and finished the day in had showers where both Shane and Ilya could wash the sweat and sand off before changing into clean clothes to catch a car back to the hotel.

“Come with me,” Shane said once they were both back and safely in the lobby. Ilya followed him to the elevators and up to his room.

To Ilya’s disappointment, Shane didn’t kiss him the minute the door closed behind them. Instead, he crossed over to the mini fridge and pulled out a plastic bottle full of what looked like green hair gel.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the desk chair. Ilya smirked.

“That is usually my line,” he teased.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Rozanov. And take your shirt off.”

Amused and not sure where this was going, Ilya decided to play along and did as he was told. He watched in the mirror as Shane squeezed some of the green gel onto his hands and rubbed them together before rubbing them against his shoulders.

Ilya hissed. It was really fucking cold against his skin, but as Shane continued to rub the green goo into his shoulders, Ilya sighed because it also felt really nice. Cool, soothing against the sunburn. It wasn’t sticky or thick like hair gel, more slimy than anything, tacky when it dried.

“What is this?” he asked.

Shane smiled and caught his gaze in the mirror. “After-sun. It’s made with Aloe Vera and should help your sunburn. You might even avoid peeling if we’re lucky.”

“Peeling?” Ilya asked, aghast and horrified.

Shane chuckled. “Yes, peeling. My dad has gotten some nasty sunburns on past vacations. It’s not a good look.”

Ilya grimaced. He had been sunburned before, but never this bad. He hoped he wouldn’t have to discover for himself exactly what this peeling process entailed.

When Shane looked satisfied at the coverage of the after-sun he had applied to Ilya’s burned skin, he snapped the lid of the bottle and set it on the desk in front of Ilya. Then, still holding eye contact in the mirror, Shane leaned down to lay a gentle kiss across one sun-pink shoulder.

“Better?” he asked, laying his head over the spot he’d just kissed.

Ilya smiled and turned his head to lay his own kiss against Shane’s hair. It was long enough now that he had to hold it back in a little bun with a hair tie, the strands wavy and wild the longer it grew.

“Better,” he agreed.

Again, Ilya knew that he should put more distance between them during sex. And again, Ilya fell prey to his own weakness. He held Shane close and fucked him sweetly, laying kisses and little Russian endearments against his skin, and tried not to think about how this really needed to stop before it broke Ilya completely.

Shane

Shane had the opportunity to watch the construction crew break ground on the land that would soon host his own cottage the week before he had to leave for Toronto. He and Ilya were set to meet there for their second ad together, a commercial for City Seltzer. They were again put up in the same hotel, with Shane’s room on the eighth floor and Ilya’s on the eleventh. They spent the entire night before the shoot fucking, careful not to leave marks that could be questioned or would need to be hidden by the film crew.

Shane’s mom had wanted to come with him for this one, what with Toronto not being nearly as far as LA, but Shane had managed to convince her to stay home, not wanting to explain his empty hotel room when she inevitably barged in before sunrise to check that he was awake.

So instead it was just Shane and Ilya with the crew, teasing each other over the wet t-shirts they wanted for the ad.

Ilya pulled Shane into a storage closet during one of their breaks, lips sealing over the dark outline of Shane’s nipple through the see-through material of the wet shirt. Shane moaned, hand automatically going to the back of Ilya’s head to hold him closer.

“Shit, Ilya,” he groaned. “Don’t start shit we can’t finish. I can’t go out there hard!”

“I have been hard for the past hour,” Ilya chastised. “I will be quick.”

Then he fell to his knees on the, thankfully clean, floor and pulled Shane's pants low enough to free his dick. He took it in his mouth and used every trick in the book to bring Shane to the brink in record time. Shane bit his hand to keep silent when he came down Ilya’s throat.

“My turn, Hollander,” Ilya said then, stepping back to free his own dick and lean against the opposite wall. Shane did his best to return the favor just as efficiently.

Shane knew the sideways glances he thought they were getting from some of the crew after were probably all in his head, but he still felt flushed and embarrassed for the rest of their time there.

“One of these days you’re going to get us caught,” Shane groaned into Ilya’s mouth when they finally reached the hotel room.

“Don’t be boring, Shane,” Ilya smirked. “I think we should go out tonight.”

He said it with his hand wrapped around Shane’s dick, the other playing with the long strands of Shane’s hair.

Shane whined against his lips. “Do we have to?”

Ilya chuckled. “If you are good boy and go dancing with me, I will give you nice reward later.”

Shane gasped, growing distracted by the increased pace of Ilya’s hand on his cock bringing him closer to the edge.

“Reward?” Shane asked.

“Hmm,” Ilya agreed. “Whatever you want.”

Shane smiled. He could think of a few ways to cash that in that Ilya might not be expecting. “Okay,” he agreed.

Shane came with Ilya's hand around his dick and sucked him off in the shower after. When they were finished drying off, Shane watched Ilya pull out a set of clothes from his own suitcase that were clearly not in Ilya’s size. He handed them over to Shane.

“Put this on,” Ilya commanded, then turned and walked back to his suitcase to pull out his own set of clothes.

Shane looked at the skin-tight black mesh top Ilya handed him, a match to the dark tan one with long sleeves that Ilya pulled over his own head, and blushed.

“I’m not wearing this!” he protested.

“Why not?” Ilya asked, tilting his head to one side.

“It’s see-through!”

“So was your shirt in the commercial today, no? And that is going on TV and internet for everyone to see. We are going to clubs, Hollander. Do not be such a prude.”

Shane chewed his bottom lip and pulled the shirt on over his head, staring at himself in the mirror. “I look like a slut,” he said, rolling one thumb over a very obvious nipple.

“You are a slut,” Ilya teased, laughing. “You look hot. Come on, pants too!”

Shane pulled the matching black jeans on. They were way tighter than anything he would have chosen for himself, distressed with linear tears that showed even more skin.

“If we get papped and my mom sees me like this, I’m blaming your influence!” Shane threatened.

Ilya clearly wasn’t afraid enough of Yuna’s ire because he only laughed and tossed some sunglasses Shane’s way before leading the way out the door.

It was very obvious from the minute they stepped inside that this was not the kind of club that Shane went to with Marleau.

“What the fuck, Ilya!” Shane exclaimed when they walked through the doors to a sea of bodies writhing on the dance floor, many of them men dancing together, groping each other to the beat of the music that filled the speakers. Other men walked through the room with trays of shots and danced on platforms, dollar bills sticking out of the neon, incredibly revealing underwear that they wore. “A gay bar?”

“A gay club,” Ilya corrected. “Force. Is famous here.”

“How fun for you, Ilya! You’re out! What the fuck do you expect me to do here?”

“Loosen up,” Ilya teased. “Have fun. No one will recognize you here anyway. You are not so famous as to be recognized in a gay district in a city that no paparazzi even know you’re scheduled to be in. Is fine!”

It was very much not fine. It was playing with fucking fire.

“Besides!” Ilya shouted. “MLH know I like cock! You are good friend, being such good ally, no?”

Shane rolled his eyes and made for the bar. “Sure,” he muttered. “Because I’m dressed like such an ally right now. Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Shane found an empty barstool and felt a pulse of vindictive satisfaction when both seats to each side of it were full. That satisfaction died a bit when Ilya used the excuse of needing to stand to press his cock against Shane’s back when he crushed him against the sticky bar to wave the bartender down and order them drinks.

A gorgeous black man in a lime-green fishnet top walked over to take their order. Ilya ordered vodka for himself and a vodka cranberry for Shane. Shane flipped Ilya off as soon as the overworked man’s back was turned.

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” Shane complained. For the fifth time since walking into the club that night, he double checked that the sunglasses he wore still sat firmly on his face.

“Hmm, is true,” Ilya agreed. “Come dance,” he said moments later when they both had drinks.

Shane shook his head. “Not a chance. I’m not getting papped with you grinding all over me in a gay club. Tumblr has enough ideas about us already. You go dance.”

Ilya groaned a complaint but walked off alone anyway. It wasn’t long before he had a man on either side of him on the dancefloor, sandwiched between them and clearly enjoying himself.

Shane scowled. The expression darkened even further when one of the men groped Ilya’s cock through his pants.

“That your boy out there?” the bartender in the green fishnet shirt asked a bit later, wiping down a glass with a rag. The line around the bar had died down, at least for the time being.

“No, he can do what he wants,” Shane denied, turning his back on Ilya and the man that now had Ilya’s tongue down his throat.

“I mean, you can tell me to fuck off if I’m off base here, but you don’t look too happy with his choice of dance partners.”

Shane grimaced and slid his cup back and forth between his hands. It took some effort considering how sticky the bar top was. Shane felt gross just sitting there and already found himself craving another shower.

“Doesn’t fucking matter anyway, we’re just friends.”

The bartender grimaced sympathetically.

“Marcus,” he said, holding his hand out for Shane to shake.

“Shane,” Shane replied. “Busy night?”

Marcus chuckled. “Always,” he agreed. “Nice to be on this side of the bar though, I’m usually with the dancers.”

Shane pictured him in an equally lime-green banana hammock and chuckled. “Yeah, no, I think I’d rather be behind the bar too.”

“Are you from around here?” Marcus asked.

“No, just here for work. My friend convinced me to come out. Not usually my thing.”

Marcus nodded and made another drink for Shane, noticing that his was empty. “Why not? You’re fit as fuck, you should be on that dance floor too. Show your boy what he’s missing.”

Shane sighed dramatically. “I’m not exactly out,” he said. “Clubs like this are a bit… risky.”

Marcus tilted his head consideringly. “Point,” he agreed. “Why come, then?”

“My friend dragged me out. I didn’t realize this was the kind of club we were going to when he convinced me to go. Figures, though, he’s always liked pushing boundaries like that.”

“Well, there’s worse places to be. People here are usually pretty good about not spreading your business. Still, it’s always a risk I guess. No one here would judge you for leaving.”

Shane looked back over at Ilya. He had moved on to dancing with another group now, grinning and obviously having a good time.

“It’s okay,” Shane said eventually. “Think I’ll stay here though, save some plausible deniability.”

Ilya returned to the bar to harass Shane and order more drinks a few times throughout the night, but Shane stayed firm in sitting exactly where he was, occasionally chatting with Marcus when the bartender wasn’t too busy. If he ignored the jealousy that burned in his gut and the building headache from the lights and music, it wasn’t even that terrible of an experience. Marcus was funny, and it was nice to see so many men just like him out living their lives. It was good to remember that the whole world wasn’t made up of homophobic hockey locker rooms.

Ilya

The bass thumped in Ilya’s chest on the dance floor. He loved coming to places like this, letting go, enjoying the silver-fucking-lining to the shit hand he was dealt when he hadn’t even graduated high school yet, had to leave his country and everything he knew.

He couldn’t hear whatever his dance partner was saying over the pulsing music, could only watch their glossed lips move around the words, glitter catching in the light like freckles on their cheeks. He should take them back to his hotel, fuck someone that wasn’t Shane fucking Hollander for a change, but for all that Ilya was excited enough and enjoying the dance he knew that the only man he wanted to go home with that night was still pouting at the bar.

Just more proof that he wasn’t ready for this. That trying to pursue anything more than they already had would be a mistake.

So when Ilya did leave with him, forced out the doors by the club closing, Ilya didn’t let himself get too close. He pulled an armchair over to have a clear view, poured himself a drink from the mini fridge, and told Shane to strip. He watched him carefully fold his clothes, leaving them on the dresser before climbing onto the bed.

Ilya stayed sitting, holding his rocks glass to his lips with one hand and tossing the bottle of lube onto the bed with the other.

“I want to watch you, Hollander,” he said. “You will open your slut hole for me, no? Fuck yourself on your fingers while you beg for my cock?”

Shane sat against the pillows, pupils blown and lip chewed raw. “Ilya-” he whined. “Please, I-”

“No,” Ilya said. “Fuck yourself, Hollander. Show me how you like it.”

Shane whined again but nodded, squeezing lube onto his fingers and letting his knees fall wide. He reached down to massage his own hole, pushing a single finger in and out until he was all the way in to the last knuckle, then adding a second one.

“Please,” he begged by the time he made it to a third. “Please, Ilya. Touch me. Fuck me-”

Ilya groaned and wrapped a hand around his own cock, watching Shane beg. “Turn around,” Ilya commanded. He nocked back the last of the vodka in his glass and watched Shane turn until his face was buried in the pillows, ass in the air with three fingers still holding himself open.

Ilya stripped while he watched, left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and rolled a condom over his dick. He used the tip to nudge against the fingers lodged in Shane’s hole, watched them retreat, then braced himself with a hand on Shane’s back when he pushed inside.

Ilya fucked Shane hard and fast, hardly touching him past the grip he held on Shane’s hips and the cock spearing his ass. Shane cried and whimpered beneath him, hands fisting the pillows to keep from touching his own leaking cock. He came before Ilya, going boneless after and forcing Ilya to take more of his weight.

Ilya pulled Shane back onto his cock with every thrust, and when he came in Shane’s ass he fucked through it, then pulled out and left Shane on the bed. Ilya slipped the condom from his dick, tied it off before tossing it in a bin, and pulled his clothes back on.

“Goodnight, Hollander,” he said, leaving Shane still panting and breathless in a puddle of his own cum. “See you in Boston.”

There would be two months between their ad campaign here and the Centaur’s first game against the Raiders in Boston. Two months for Ilya to get his shit together. Two months to remember that they were just two friends who fucked sometimes, nothing more.

He was set to play in New York again before then. Maybe he could see if Liz was free to meet up. She was definitely one of his favorites. Fun. Uncomplicated. Too busy to bother with reaching out aside from their brief meetings to hit the clubs and have sex. Exactly the level of uncomplicated that Ilya needed right now.

Chapter End Notes

Totally unrelated side note, but I have an idea for a one shot I want to do where Shane is terrible at chirping. Any recommendations for bad chirps? Could be bad friendly chirping for his teammates/Ilya on the Centaurs or bad chirping in general for other players. Fic will be based after TLG when Shane joins the Cents in that universe, so wanting things that make sense for those characters. TIA for anyone that includes an idea in the comments!!

Until next time! <3

Chapter 12: Nothing Personal

Chapter Summary

The 2011-2012 season begins with Shane and the Raiders hitting the road. They have their first game of the season against Ottawa on home ice, and later Shane gets some surprising news. Overall, things really aren't going his way.

Chapter Notes

Shane

Shane left Toronto for Ottawa feeling like he had missed something. Being with Ilya the night before had felt strange, off in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t just that he had left right after, Ilya did that sometimes when he had an early flight or even just wanted some space. It was more that something was missing.

For all that Shane loved when Ilya used him to get off, be it Shane's mouth or hands or ass, he had never felt so used.

They didn’t even kiss.

Shane stared at his phone screen, wondering if he should say something. Should he ask if Ilya was okay? Maybe he should ask if they were okay. Had Shane done something wrong?

In the end, Shane didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say, or ask, and with Ilya it was only more likely to make things worse, anyway.

He only had a couple of weeks left back home before he would need to leave for training camp in Boston, and there was too much to get done with cottage preparations and the last couple of ad campaigns his mom booked for him to dwell on Toronto.

“HOLLZY!” Cliff cheered when Shane entered the Raiders’ locker room for the first time that season.

“Marly,” Shane replied with rolled eyes and at a far more reasonable volume.

Cliff chuckled, pulling Shane in for a side hug. “This is our year!” he crowed. “We’re gettin’ that cup baby! I know it!”

There were some amused rumblings from the more senior members of the team. There were a lot fewer of them at training camp, with a large number from last season retiring. The rookies spread about looked tired already, what with training camp already having started for them. They would be feeling the most pressure for getting included on the official roster. Shane definitely didn’t envy them that.

“Get your shit on, Marleau, Hollander” Anderson groaned. “It's too early for your cheery asses.”

Shane nodded seriously at the command and went to his locker to change for practice. Coach LeClaire looked like someone had pissed in a bottle and called it orange juice that morning. His usual self, really. No red flags there.

By the time practice was over, Shane and the other vets from the season before were almost as tired as the rookies. Coach liked to hit them hard on the first day back, whether that was meant to be a reminder of his expectations for the season or a punishment for their time off, no one could say for sure.

“We should go out!” Cliff exclaimed in the locker room.

“I want to go to sleep,” Shane groaned.

“Don’t be boring!” Cliff admonished. “Come on! I haven’t seen you all summer!”

“That’s because summer is meant to be a break.”

“SHANE! I’m wounded! Truly! You would treat me this way?” Cliff’s dramatics caught the attention of most of the locker room, though only the few that spoke French had any clue what he was saying.

“We just got back,” Shane switched to English, not wanting anyone to feel purposefully excluded if Cliff was going to make such a big production and get the whole room’s attention anyway. “Find someone else to get drunk with, I’m not doing bag skates hungover tomorrow.”

And for once Shane didn’t cave to Cliff’s demands. He really was tired and he really didn’t want to be hungover for practice tomorrow. Cliff seemed to sense that he was serious and backed off, getting a couple of the rookies on board with his plans instead.

The rest of the pre-season went about the same. Eventually, Shane caved and let Cliff drag him out to the clubs, but only on days before light practice or off days. A few of the rookies really seemed to be flourishing under Cliff’s attention and were warming up to the other vets around the room. Shane could give as good as he got when it came to chirping and physicality on the ice these days, but he still struggled to fit in with the older Raiders with the same level of ease that Cliff did.

Their first official game of the season was against the Metros, his mom’s favorite team and the Raiders' notorious rival. They played in Montreal even, so his mom and dad were able to come to the game. While his mom didn’t wear his Raiders jersey, a step too far even for a supportive mother, she did hold up a sign encouraging him and wore neutral clothes with neither team’s logo. His dad sat proudly in a Hollander Raider’s jersey, helping hold the sign.

While the Raiders still had a long way to go in hitting their stride for the season, especially with so many new names on the roster, the Metros were a mess. Plays that should have connected weren’t. Their lines were off pace with each other. Their whole offense was just struggling, a theme for them over the past few seasons.

So it was no surprise when the Raiders won 3-0, the Metros were going to need to make some big changes if they wanted this season to be any better than the last one.

Shane had breakfast with his parents the next morning and they dropped him off at the airport in time for his flight, then it was off to Detroit for their next game. They had a pretty long roady that year before their home opener against the Admirals.

For all of Shane’s initial resistance to using the app Cliff downloaded to his phone, even he could admit that it had become a way to burn off steam on the road. There was something to be said for showing up anonymous in different cities and leaving just as fast.

Something that didn’t come with the constant questions he felt around Ilya, the invasion of his thoughts and attention. Shane still couldn’t understand what happened between them in Toronto. It wasn’t unusual for them to go long periods of time without texting, but this felt different. It wasn’t just that Ilya was busy. It was that he didn’t want to talk to Shane.

So Shane tried to ignore the way his phone sat heavy in his pocket, the dread he felt looking at that years’ schedule and seeing when they next faced the Centaurs.

They weren’t scheduled to play until the end of November.

While the Raiders may have won their first game of the season, they lost the first game on home ice. The Admirals were shaping up to have an incredible year. Scott, newly minted captain of the New York team, was playing some of the best hockey of his career.

By the time their game against Ottawa rolled around, the Raiders were struggling to hold onto third in the division rankings. If they weren’t careful, they might find themselves not even in the playoffs that year. Meanwhile Ottawa, to the confusion of just about everyone, held the number one spot in the division.

“Ready to lose Hollander?” Ilya jeered while they waited for the puck to drop. On his chest was a pristine white “A” that caught the stadium lights.

“Oh, so you can talk to me now?” Shane griped. Ilya looked taken aback, and Shane used the split second of surprise to win the puck for his team.

Shane didn’t care what else he did on the ice that night, as long as it kept the puck away from Ilya fucking Rozanov.

“Damn, Hollzy!” Cliff cheered when Shane made it back to the bench. “You’re on one tonight, man!”

The rest of the team echoed the sentiment with shoulder pats and nudges to Shane’s helmet. He was responsible for two of their three goals so far and it was only the start of the third. When the game ended 4-1 in Boston’s favor, Shane let the smug satisfaction roll over him and lift his shoulders.

He went out with the team that night to celebrate, even having a few beers, though he was careful not to overdo it. They are about an hour in when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Ilya: where are you?

Shane saw Cliff watching him and made a point of rolling his eyes.

Shane: celebrating with the team

Ilya: don’t make me wait too long. could fall asleep

Shane read the message and bit his lip, tempted to say something back like “good” or “might as well, if you’re waiting for me you’ll be waiting a long damn time.” But he was also horny as hell, missed Ilya an unhealthy amount, and knew that he was going to cave like wet tissue paper anyway so why even pretend otherwise.

He still didn’t text Ilya back though, because fuck that guy. He could wait and wonder if Shane was going to show or not until Shane arrived back at his apartment. Besides, he was the one who started their text message radio silence anyway.

Ilya

Ilya waited on Shane’s couch, not bothering to look around at the apartment that hadn’t changed any since the last time he had seen it. He’d spent the last few months putting distance between himself and Shane. He hadn’t texted him. Hadn’t let himself dwell on their time together over the summer. Instead, Ilya threw himself into hockey at home and dedicated his nights away to clubs and dancing. He had sex with other people. Fun people. People who looked and acted nothing like boring, beautiful Shane Hollander

But when Shane didn’t answer his second message, Ilya still didn’t worry. Because of course Shane would show. He always did, just like Ilya always asked. Despite everything, that hadn’t changed and Ilya didn’t know that it ever would

When Shane’s lock rattled and the door opened, Ilya looked up from his phone and set it down on the coffee table. Shane had played hockey that night like he was off to fucking war. Every time Ilya had checked him, or Shane had pressed him up against the boards, all Ilya wanted was to be here, minus the pads and jerseys, fucking Shane Hollander the way he had wanted to for months.

“Hollander,” Ilya greeted, watching Shane hang his coat up and slip the shoes from his feet.

“Rozanov,” Shane acknowledged.

“You kept me waiting.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “What? How was I supposed to know you weren’t planning to keep ignoring my existence?”

“Don’t be a brat, Hollander. Come here. On your knees,” Ilya demanded, stepping into the open space between the entryway and the living room. He could see from the outraged annoyance in Shane’s eyes that he wanted to protest, but the way his shoulders drooped and lips parted ever so slightly also said that he wouldn’t.

He watched Shane battle with himself and lose, watched him cross the room to Ilya and sink to his knees in front of him.

<“Good boy,” Ilya praised. “Take out my cock and put your mouth to good use, yes? You have been very sassy tonight. How do they say? Catty? мой котенок.” My kitten. Doubtless, Shane would have shown some claws if he said that in English.

Instead, Shane's hands lifted to Ilya’s waist and undid first the button, then the zipper of his jeans. He hooked his fingers under the jean material and Ilya’s briefs and pulled, lowering the fabric just enough to free Ilya’s cock. He leaned in and licked the head, sucked the tip into his mouth and danced his tongue across it before letting it slip back out so Shane could mouth at the shaft.

Ilya dug his hand into Shane’s hair, almost pulling it out of the tie that held it back and off his face, and tightened his fingers. Shane gasped at the sharp tug against his scalp, mouth falling open, and Ilya buried his cock between his open lips.

“Good boy,” Ilya praised, rolling his hips. Shane gasped and choked, spit trailing from his open mouth and coating Ilya’s dick. “This is what you wanted, yes? My cock in your mouth? So good for me, Hollander.”

Shane whined desperately and Ilya could see the bulge of the growing erection tenting Shane’s pants. Careful not to lose his balance, Ilya shifted his weight so that he could press the ball of his sock-covered foot against Shane’s cock. “So eager for me,” Ilya crooned. “Are you going to come in your pants, Shane? Just from this?”

Shane shuddered, head tilting to give Ilya better access to fuck his throat. His eyes were closed, tears collecting at the corners and joining the mess of spit on his cheeks. Ilya took his foot back, roughly pulled Shane from his dick and pulled him up to his feet. He walked them both over to the kitchen island and spun Shane to face the counter, pulling his pants down his hips until his bare ass was exposed for Ilya to see.

Ilya spit on his hand and rubbed his fingers against Shane’s rim. He pushed inside, fucked him with one finger relentlessly hounding his prostate and added a second when Shane shouted and came, cum spilling over the floor and half up the island. Ilya held Shane against the cold granite with one hand, abandoned his twitching hole with the other and reached into his back pocket to pull out the little packet of lube and condom he’d stored there.

Ilya set the condom on the counter, tore the lube packet open with his teeth, and coated his fingers before pushing three in all at once, stretching Shane’s hole against the thick digits and watching him writhe, still sensitive from his orgasm yet desperate for Ilya’s cock. Ilya pulled the fingers back out and fucked them in again.

“Ilya,” Shane gasped, pushing back against the fingers in his ass. His whole back was flushed from the neck down, cock already firming back up. “Please,” he begged.

“So desperate, Hollander,” Ilya groaned. He watched his fingers push in and out of Shane’s hole, leaned down and bit the globe of his as hard enough to leave a mark. “Patience. I will fuck you.”

Ilya pumped his fingers in Shane’s ass a few more times before pulling out, grabbing the condom packet and using his teeth again to split it open. He held Shane down with one hand still, used the other to roll the condom on and guide his dick to Shane’s hole.

When Ilya was fully inside, he braced against the cool granite of the counter and used it for leverage to drive his cock into Shane, panting against the heated skin of his neck and shoulders. He bit and licked the flushed skin, laying marks across the surface still freckled from their time in LA.

“So fucking good, Hollander,” Ilya praised. “Fuck. Such a slut for it, aren't you? I bet this is all you could think about the whole game. Every time I pushed you against the boards. How much you love my cock in your ass.”

“Ilya,” Shane whined. “Yes, fuck. Harder, please.”

Ilya transferred his hand from the counter to Shane’s hip and pulled him back against his thrusts, fucking into him harder, skin slapping against skin in the silence of Shane’s apartment.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, burying his dick in Shane’s ass as he came. He went to his knees and spread Shane’s ass with one hand, the other reaching around to pull furiously at Shane's dick while Ilya fucked his tongue into Shane’s hole.

“Ilya,” Shane cried, another load of cum joining the first on the floor. Ilya held his cock through it, sucking and licking relentlessly at Shane’s hole until he was squirming from sensitivity.

Ilya stepped back, pulled Shane’s pants back up and then his own. He tugged the zipper closed and redid the button, then walked back to the entrance and pulled his shoes and coat back on.

“Bye, Hollander,” Ilya said, Shane still panting and catching his breath against the kitchen island. Ilya pulled the door open and stepped out of the apartment and into the hall. He would see Shane again in a few weeks when the Raiders came to play Ottawa on the Centaurs’ home ice.

Shane

“Everything okay?” Cliff asked during a lull in practice the next day.

Shane knew he probably looked like shit. He’d hardly slept last night after Ilya left. He shrugged, not sure what else to say.

A part of him wanted to tell Cliff about what had been happening with Ilya. Cliff knew they fucked, that they had been fucking for a long time. But Shane also didn’t want to tell Cliff because he knew he was just being dramatic, just letting feelings get involved where there weren’t supposed to be any. He and Ilya fucked sometimes. They were friends. That’s all.

Except that they didn’t really feel like friends anymore. So maybe they just fucked sometimes. And Shane still had no idea what the fuck he had done wrong to change things like that between them.

“It’s nothing,” he said, hoping Cliff would just drop it.

Lucky for him, Coach caught them slacking off and sent them to run drills. By the time Cliff had a chance to follow up on their earlier conversation, Shane was already halfway out the door.

Shane went home straight after practice and tried to focus on his usual homestand routine of meal prepping for the week and ordering any groceries he was running low on. They had a couple of weeks before they needed to hit the road again.

“Hollander,” Coach LeClaire called through the gym the next day while Shane and a few other guys on the team were lifting weights.

“Yes, Coach?”

“Follow me,” LeClaire said, holding the door open for Shane to follow him through. Puzzled, Shane kept close on his heels for the short walk to his office.

LeClaire crossed the space to sit behind his desk and waved his hand for Shane to have a seat in one of the wooden chairs in front of it.

“There’s never an easy way to start this conversation, kid,” LeClaire started, immediately bringing Shane to full attention and setting the skin at the back of his neck to prickling with dread. “But you’re being traded. This kind of thing isn’t personal, it’s just hockey. You’re a damn good center kid.”

Shane felt the breath leave his lungs, forgot to suck it back in. His hands went cold and sweaty all at once.

“What?” he rasped. Maybe he misunderstood, hadn’t heard Coach right. Maybe LeClaire had accidentally pulled aside the wrong person.

“Part of a three-way deal,” Coach explained. “Metros desperately need some talented forwards. They bargained real hard for you, specifically. This could be an opportunity, Hollander. I think you’ll be a good fit for their team.”

Shane was at a loss. He knew trades were a part of hockey, that he was still far from seasoned and that younger players especially got moved around all the time. The Raiders had a lot of young talent on their roster that year, with quite a few vets retiring from the season before, so intellectually Shane knew that trading for more seasoned and established talent wasn’t an unusual thing.

But he had put so much into being a Raider. Hockey had always come easy, but evolving his style of play had been a real challenge. Opening up, even to the media. Pushing himself out of his comfort zone time and again to be part of the team.

And now they were just going to trade him. Had the work even been worth it?

At least his mom would be happy. He would play for her favorite team after all. She and his dad could make the relatively short drive to come see him anytime they wanted.

Shane imagined his mom using her spare key to let herself into his apartment in Montreal any time she wanted. A part of him resented it already, the lack of independence that he hadn’t even realized he needed or was missing.

And Cliff. Fuck, this was going to devastate him. For all that he and Cliff were like oil and water, Cliff was his best friend. And Shane knew that Cliff enjoyed that friendship just as much as he did. Sometimes Shane thought Cliff stayed at his apartment more often than his own during home stands.

“When do I leave?” Shane asked, trying to focus on the here and now. He would have to leave soon. Have to pack. Probably before the game even started for his team that night. His former team.

“Your flight’s at seven,” Coach explained. His voice might have been the kindest Shane had ever heard it. “You have time to pack. They will have a hotel set up for you to stay in while you figure out the rest of your arrangements."

Shane nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

“I know I wasn’t your biggest fan in the beginning,” LeClaire said before Shane could get up to leave. “But it’s been a pleasure having you on the team, kid. You’ve come a long way. Don’t forget what you’ve learned here, yeah? Sometimes you gotta fight for what you want.”

Shane nodded. He thanked his old coach and left the room.

“Hollzy! You’re going the wrong way!” Cliff exclaimed, surrounded by a gaggle of some of the other rookies.

Shane grimaced. “I’m not, actually,” he said, shouldering his bag of gear. “No practice for me today.”

“What?” Cliff asked, then shot a sideways glance at his barnacles and switched to French, “What’s happening?”

“I’ve been traded,” Shane explained, also in French. “I have to go home and pack. My flight is at seven.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Shane confirmed. Cliff pulled him into an incredibly tight and overwhelming hug. Shane refused to let himself cry about it, especially not in front of the rookies.

“Where are they sending you?” Cliff asked. Apparently he had missed the memo about not crying in front of the rookies because Shane could feel his shirt getting wet under Cliff’s face.

“Montreal."

“Those fuckers,” Cliff griped. “No, absolutely not. I don’t care what Coach says, I’m keeping you.”

Shane laughed through his own choked-off tears and pushed Cliff off of him. “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few weeks when we play each other, yeah? Good luck slipping anything past me. I won’t be going easy on you all just because you’re my old team.”

Cliff scoffed and shoved Shane away, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his jacket. “Whatever,” he said in English. “Get out of here, Hollander. You traitor.”

Shane walked backward and smirked, flipping Cliff off. He turned on his heel after and walked from the stadium for the last time as a member of the Raiders.

Shane called his mom to tell her about the trade and put her on speaker while he packed so he could listen to her try to sound sympathetic while hiding how excited she was to have Shane moving back home. Or, closer to home at least.

A car picked him up from the airport in Montreal and took him straight to the hotel. It was close to the rink, equipped with a mini fridge and a small kitchenette, and Shane spent the next couple of hours unpacking his clothes and arranging them in the closet and drawers, then deciding he didn’t like that arrangement and sorting them again. He got a message from the Metros management letting him know someone would be by at 8AM to bring him to the rink and get him onboarded.

Shane just hoped that all of this could be a step forward, because right now it just felt like a huge step back.

Chapter End Notes

Well, turns out Shane gets to be a Metro after all. Wonder how that's going to go? And also, please know that Ilya's general emotionally-constipated assholery is hurting me too. Poor Shane. Miscommunication and your late-teens/early 20s really suck. Promise there's a happy ending coming for them you guys, just.... not for a while...

Hope you liked the chapter! Until next time! <3

Chapter 13: Control

Chapter Summary

In which Shane finds his voice and takes back what control he still can amidst the chaos his life has become.

Chapter Notes

Chapter specific warnings: homophobic language and mild BDSM (also a reminder that fanfiction is NOT a guide to how any of that works so please do your own research and stay healthy, folks!)

Shane

For all that Shane had just been traded to the Metros, he wasn’t in Montreal for long before the team left together on their first road trip. In fact, he hadn’t been able to really join the team for a full practice before they were loaded into buses and taken to the airport.

“Hey, uh, Hollander?” one of their forwards stopped in the row next to Shane. He was the last one on the bus.

Shane looked around. There were plenty of open seats, but no empty rows. Figuring the guy stopped next to him wanted to sit down, Shane shuffled his backpack onto his lap.

“Yeah, hi,” he greeted.

The other guy beamed a thrust a hand forward into Shane’s space. “Hayden Pike!” he introduced enthusiastically. “Congrats on the Calder last year, man! You’re like a beast, you know? Can’t believe that was your rookie season! 67 goals!”

Shane chuckled and shook Pike’s hand, aware that his cheeks were probably bright red. “Thanks.”

“I can’t believe we actually got you on trade! This is going to be great! I’ve been telling Jackie we need a strong center. That’s my fiancée. We just got engaged over the summer. Oh, she’s going to be so excited to meet you! We should-”

Shane let the flood of new information and excitement wash over him and settled on an amused smile, nodding occasionally to show interest. Just a few minutes of knowing the guy, and Shane could confidently say that the enthusiastic young forward was… a lot. A different kind of “a lot” than Marleau. He seemed sweet. And he was obsessed with his fiancée, kept circling back to talk about her.

In a way, it was nice to be able to sit back and not have to worry about carrying the conversation anywhere.

“So, are you liking Montreal?” Hayden asked, pausing to let Shane respond in what was probably his first opportunity to catch his breath since he sat down.

“I haven’t really been here long,” Shane said, then circled his finger to indicate the bus around them. “Figures there would be a roady first thing.”

“Oh man, I didn’t even think about that! Yeah, that sucks. Well, it will be nice having another new player on the team. A lot of these guys have been with the team for a while now. I started last year, too! And then there’s JJ, he’s a few rows down. It’s his rookie season this year! We had Sullivan, but he kept having issues with the coaches and got traded over the summer.”

Shane used the opportunity of Pike telling him about the team to look around the bus. He was pretty sure he knew who JJ was, sitting a few seats back with headphones in while he stared groggily out a window. There were a lot of older players. Not really veterans like Anderson or Thompson, but guys who were closer to 30 than 20 for sure, if not already there.

Pike sat next to Shane on the plane from Montreal to Vancouver also, spending a good chunk of the flight showing Shane pictures of his summer trip to Italy with Jackie and their engagement photos.

Thanks to the time difference, their team had time for another short practice between landing in Vancouver and their game. Coach Theriault ran Shane through a few different line combinations with some of the other forwards. The last combination he called had the three youngest members of the team together.

“BOIZIAU! PIKE!” Theriault called over the ice. “Join Hollander.”

The two skated over. Shane noticed that no one on this team seemed to rib Theriault at all, not like the Raiders could be seen to do with LeClaire. Theriault gave a command, and it was followed. That’s it.

While none of the other combinations had felt off, exactly, they also weren’t anything special. The same could not be said for working with Pike, and even Boiziau. From the minute they hit the ice together, the line started to click. Maybe it was because they were similar in age, or build, or quick play-style. Whatever it was, it was working.

When coach called out the roster for their game that night, he named Pike and Boiziau to be on the second line with Shane.

“This is going to be awesome!” Boiziau enthused. “Hell yeah!” he pumped his fist in the air, then turned to smile at Pike. “I told you we just needed some new energy on this bench!”

Hayden grinned back. “Don’t you have enough energy for everyone, JJ?”

Shane watched JJ flip Pike off with both hands before turning on his heel to keep walking towards the bus. The whole team would be looking to get a nap in before their game that night. West Coast roadies were always the worst to get used to.

Shane had just sat down next to Pike again when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Ilya: Raiders trade you to Montreal? are they stupid?

Shane looked at the message. He could answer. He could imagine Ilya, pacing and biting his lip as he typed it, worried maybe. But Ilya was probably the last person Shane wanted to talk to right now. Instead of answering, he shut the screen back off, stared at his own reflection in the dark glass for a minute, and put the phone back in his pocket.

It buzzed two more times and Shane ignored it, listening to Pike strategize for their game that night instead. He felt relieved when Pike offered to room together. They went upstairs to unpack and rest before the game, and at least Pike was quiet when he slept.

The game itself wasn’t terrible, though they didn’t win. Shane at least thought that his line with Pike and Boiziau did pretty well for their first time on the ice together. They were good players, maybe a bit inconsistent and not the best at anticipating what the other teams might throw at them, but enthusiastic and easy enough to work with.

If Shane had still been with the Raiders, they would have won. He’d made the mistake of looking at how the Raiders did in their game earlier that day, and saw that they had easily beaten Tampa. He could have been there, celebrating alongside them. Instead, he was in Vancouver, it was raining, and his team was celebrating how they only lost by one goal instead of several.

Shane dug his phone back out of his pocket, ignored the missed messages from Ilya and his parents, and opened Grindr. Not even ten minutes later, he stood from the hotel bed, slipped his shoes on, and went for the door.

“Where are you going?” Pike asked, sitting up on the other bed.

“Out,” Shane replied.

“Oh! Want some company?”

Shane froze with his hand on the door, grimaced and turned to face his new teammate. “Not that kind of out.”

Pike blushed. “Oh! Uh, okay? Have fun, I guess?”

Shane chuckled. Pike was so… different than the guys he was used to in Boston. Marly would have been hooting and catcalling until Shane cut his racket off by slamming the hotel door. “See you, Pike.”

He left the hotel and caught a cab to the address he was given, one for another hotel in the area. The building was tall, all glass and gleaming metal, and the reception staff ignored him when he crossed the lobby to the elevators and punched the button to take him up to the tenth floor.

He reached the right door and knocked. When it opened, a tall man with dark hair and eyes stepped aside to let Shane through.

There was very little in the way of conversation between them.

“I have had a shit week,” Shane said, straddling the man’s lap on the small sofa in the room with his hair disheveled and shirt tossed somewhere on the floor behind him. “I want to get railed so hard I forget where I am. How’s that?”

The man gave a predatory grin, hands tightening on Shane’s ass in a firm grip. “I think that can be arranged,” he agreed.

Shane didn’t know his name, hadn’t offered his own. Tomorrow afternoon, he would fly down to Phoenix with his new team. This man would probably go back to wherever he lived and worked when he wasn’t at conferences or whatever.

He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t mean. He manhandled Shane against the mattress and pressed his shoulders into the sheets while he prepped him. And his cock was as big as it looked in the pictures.

Shane used the shower before he left, then caught a car back to his own hotel and went back inside. Pike was already asleep by the time Shane arrived, so he kept quiet while he brushed his teeth and washed his face, then slipped into bed and fell asleep.

Ilya

Shane wasn’t answering Ilya’s messages. Ilya stared at the string of texts he’d sent, then looked up at the screen of his TV. He never bothered to watch the Metros, but he’d switched on their game in Phoenix the minute he got back from the rink.

It felt strange, seeing HOLLANDER 24 surrounded by blue and red instead of black and gold. He wondered what Yuna thought of it all. She had tried reaching out a few times that season, but each time Ilya already had plans. Or he made them, if he didn’t. Fuck, how had he let himself get so tangled in Shane Hollander’s whole life?

The camera zoomed in on Hollander, showing his little smirk and understated fist pump after a goal. Then one of his new teammates crashed their helmets together and led him over to the bench for celebratory high fives.

The Metros were actually up for once, 2-1 against Phoenix. By the time the third period ended, they'd increased that lead by two more points.

Ilya: nice hat trick

Ilya typed and sent the message while the Metros were still celebrating their win on the ice, then turned the TV off and went to get ready for bed. It was late in Ottawa, and Ilya had already played a game of his own that day.

He hadn’t expected to see Shane again for a few weeks, but the Centaurs were set to play the Metros as their last stop on their next roady.

Would Shane even want to see him, then? He hadn’t answered a single one of Ilya’s messages. It was what Ilya wanted. He had allowed himself to get too close to Hollander, too reliant on him and his family. If they didn’t put some space between them now, they never would. It would only get worse.

The problem was, Ilya didn’t know how to do things by halves when it came to Shane Hollander. He wanted him, all of him, every minute and morsel of his time. He wanted to hoard the time they had together like a dragon over it’s cache. So he kept his distance, put boundaries where they’d never been before, built a wall around that greedy part of himself.

And Shane didn’t want to talk to him anymore. He shouldn’t want to, either. It was what Ilya wanted, right? He would never have the discipline to walk away completely, so Shane would have to. For both of them.

Ilya made a new habit of watching Metros games. He didn’t text Shane again, though, and never got an answer back for the ones he had sent. Shane was playing good hockey, collaborative hockey. He worked with the other guys on his line like he’d been playing with them for years. They were quick, smart, slipped through the cracks of the other team’s defense like water rushing downstream and just as impossible to catch.

And still Shane’s Boston side shone through when he checked opposing players into the boards, shoved back at guys with several inches and quite a few pounds on him. That same angry kitten with its hackles raised. The best amalgamation of the Hollander Ilya knew from juniors against the Shane that grew among the loud personalities of the Raiders.

And while one player didn’t make a team in hockey, the way Shane connected and clicked with his line provided the organized offense that Montreal had so desperately needed. For the first time all season, the Metros were winning some games. And no one out there could doubt that it wasn’t on the back of Shane Hollander.

Shane

Shane went out again every night in every new city the Metros went through on their roady. Hayden had stopped asking or looking at all surprised. Cliff probably would have bought him a congrats on the sex cake while doing his concerned big brother look and asking if Shane was taking care of himself.

And Shane was taking care of himself. His whole life had spun out of control around him, but this was something that he could take with both hands and mold what he wanted from it. He knew exactly what he wanted every time he walked through a new hotel door, and he learned how to demand instead of ask for it.

For the first time, Shane was feeling as confident in sex as he was on the ice. He didn’t need Ilya fucking Rozanov to hold his hand anymore. This wasn’t fucking skate tots.

And he was doing good on the ice too. The Metros weren’t nearly as friendly with each other as the Raiders, though most would probably agree that they were more polite. Their interactions were kind of stiff, formal even. They were coworkers. Only a few exceptions seemed to form among the team with a few groups that obviously spent time together off the ice also.

Shane was doing what he could to make that true of his line with Pike and Boiziau. If there was one thing that being with the Raiders had taught him, it was that your line would connect on ice as well as it did off. It helped that they were both close to Shane in age and just generally easy to like, too. JJ all but chomped at the bit for any opportunity to get drinks and hang out.

Then there were the groups like Comeaux, Drapeau, and their hangers-on, mostly guys in their late twenties and early thirties who were either still single or already divorced and liked to tour the strip clubs in different cities they went to. Mostly, the married guys stuck together, seemingly bound by a sense of solidarity. Or maybe they knew their wives would kill them if they ever talked about women how Comeaux and his crew liked to. It was hard to say.

It was luck that let them have a couple of good days off when they got back to Montreal to get over the jet lag. It was not luck that had them scheduled against Ottawa for their first home game. Shane distracted himself from the inevitable with apartment hunting. He hated the hotel room he was at, and now was better than never.

He even had dinner with Hayden and Jackie. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as he thought it might be, considering he was there as a third wheel. Jackie was even better than Hayden made her out to be, and had a wicked eye for hockey. Shane thought she would get along with his mom in a frankly terrifying capacity.

The night before the game, Shane let JJ drag him out clubbing and even danced with a few girls throughout the night. It was a lot less stressful now that he had accepted he had no interest in taking any of them home. It didn’t make him a better dancer, though.

“Man!” JJ laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re so good at hockey, Hollander! Your dancing is terrible!”

The girl Shane was dancing with laughed and Shane nudged her hip playfully. “Hey now,” he defended. “I’m also hot and rich. Get it right, JJ!”

It was JJ’s partners’ turn to laugh, shaking her head at her friend.

“You want another drink?” Shane asked, laying his hand over his partner’s shoulder to get her attention.

“Sure!” she agreed and followed him over to the bar.

Shane placed their order with the bartender and took the opportunity of having a little more elbow room and a significantly quieter space to talk to the girl he’d been dancing with.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I got your name earlier.”

She grinned, not looking at all offended, and held out her hand. “Clarice.”

Shane took the hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for putting up with my terrible dancing. JJ wanted to come out tonight and he’s hard to say no to.”

Shane took their drinks from the bartender and slid Clarice’s over to her. “I should warn you I’m not really looking to go home with anyone tonight. Just dancing and keeping JJ entertained.”

Clarice’s smile didn’t falter. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m just here enjoying the dancing. Thanks for the heads up, though.”

It was wild for Shane how, the minute he stopped stressing out quite so much about how he should be touching girls or taking them home, interacting with them had become so much easier. Natural, even. He meant what he said to Cliff. He did like girls. They were nice, they smelled better than his hockey friends, and were easy to talk to. It reminded him of the early days of his relationship with Jess, back before they had started getting physical with each other and she was just his best friend.

So Shane let himself have fun, amiably went along with Clarice’s attempts to teach him how to dance, and teased JJ over the loud music. By the time he made it home, it was too late to stay up worrying about facing Ilya’s team again the next day.

The locker room at his new home rink felt about the same as the one on the road. JJ, Hayden, and Shane stood next to each other, talking and getting ready for the game. It was a lot quieter than the Raiders’ locker room, which is probably why Shane could hear Comeaux so clearly, even though he was across the room talking to Drapeau.

“I just don’t see why they let that fag even play. What a fucking joke! Ran away from his own country! I say we ship him back and let them deal with him. Gives a bad name to the whole fuckin sport-”

Shane felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, arms prickling with goose flesh. It was easy enough to guess who Comeaux was talking about, especially considering who they were gearing up to play against. Shane couldn’t even say what drove him to do it, but the next thing he knew he was on his feet, arms crossed over the pads on his chest and glaring.

“You sound really fucking insecure over there, Comeaux. What? You worried it’s contagious and you’ll somehow catch the gay?”

Comeaux went so red it bordered on purple, finger jutting from one meaty fist as he jabbed it toward Shane from across the room with spit flying from his lips.

“What’d you fuckin’ say to me, Hollander?”

“I just think you sound a little too worried about what another guy is doing with his dick for a straight guy, Comeaux.”

Comeaux crossed the room and used all three of the extra inches he had on Shane to loom over him. Shane could see the stubble against his red cheeks from where he’d missed a patch shaving, the little ingrown pussing up along his throat near his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“You better watch what you fuckin’ start, rookie and be ready to back up your own bullshit. Ain 't a man in this room gonna stick up for you when I put you in your place, neither.”

But Shane was tired of men who thought they knew him telling him what to do, where to go, who to play for.

“You’re a little close there, Comeaux. If you want to suck my dick so bad all you have to do is ask.”

Shane saw the punch coming and dodged, letting Comeaux’s fist crack against the wood of the locker behind him.

“COMEAUX!” Theriault shouted, having come into the locker room in the time between Shane calling Comeaux out and him crossing the room to confront Shane. “Physio, now. Hollander, I don’t care what you learned with the raiders; save the riling for the other team, not ours. Jesus Christ!” Theriault thundered, then followed Comeaux out of the room.

“Putain de merde!” JJ exclaimed, slack-jawed. “Hollander! Where the fuck did that come from?”

“I don’t appreciate insecure homophobes spouting shit in the locker room. Or threatening to ship people back to their own country. This is a nation of fucking immigrants.”

The rest of the room was staring at Shane like they’d never seen him before. What did they expect, that he could spend his first years in the MLH as a Raider and not grow a spine? Fuck them too.

Shane ignored everyone else while he finished getting ready, then he was the first on the ice for warm-ups. The Centaurs were still leading the division for the season, not much had changed since the last time Shane played them. He didn’t plan to lose this time either, though, even with a new team at his back.

Shane ended up in the penalty box twice that night, once for tripping Rozanov and again for hooking later in the game. He was still responsible for two goals and an assist, though only his line seemed capable of doing fuck all, so it wasn’t enough for the Metros to win.

The atmosphere back in the locker room was thick, with everyone but Hayden and JJ giving Shane a wide berth. He was sure whatever expression he had on his face wasn’t helping.

Just before he left the locker room, Shane sent Ilya a single text. His hotel and room number.

Ilya

Ilya didn’t know what he was expecting from Shane for their game that day, but the murderous glint to his eye when he spilled out of the tunnel like an angry viper wasn’t it. Nor was the overtly dirty play and grim satisfaction each time he netted the puck.

Someone had pissed Shane off. Ilya didn’t think this could all be chalked up to him, either. Shane would have just ignored him like he had ignored Ilya’s messages since the trade.

So Ilya was doubly surprised to get a text with a hotel and room number as he climbed onto the bus after the game. He didn’t even go upstairs to put his bag down, just turned to call for a car and went on to the address Shane sent him.

Shane was still in a mood when he arrived, too. Glaring at him from the minute he opened the door, keeping enough space between them that Ilya knew better than to try and cross it.

“You promised me a reward for going out with you back in Toronto,” Shane said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the hotel sofa.

Ilya, caught off guard, took a moment to process that. He thought back to their time in Toronto, to that night when he’d convinced Shane to go out.

“And?” Ilya said, waiting to see where Shane was going with this.

“And then you were a dick and I never got one.”

“Yes, is true,” Ilya agreed. He could admit to that much, at least.

“Well, I want that reward now,” Shane claimed. “You said I could ask for whatever I want. You plan to keep that promise?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes, Hollander. Whatever boring thing you want.”

Shane pulled a pair of leather cuffs from his back pocket. “Good. I want you to wear these, then. Any questions?”

Ilya stared at the cuffs, two thick bands of padded leather connected by clips and a silver chain. Yes, he had questions. So many questions.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, mouth moving around the syllables without conscious thought.

Shane smirked. “What? You think you’re the only one who knows how to use the internet?” Then he cocked his head, gave Ilya a long, considering glance, and nodded toward the armchair in the corner.

“Strip. Fold your clothes and leave them on the armchair.”

Well and truly on the back foot, Ilya crossed to the armchair to do as Shane asked. Clearly, Shane had a plan, and it wasn’t going to be Ilya calling the shots.

Shane

Shane watched Ilya fold his clothes and leave them on the chair, encouraged that he seemed to be going along with Shane's demands for now. He wondered what Ilya was thinking. He could tell that he was turned on, at least. That much was increasingly obvious.

“Come here, Ilya,” Shane commanded, curling his fingers to wave Ilya closer, then holding his palm flat in a silent gesture for him to stop just outside of touching distance. Shane stood fully, abandoning his spot against the sofa, and Ilya raised his wrists to accept the cuffs.

“You can use the straps to release these at any time,” Shane said, then demonstrated with one cuff before tightening it again and catching Ilya’s gaze. “You do, and we stop. You understand?”

Ilya returned the same steady, determined eye contact and gave a smirk of his own. “Yes,” he said. Simply. Enunciating clearly.

Shane clipped the cuffs together and used the short chain to pull Ilya forward. He leaned in, let his lips linger a breath away from Ilya’s, and when Ilya’s lips parted he ducked lower to place a bite along the underside of his jaw. “On your knees,” Shane breathed, his hot breath fanning up Ilya’s neck and over his ear. Ilya sank to the floor, cuffed hands on his knees, palms up, and kept his eyes locked on Shane’s.

Shane pulled his sweatpants down just low enough to free his cock, cupped his hand at the back of Ilya’s head, and guided him forward. He cupped his own balls while Ilya licked across his shaft and lapped the precum beading at Shane’s slit. It didn’t take long for Shane to be fully hard, enveloped in Ilya’s mouth and throat.

Shane whimpered, fingers combing through Ilya’s hair as he dragged his hand forward, then pushed it back through Ilya’s curls, exposing his face. His other hand abandoned his balls to cradle just behind Ilya’s stretched jaw. He held himself back, fought the urge to thrust into Ilya’s warm mouth as he came down his throat, then slipped his cock from Ilya’s lips by stepping back and pulling his waistband back up.

Ilya still knelt there, naked and flushed with arousal, eyes studying Shane’s every movement. His cock stood at attention, hands still palms up on his knees, waiting, watching Shane to see what he planned to do next.

“Bedroom,” Shane said, then walked through the open door to the bed and waited for Ilya to follow. The hotel bed didn’t have the right headboard for holding restraints, but Shane had managed secure a loop of rope and run it up from the frame. He pulled it from the pillows and showed it to Ilya.

“Come lay on your back,” Shane said then. “Hands over your head.”

Ilya did so, still holding eye contact. Watchful. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask any questions. Shane was grateful for that. For all Shane's bluster, he didn’t think it would take much for him to lose his nerve. Not now.

When Ilya was comfortable enough with his back on the pillows and his arms resting overhead, Shane unclipped the cuffs, ran the chain through the loop of rope and clipped it back. Ilya pulled against the restraints experimentally, his shoulders and arms flexing, but the rope and cuffs held. He nodded.

Shane crossed the room to the dresser, turned his back to Ilya and took his time removing his own clothes. He folded each item carefully, laying them one by one on the dresser, even his socks. Only when he was finished did he slowly turn around and return Ilya’s gaze.

Ilya still lay there, still watching, still silent. His cock lay heavy and flushed against his abdomen, one knee bent with his foot planted on the mattress and the other extended, rolled out and relaxed. He watched Shane cross the room, round the bed and pull lube and a condom from the nightstand. Shane lay them out on the bed and climbed on, going to straddle Ilya in the middle of the mattress.

He leaned down to Ilya’s lips and pulled the bottom one between his own teeth, pulling back until it slipped free and then trailing biting kisses up his jaw and down his neck. He could feel how Ilya held himself back in the tension of his muscles, the hissed breath and clenched jaw. Shane hummed, pleased at Ilya’s restraint.

“I’m going to ride you,” Shane said, licking into the shell of Ilya’s ear and pulling the lobe between his teeth. “You’re going to sit there, nice and patient, while I prep myself. If you’re still and silent, I’ll even suck your desperate cock first. Understood?” Shane asked, pulling back enough to make eye contact again.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, the word a crisp hiss on his tongue. Shane licked across Ilya's lips and murmured “good” in acknowledgment. He reached for the lube and let Ilya watch as Shane massaged his own hole. He pushed two fingers in all the way to the last knuckle, enjoyed the slightest burn of the sudden stretch, and let his head fall back on a moan. He could feel Ilya’s eyes like hands on his body, felt him tense between Shane’s thighs, but Ilya held himself still. Not even a groan escaped his stiff lips.

Shane pulled his fingers free and ran his lube-slick hand up his chest, pinching his own nipple as he leaned forward to watch Ilya again. Shane shifted his weight and Ilya’s legs straightened and relaxed against the mattress, giving him room to slide down Ilya’s body and take his cock in his mouth.

Shane held Ilya’s cock steady for his lips with one hand and reached back with the other to stretch his hole. He kissed at Ilya’s cock, licking and sucking at the head and shaft, barely slipping it into his mouth before pulling back to tease the head again. Still, Ilya didn’t make a sound.

As soon as Shane felt ready to take him, he leveraged himself back up and hovered over Ilya on his knees. He tore the condom wrapper open, rolled it down Ilya’s shaft and shuffled up until he could brace himself against the headboard with one hand while he guided Ilya’s cock to his hole with the other, taking his time to sit back and adjust.

Shane held Ilya’s gaze the whole time, tracked the dilation of his eyes when Shane reached up to tease at his own nipple again and rocked back against Ilya’s dick in his ass.

“Yes,” Shane sighed, fucking himself slowly and taking his time, his own dick filling again with interest. “Hmmm, that’s nice.”

Ilya stayed silent, but his chest rose and fell rapidly with the heavy breathing it took to hold back, the tendons of his neck standing out in thick lines, his skin flushed an angry red that spilled down his neck and over his chest.

Shane smirked and rocked himself faster, letting his hand trail from his nipple to his dick and wrapping a fist around it. His precum slicked the way, leaking in a steady stream from the tip. Ilya broke eye contact, tossed his head back against the pillows, while his hands fisted white-knuckled and arms pulled against the restraints. His whole frame was one rigid line as Shane fucked himself harder on Ilya’s cock and pulled at his own dick until thick ropes of come spilled across his hand and Ilya’s chest. Ilya followed right after, the first sounds of the night escaping him in a choked-off groan.

Shane wiped his cum-coated hand on a clean patch of Ilya’s chest, reached back to ease Ilya’s cock out of his hole and slipped the condom from his shaft. He tied it off and tossed it, then leaned over Ilya’s panting form to slip the straps free on the cuffs, taking the time to massage each wrist while Ilya flexed his fingers.

“Now,” Shane said once he was done, sitting back on his heels and making eye contact to be sure he had Ilya’s attention. “I’m going to go shower. And because I’m not an asshole, I’ll wait on the couch while you shower so that I can still be here when you’re done and we can fucking talk. Understood?”

Ilya nodded, then seemed to think twice and gave a verbal answer for that, too.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane left him on the bed and closed the bathroom door behind himself, locking it for good measure. He took his time washing his hair and body, then grabbed one of the towels and dried himself off before unlocking the door. He had the towel wrapped around his waist and held the door open for Ilya to go in after him, then closed the door behind Ilya and went to the dresser to pull out a clean set of pajamas.

He was still on the couch, casually scrolling through his phone when Ilya left the bedroom in a borrowed pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Shane pulled his legs in to make room for Ilya to sit on the couch and set his phone aside on the side table.

“So,” Shane started. “Are you going to explain why you’ve been such an asshole since Toronto? I’ve been wracking my fucking brain, Ilya and I can’t think of what I did that could have caused this kind of reaction.”

Ilya visibly startled, his eyes widening and shoulders tightening. “No,” he denied. “It’s- you didn’t do anything, Shane.”

“Then what the fuck happened?” Shane exclaimed. “You know that my mom has been asking if you’re okay? My mother, Ilya. I thought we were friends.”

“We are!” Ilya insisted. “I’m sorry! I just, I don’t know, Shane. I don’t have this kind of relationship with anyone I fuck. It wasn't even like this with Svetlana. It’s… different.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Shane asked. “The same is true for me too, Ilya. I’m not like this with anyone else.”

Ilya stared down at his hands, picked at the skin around his thumb and hissed when it snagged and bled. He stuck it into his mouth to suck and pulled it free to check for any missed blood before looking at Shane again. “It is a scary thing, I think. An uncertain one.”

Shane grimaced and nodded. It was strange and unsettling in a way. But that didn’t make the way Ilya had treated Shane any better. They could have talked about this then, instead of Ilya all but running away from him.

“I think we should take a break,” Shane said. “From sex, at least. I don’t want to lose your friendship, Ilya. Maybe we let things get to messy. We can fuck other people, but I want my friend back,” Shane said, catching and holding Ilya’s gaze again, nudging him with his foot. “Okay?”

Ilya closed his eyes and turned his head to rest over one arm, but nodded nonetheless. “Okay,” he agreed.

Shane leaned across the space between them, cupped the far side of Ilya’s face with one hand and pulled him in for a chaste kiss. He pulled back and smiled, a bitter-sweet twist of the lips as he tilted his own head to the side. “You’re one of my best friends, Ilya. Don’t shut me out again, okay?”

Ilya grinned also, just as small and somewhat abashed. “Okay.”

“And talk to my mom! She wants to know if you’re coming over for Christmas this year.”

Ilya chuckled. “I could never disappoint Yuna Hollander,” he agreed. He pulled Shane into one last hug, and then he left.

Shane pulled the comforter from the bed, undid the rope and took a thick wool blanket from the linen closet to sleep under. He was asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, finally feeling like he had started to find his feet again in the funhouse that his year had turned into over the last few months.

Chapter End Notes

We get HAYDEN! We get Comeaux getting what's coming for him! And Shane over here setting boundaries and taking no shit. I know a lot of you had a lot of feelings after the last couple of chapters, I hope you like how everything has resolved so far! Let me know in the comments! Until next time! <3

Chapter 14: Moving On

Chapter Summary

Time passes and relationships change. Some strengthen, some just shift, and others are built from scratch.

Chapter Notes

Chapter-specific warning for smut with an OC; feel free to gloss over that part or skip it entirely.

Shane

After the last time Shane had seen and talked to Ilya, Christmas at his parents' house probably should have been an awkward experience, but it was hard to be awkward when Ilya and his mom were laughing over cookie designs in the kitchen while Shane helped his dad pull the china out to dust and clean before dinner.

“I’m glad Ilya was able to come,” Shane’s dad said, handing over a gravy boat with a fine coating of dust along the base. Shane used a rag to wipe it down, then carefully stacked it with a few other plates. “Yuna’s been worried.”

Shane nodded, not sure what else to say exactly. He helped his dad up, then took his own stack of dishes while his dad took another, and they walked together to the sink.

“Those look fun!” Shane’s dad cheered, looking over Yuna’s shoulder at the sugar cookies and gingerbread men decorated in colorful icing. He kissed her on the cheek, and Yuna wiped some of the plain white icing on his nose with a smirk.

“Not until after dinner!” she admonished, taking the stolen gingerbread man from his sneaky fingers as he stepped back. Ilya laughed.

Shane shook his head at them all and started washing dust off the dishes, handing them over for his dad to dry. Christmas music filled the kitchen from a small speaker Ilya brought, and he was singing along to a mix of words that definitely weren’t the right lyrics, a bright smile suggesting he knew and didn’t care.

Then, when dinner was finished and the kitchen was put back to rights, Ilya left for his apartment, and Shane stayed. He went up to his old bedroom and tossed and turned until he fell asleep.

They met up a couple more times over Christmas break, either at Shane’s house with his parents or out with Evan for drinks. Shane never went to Ilya’s apartment, and Ilya never asked. And that’s how the rest of the season went, too. Shane saw Ilya plenty, always with a buffer of others, but they did find their footing as friends again, and that was all Shane could really ask for. After all, he had known from the start where Ilya stood on everything. Ilya wasn’t his boyfriend, and if his freakout over the end of the summer and start of the season was any indication, he didn’t want to be. And Shane would just have to be okay with that.

Ilya

Once again, the Centaurs were eliminated after the first round of the playoffs in game six. It was like his team was cursed; even with the best season they’d had in years, they couldn’t seem to make it any closer to the cup.

Of course, the Metros hadn’t made the playoffs at all. Even with Shane there to help turn their momentum around partway through the season, they were just too behind in the standings. In a way, it was nice to see Shane alongside Yuna and David in the stands for the home games in that first round. It would have been nicer if Ilya could have won.

As soon as he was able, Ilya went to Boston to stay with Svetlana. As much as he loved the Hollanders, he needed some space. It felt strange, being so close to Shane and yet never seeing him alone anymore, never holding him. It was necessary, he knew, but he also needed to get away from it all. At least for a little while.

So he and Svetlana did what they always did anytime Ilya was in town. She led him on a tour of her favorite parties and clubs around Boston. Ilya was even legally allowed to drink in the US now, not that it had ever stopped him before.

And he had fun; Boston was an incredibly fun city. Loud and vibrant, full of people as rough and rowdy as Ilya himself and unapologetic about their boldness. He wondered what it might have been like sometimes, if the scandal had broken after the draft instead of before, and he’d been claimed by the Raiders after all. Would he have fit in here? Would they have traded him away like they traded Shane?

He was on his phone, texting Shane about some recent trades that had been announced and Shane’s predictions for the next season, when Svetlana walked into the kitchen in her usual t-shirt and underwear and stole a sip of coffee from Ilya’s mug.

“I still don’t get it,” she said, draping herself across Ilya’s shoulders to better read the messages between them. “You’re such an idiot.”

Ilya grimaced and put his phone on the bar face down. “Just leave it alone, Sveta.”

She twirled one of Ilya’s curls around a finger and kissed his cheek. “You’re too hard on yourself, Ilyushka. You love him, no? Why make both of you miserable like this?”

“He’s not miserable,” Ilya denied. Shane was doing great. He was volunteering at a Montreal hockey camp, one of the few that proudly accepted both boys and girls from local clubs. Despite his complaints, he always sounded incredibly fond when he talked about the kids.

“To know you is to love you, Ilya. You should give him a chance. Give yourself a chance,” Sveta sighed, placing a kiss to Ilya’s curls before crossing the kitchen to pour her own cup of coffee. “Before it’s too late,” she added with a glare over the rim of the mug.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “It is already too late, Sveta.”

Shane

Shane watched the gaggle of kids follow Richard Braddock’s instructions on the ice as he coached them on edgework and efficiency. Shane didn’t follow any sports outside of hockey, definitely not the upper levels of figure skating, but he’d done his usual research into the other people he would be working with, and the skater’s resume was impressive. He and his pairs partner were hopefuls for the Olympics as well, having won their first national title.

“Hey Hollander!” Braddock called from the center of the ice. “Will you come help me demonstrate?”

Shane nodded, left his skate guards on the boards near the gate and skated over. He listened to what Braddock was asking for, watched him demonstrate, and then showed the kids again, highlighting how the same movements still worked with hockey skates.

“Thanks,” Braddock grinned once the little gaggle had skated off to practice across the ice.

Shane smiled and shrugged. “No problem, man.”

“How are you liking camp? This is your first time doing something like this, isn’t it?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice. I have no idea what I’m doing, but camps like these were a big deal for me growing up. I try to remember that.”

“Yeah, there’s a bit of a learning curve for sure,” Braddock agreed, calling out for one of the kids to adjust their footwork.

“You coach pretty regularly, right?” Shane asked.

Braddock nodded. “Not as much these days, but we work with the more junior skaters a lot. I prefer to help with things like music selection. It would be nice to compose music for programs one day, but helping with the selection can be rewarding too.

“You write music?” Shane asked, surprised. Literally, his whole life was hockey. He expected that had to be true for internationally competitive figure skaters, too. Shane had a friend in high school who was an incredibly competitive and talented singles skater. He knew how much time went into that.

“I do, yeah,” Braddock smiled, almost shy. It was an interesting look considering he had a good few inches in height on Shane, how he almost folded in on himself, the tilt of his head as he considered Shane’s reaction.

“That’s really cool. I don’t really do anything outside of hockey,” Shane admitted. Now he felt embarrassed.

Braddock looked like he was going to say something, but then one of the kids took a hard fall, and they were both distracted.

That night, Shane went home and did something he tried to avoid. He usually only let himself use Grindr on away games, not wanting to be too obvious in a city full of hockey fanatics who were more likely to recognize him every day.

But it was July, and Shane had volunteered for this Montreal hockey camp, and just the one time couldn’t hurt anyway. He just couldn’t make it a habit.

Except, when he made it to the hotel a couple of hours later, it was a very familiar face that opened the door.

“Hollander?” the man said. He was tall, athletic but slim with a bit of dark stubble carefully maintained on his jaw and gray eyes.

“Braddock?” Shane muttered. He was beet red. He knew he had to be beet red from how hot his face was. Holy shit, this couldn’t be happening.

“Holy shit,” Braddock echoed his thoughts. He scanned up and down the hall, then stepped back, pulling Shane through by the front of his shirt.

“What the fuck are you doing on Grindr?” Shane asked, catching his balance as the door closed behind him.

“Same as you, I guess,” Braddock laughed. It wasn’t exactly a happy sound, more shocked than anything else. A bit breathless. “What the fuck are you doing on Grindr in Montreal? Are you crazy?”

“Probably, yeah,” Shane admitted. “I mean, you too, though.”

“I’m not the savior of the fucking Metros, Hollander! Everyone in this city knows who you are.”

Shane chewed his bottom lip and groaned, rocking back to rest against the door. “People see what they want to see. You would be surprised how easy it is to go unrecognized.”

“I guess nobody expects All-Star Shane Hollander to be gay,” Braddock chuckled in agreement.

Shane smirked. “You didn’t.”

The atmosphere shifted with that; Braddock’s gaze went from surprised to considering as he looked Shane over, studying the casual way he leaned back against the door. “Is it too weird, now?” he asked, voice dropping to a register that Shane had never heard from him before.

“No,” Shane denied. As a rule, he tried not to consider anyone he worked with in any way beyond friendly, but he’d also never met someone he worked with in a hotel after anonymously connecting through a hookup app.

“Well, Shane,” Braddock started, stepping into Shane’s space and crowding him against the door. “Can I call you Shane?”

Shane nodded, his reply catching in his chest as Braddock’s hand found his waist. Braddock leaned down until Shane could feel his breath ghost against the skin right under Shane’s ear. “My friends call me Rick. Let’s have some of that fun I promised you, yeah?”

“Okay,” Shane sighed, hands going to Rick’s ass as the other man licked the skin of his neck and traced Shane’s jaw to his lips, kissing him filthily right there against the hotel door.

“Want to blow you,” Shane sighed, grinding his hips up against Rick and moaning as the other man sucked at his neck.

“God, please,” Rick moaned, pulling back. He walked backward towards the bed, pulling his shirt off and throwing it towards the small couch. He sat at the end of the mattress and shuffled his pants and underwear down, tossing them in the same direction as the shirt, then used his arms to push himself up, and inched back towards the pillows.

Shane pulled his own clothes off and quickly folded them, leaving them on the dresser before crawling onto the bed after Rick. His chest hair was well-groomed, spread across his pecs and down his sternum. An equally maintained patch of hair led from his belly button down to the cock hardening between his thighs.

Shane dipped his tongue into Rick’s belly button, bit gently down the path of dark hair and braced his weight on one hand. He teased at the head of Rick’s cock with his tongue, used his free hand to play with his balls and swallowed around him to feel the man harden fully on his tongue.

Rick ran one hand through Shane’s hair, cradling the back of his head as Shane bobbed on his dick and moaned. “Fuck, that’s good,” Rick praised. His fingers tightened in Shane’s hair and Shane whined, Rick's dick falling from his mouth as he pulled back and made eye contact.

“Pull my hair,” Shane groaned, then sucked Rick’s cock back into his mouth and whined around it at the persistent tugs of Rick’s fingers in his hair. It wasn’t long before the man was coming down Shane’s throat while Shane swallowed around him.

“Fuck, Shane,” Rick groaned, encouraging Shane to stretch up and kiss him. Rick wrapped his hand around Shane’s leaking cock, stroking it gently while Shane whined into his mouth. “We could have been doing this for weeks.”

Shane chuckled, shifting to roll his dick into Rick’s loose fist. It had been so long since he’d had anything like this. And Rick was incredibly good-looking. It was going to be all he could think about tomorrow, watching the man skate around in his tight little practice leggings, every muscle in his ass and thighs on full display.

It didn’t take long before Shane came, shooting over Rick’s hand and chest. Rick took some tissues from the nightstand and wiped himself off.

“We should definitely do this again sometime,” Rick said, leaning against the wall next to the door while Shane pulled his shoes on. “Same city, same secret. We could have some real fun together, Shane.”

Shane grinned, pulled his hair back into a tie and nodded. “Definitely,” he agreed.

Rick pulled him in for one last kiss, then pushed Shane toward the door. “See you tomorrow!”

Shane waved and grinned, then left the hotel feeling lighter than when he’d arrived. It would be nice to have a regular Montreal hook-up without risking being figured out by the wrong guy.

Rick became a somewhat regular installment at Shane’s apartment until Shane had to leave for the cottage in August. But when the few weeks spent with his parents and finalizing construction for his own place had passed, Shane was happy enough to be back in the city and reach out to the man again.

Shane: back in Montreal, you busy?

Shane sent the message from his couch, bags already unpacked and stowed away. He had a few days before he had to return to the rink for training camp. Just enough time to get settled in and mentally prepare for the season ahead.

Rick: not anymore ;)

Shane rolled his eyes even though there was no one there to see him and made plans to meet up for drinks later. It really was nice, having someone who knew and understood in Montreal.

Ilya

Ilya turned the TV off in his living room. While his own team’s opener wouldn’t be for a few more days, the Metros had just faced Buffalo and won their first game of the season. He took his phone out to message Shane even though it would probably be a while before he had time to respond.

Ilya: congrats on the A

He hadn’t seen Shane yet since returning from Boston, though he had been strong-armed into dinner with Yuna and David to welcome him back. He would see Shane in a few weeks when the Centaurs stopped through Montreal for a string of away games.

Shane: thanks, you watched?

Ilya: some, was boring

Ilya: good background noise for cleaning

The next day, Ilya arrived early for practice and found their new rookie already in the locker room, lacing up his skates.

“Getting a head start?” Ilya asked. The rookie looked up and went fish-mouthed with surprise.

“Oh! Uh, I just wanted to get some practice in before everyone got here.”

“Is good,” Ilya soothed. “We will work on your backhand. Could use a few tweaks. Boodram, yes?”

The rookie grinned, standing abruptly and sticking a hand out for Ilya to shake. “Yeah, friends call me Bood though. Thanks, Rozanov!”

Ilya waved him off and went to change into his own gear, meeting Bood on the ice and watching him send a few pucks into the net.

By the time the rest of the team arrived, Bood and Ilya were trading increasingly wild trick shots and laughing.

“Are you having fun without me?” Dykstra asked, skating out to meet them and stealing the puck from Ilya before he could shoot it. Ilya glared and stuck his tongue out at him.

Practice went as it usually did, and Ilya left on time for once to make it to his lawyer’s office for their meeting about his citizenship application. He just hoped it was good news; they were running out of time if he wanted everything to be complete in time for the 2014 Olympics.

Luckily for Ilya, it was good news, and they were able to set an official date for his citizenship ceremony. He texted his group chat, sharing the ceremony date and his good news. They made plans to go out to Monks after their next practice and celebrate.

Ilya found Shane’s number in his contacts and called, listened to it ring through to voicemail, then sent him a text when he didn’t answer. He knew Yuna had been wanting to celebrate with dinner when everything went through, maybe they could set something up for a day when Shane was free to drive in, also.

Shane

“Are you busy after practice tomorrow?” Hayden asked, toweling his hair dry.

“No, not really,” Shane said. He had plans for their next half-day to drive down to Ottawa and celebrate Ilya’s citizenship with his parents but that was still a few days away.

“You want to come have dinner with Jackie and me? She’s been bugging me to drag you over for weeks-”

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” Shane interrupted, not really meaning for it to be a rejection of the offer but not wanting to be a burden on Jackie either.

“It’s fine,” Hayden said. “Jackie’s an amazing cook, she’ll be happy to make whatever bird food you do eat, Shane. Seriously, she’s going to be so excited to see you again.”

Shane grinned. “All right,” he agreed.

Which is how he found himself at dinner with the Pikes, a can of ginger ale in one hand, on his way to the table. Jackie was drinking the same ginger ale, not yet showing, but expecting twins by the end of the season. Hayden hovered around her, taking every plate of food from her hands and setting it on the table. It was incredibly unnecessary. Shane was pretty sure nothing about being in her first trimester of pregnancy would prevent Jackie from carrying food to the table, but it was cute, too. Jackie looked amused, at least.

The entire first half of the dinner was spent discussing their plans for the season, the changes being made to accommodate the new players, and which of the old ones would probably be the most resistant to those changes. But even Shane couldn’t talk hockey forever, so it shouldn’t have been too surprising when things took a turn for the personal.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jackie asked, eyes lit with friendly curiosity as she handed Shane a second ginger ale and cracked the top of her own.

“Oh, ah- no,” Shane said, lips twisting into a small grimace.

“Now, Shane, life can’t just be all hockey all the time,” Jackie teased. “I know! Why don’t we go on a little double date with Terry, Hayd? Don’t you think they would get on well?”

Hayden smiled and nodded at the suggestion. “Yeah!” he agreed, then turned to Shane excitedly. Shane was already shaking his head, though.

“That’s okay, Jackie, but no thank you. Sorry, just not really looking for a girlfriend, you know?”

“Terry’s hot-” Hayden exclaimed, then cut off with a pained whimper when Jackie kicked him under the table. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “She’s got a great, ah- personality?” He tried again, looking pleadingly at his wife. Jackie rolled her eyes.

“Really, though, Shane,” Jackie said. “You should meet her. You never know what could happen.”

Shane looked back and forth between the two of them. Hayden had been his best friend and strongest support in Montreal since the trade. He’d helped him find an apartment, roomed with him on the road, and stood by him for Shane’s crusade to clean up the language and chirping in the locker room. If Shane could trust anyone on the team to keep his secret, it was probably Hayd. But still, could he risk it? He hadn’t even told Cliff, really; he’d just been figured out.

Still, pretending all the time with someone Shane spent so much time with, even outside of work these days, was exhausting. What was one more person?

“I’m, ah- I don’t date girls,” Shane said, stumbling over the words while thumbing over a little indent on the rim of his can.

“Like, during the season?” Hayden looked confused. Shane snorted. This wasn’t a hockey superstition.

“Like, in general,” Shane sighed. “I’m gay.”

Hayden's eyes widened almost comically. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “That kind of not dating girls. Whoa, seriously?”

Hayden winced when Jackie kicked him yet again. She glared at him, then turned a smile to Shane. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have just assumed, huh? You would think I would know better by now, but you hockey boys can just be so…” Jackie trailed off, wincing. “Anyways, sorry. Do you have a boyfriend then?”

“Not really,” Shane smiled reassuringly. “Kind of hard to date when you’re gone all the time and have to sneak around. Wouldn’t be very fair, you know?”

“I mean, there have to be other closeted guys in Montreal-”

Shane laughed, nodded. “Yeah, it’s okay though. Really.”

He looked back over at Hayden, who still seemed more confused than anything. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

That startled him back into the conversation at least. “What? No! Of course not!”

Shane gave a small smile and nodded. “Okay.”

Later that night, Shane texted Cliff about the whole dinner and smiled when Cliff praised him for telling another friend, and then snorted at the threats to murder Hayden if he fucked up. Shane loved that even playing for rival teams as they were, Cliff could still be relied on to always have his back.

Shane was already halfway through warming up ahead of the game the next night when Rick’s face took over the giant screen of the Jumbotron. One of the announcers was interviewing him, but Shane couldn’t get himself to focus on the words. He hadn’t even known Rick was coming.

“Earth to Shane!” Hayden called, pulling Shane’s attention back to the ice. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, shock turning to warm curiosity over Rick’s presence. Had he come to watch Shane play?

Hayden, not nearly as clueless as he sometimes seemed, looked from the jumbotron to Shane and back. “You know him?” he asked.

Shane blushed. Nodded. “You could say that.”

It was Hayden’s turn to blush, eyes widening with realization. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “You know him. I get it.”

Shane groaned and shoved at Hayden’s shoulder.

“Oh man, wait until I tell Jackie! He’s a figure skater, isn’t he? That’s what they’re interviewing him about?”

Shane nodded and looked around the ice, checking that none of their teammates were listening. “Can we not talk about this here?” he asked.

Hayden chuckled but let it go. Shane was sure that they definitely would be talking about it later, probably with Jackie over beer and ginger ale.

Shane’s eyes kept finding Rick in the stands for the rest of the game, and he definitely noticed when Rick came back right before the start of the third period wearing a Hollander jersey. Shane didn’t understand what was going on, but he sent a text asking Rick to wait for him after the game. Even if he was just there for work or something, it would be nice to get drinks after anyway. And maybe Shane could get some answers.

Chapter End Notes

Some of you might have clocked it, but "Richard(Rick) Braddock" is very much based on RL figure skater Eric Radford, a Canadian pairs skater. As this is a completely fictional story in which I have creative liberties, please note that "based-on" does not mean "is" though... lol. And now we enter the "dating other people" era... in which Shane Hollander is allowed to have nice things, and Ilya Rozanov needs to figure his shit out. Sorry for the slower-than-usual updates this week, we have friends in town and it took me about 5x as long to write this chapter because I'm way too easily distracted... Anyways! I hope you liked it! It's a bit of a bridge, with some time-jumping as we get closer to the 2014 Olympics. Still more time-jumping to go with this being the start of the 2012-2013 season, though... Until next time! <3

Chapter 15: On Love

Chapter Summary

The 2012-2013 season brings lessons on a lot more than just hockey.

Chapter Notes

Shane

Instead of waiting around at the rink, Rick sent Shane the address for a little restaurant a few minutes' drive from the stadium. He was already sitting at a table when Shane arrived, still wearing his Hollander jersey from the game with flushed cheeks and an easy grin.

“Hey,” Rick greeted, setting the menu down on the table. He locked their feet together when Shane sat down, the smallest bit of contact well hidden under the low lighting in their quiet corner.

“Hi,” Shane returned with a soft smile of his own. “I didn’t realize you were coming to the game tonight.”

“I guess I just wanted to see you,” Rick chuckled, running one hand through his hair with a little shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I really like you Shane Hollander.”

Shane’s breath caught in his chest, cheeks burning with a blush as his heart beat overtime in his chest. The admission came so easily to Rick, his dark hair shining in the soft light of the restaurant, eyes bright and warm. It should have been terrifying, exposed as they were with Rick’s foot hooked around Shane’s ankle under the table. Instead, all Shane felt was warmth, suspended in the quiet of their little corner.

“Yeah?” Shane murmured, sandwiching Rick’s foot between his own, head tilted to match with his hands open in front of him on the table.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed with a rueful smile. “I know neither of us is anywhere near ready to be out to the public or anything, but I’d like to try a little more seriously with you, Shane. Exclusively.” He reached over the menu laid out in front of him and squeezed Shane’s fingers once before letting go.

“Our schedules aren’t going to make that easy,” Shane pointed out, chewing on his bottom lip. Between the hockey season in full swing and Rick’s competition schedule, neither of them had much free time outside of the summer months.

“What is it they say?” Rick asked. “The things worth having in life are rarely easy? I know it’s probably crazy, but I want to try. Do you?”

“Yeah,” Shane murmured, his confession soft and quiet in an easy match to the space around them. “Okay.”

Rick hardly had time to do more than grin in response when a waiter crossed over to them and took their order. It was late and the restaurant wasn’t very crowded so close to closing, probably more popular as a lunch spot besides with its salad-heavy menu and proximity to a large number of office buildings nearby. Shane ordered a salmon bowl with brown rice and sweet potato, then waited while Rick rattled off his own order.

After eating, they left their cars parked in the garage near the restaurant and went for a walk together. Montreal always felt so awake at night when compared to Ottawa; Boston had been similar in that way. Hands stuffed in their coat pockets and toques pulled low against the growing cold, conversation flowed around their schedules for the next few weeks.

“You and Rozanov are pretty close, then?” Rick asked when Shane finished explaining about the dinner planned in a few days to celebrate Ilya’s citizenship.

Shane nodded, his blush hidden under the shadows between street lights. It felt strange talking about Ilya with Rick, an uncomfortable itch between his shoulders that he tried to shrug off. His feelings toward Ilya were complicated and would probably always be.

“How does that work? Isn’t he, like, known for being a major asshole on the ice?”

Shane laughed, the sound breaking from his chest and filling the night air around them. “Definitely. On and off the ice. But my mom’s basically adopted him at this point, so I guess we’re stuck with him.”

“And he’s bi, right? Maybe we should go to the village. Get some drinks next time he’s in town. I can bring some of my friends along too.”

Shane sucked a hoodie string into his mouth, chewing at the aglet while he considered it. While Rick was well known in some circles, he didn’t have nearly the level of public recognition as Shane garnered these days. Especially in Montreal, where the whole city breathed hockey. It was a lot easier for him to go out, even in the village, without risking outing himself. But Shane hated feeling like he had to hold himself back all the time, letting his fear of his fans' reactions get in the way of just living his life.

Rick seemed to sense his nerves and reached out to brush the back of his hand against Shane’s. “I could bring Mia?” he offered. “She’d probably jump at the chance to play beard for The Shane Hollander.”

Shane choked on his next breath, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to cough through it. The cold air burned his lungs, eyes tearing up and hoodie string falling from his mouth. “What?”

“My partner, Mia. She’s a huge Voyageurs fan. She’d be happy to cover for us. Her girlfriend wouldn’t care either.”

Shane considered it. Just a group of friends, out for drinks in Montreal. With a few girls in their group they could probably get away with it without raising too much suspicion.

“I don’t want to lie,” Shane sighed, continuing down the sidewalk after catching his breath. “I mean, I don’t want to come out either. Hockey fans can be brutal, and the players aren’t much better. But I don’t want to lie and pretend to have some fake relationship.”

Rick nodded. “You wouldn’t have to,” he assured. “The public and the media are going to see what they want to see, what they expect to see from the MLH golden boy. They’ll do all the work for you; all you would need to do is nod along and not contradict them.”

Shane grimaced, but Rick was probably right. Through his anonymous accounts, Shane was familiar enough with fan perception. There would always be fans who speculated about him and Ilya or him and Hayden, even, but no one seemed to take those fans very seriously, anyway. Those who would have a problem with Shane being out with another man would write their own excuses; they didn’t need him to lie.

And maybe Shane could take advantage of that. He knew Rick was out to his friends and family, but he just didn’t talk about it openly with his fans or the media. Maybe it was time for Shane to do the same.

They circled back to the parking garage eventually and Shane followed Rick home. It was good that they had taken a walk, because there wasn’t any room for talking the minute the door closed behind them and Rick sealed Shane’s lips with his own.

Ilya

The restaurant Yuna had reserved a table at to celebrate Ilya’s citizenship was exactly the kind of upscale yet modern establishment that Ilya had come to expect from her. The tables were all covered in white tablecloths with little lamps that complemented the eclectic modern light fixtures. He was the last to arrive, the seat next to Shane sitting open across from David.

“Ilya!” Yuna cheered upon seeing him, standing to pull him into a hug. Ilya smiled and hugged her back, then waited for her to sit back down before pulling his own chair out to sit.

“Hello, Shane,” Ilya greeted, smiling. Shane looked good, his skin still extra freckled and tan from the summer sun. His posture was relaxed and easy, his smile soft and genuine as he returned the greeting. Despite the stress of his first full season with the Metros, he looked healthy and content in a way that spoke to good sleep and regular meals.

Conversation over dinner centered mostly around the next steps for Ilya. His citizenship ceremony was coming up, then after that he would need to formally renounce his Russian citizenship if he wanted to be able to safely compete in the Olympics. With more regions adopting bans on so-called queer “propaganda,” his best bet was to place himself completely under Canadian jurisdiction in time for the games.

It didn’t exactly make for the lightest dinner discussion, but Ilya had always appreciated Yuna’s forthright ability to dissect any issue and set a clear plan moving forward. David stayed largely quiet while Shane nodded along and made his own suggestions.

“How long are you in Ottawa?” Ilya asked Shane. They were alone at the table, David having gone to the restroom while Yuna stepped out to take a phone call.

“Just for the night,” Shane said. “We have a game day after tomorrow.”

Ilya nodded. “Do you want to come over?” he asked. Shane tensed, eyes dropping to the table and lips twisting into a frown. Ilya could feel the no before it even had a chance to leave Shane’s lips. “Not like that,” he rushed to explain. “Just for a drink, yes? It has been a long time since we could talk. We are still friends, no?”

It seemed to work, with Shane looking up again to make easy eye contact as his shoulders sank down to a more natural position away from his ears. He still chewed his lip a bit and tilted his head consideringly.

“Okay,” he agreed, just as David came back and sat down. Yuna returned not long after, and they had some dessert before calling it a night. The two of them said their goodbyes to Yuna and David in the parking garage before heading to their own cars.

Ilya had just enough time to shut his car off and step out to lock it when Shane pulled up and parked in the space next to him, his boring Jeep casting a black shadow behind the bright red paint of Ilya’s Ferrari.

“Do you ever go the speed limit?” Shane teased, locking the Jeep behind him and following Ilya up to his apartment.

Ilya grinned. “No,” he said. “So boring, Hollander.”

Shane shoved at his shoulder and laughed. Tempted to press into the contact, skin tingling beneath his coat where Shane’s hand had been, Ilya resisted. Shane wasn’t his to have like that, not anymore. He didn’t look back when he opened the apartment door, leaving it open for Shane to follow him through and crossing to the kitchen. He pulled a ginger ale and a coke from the fridge.

“Thanks,” Shane said, taking the can of ginger ale with an easy grin.

Ilya smiled at him. “You look good,” he said.

Shane blushed, staring down at the green can in his hand. He traced a finger over the condensation and shrugged. “Thank you?”

“Hmm,” Ilya affirmed. “Everything is okay then, with Metros?”

Shane nodded and took a sip of his ginger ale. “Yeah, it’s been better this season. They’re not nearly as close-knit as the Raiders, but they’re not bad either. Just different.”

“And Comeaux? Is he still giving you problems?”

Shane shook his head. “Not really. I think he’s given up. I won’t lie and say it’s been easy, but I think I’m actually starting to get some of their respect, you know?”

Ilya hummed again in acknowledgment, leaning back against the kitchen bar. His experiences with the Centaurs were so different from Shane’s with the Metros. The Centaurs were like a big family. But respect was good. Not great, maybe, but good enough at least.

Like instinct, Ilya left his coke on the counter and stepped closer, entering Shane’s space where he leaned against the back of the couch.

“Ilya,” Shane warned, standing straighter to bring himself to his full height.

“Shane,” Ilya acknowledged teasingly.

“Don’t,” Shane said, and Ilya froze.

“Is just some fun, no?” Ilya tried. He knew he shouldn't, knew it would only hurt more later, but Ilya had always danced the line of self-destruction like that. Even when he meant to be better. He really hadn't invited Shane here with the intention of looking for anything more.

“It’s a bad idea,” Shane sighed. “Besides, I’m seeing someone.”

Ilya took a step back. “Seeing someone?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s new but… I’m not here to fuck around, all right? I thought we agreed we weren’t doing that anymore anyway.”

Ilya’s whole body felt cold, thrown off center. Seeing someone? Who could Shane be seeing? Had he found a girl to date in Montreal? Was it another man? Ilya texted with him just yesterday, why hadn’t he said anything?

“Of course,” Ilya agreed, voice hoarse. “Just teasing, Hollander. God, you’re so boring.”

Shane rolled his eyes, then rounded the couch and plopped down with his back to the armrest. “You’re such an asshole,” he griped.

“Tell me about this relationship,” Ilya demanded, keeping space between them on the couch. His chest burned like stomach acid was trying to claw its way back up his esophagus, but Ilya was invested now.

“No,” Shane groaned, pulling his knees into his chest and taking another sip of ginger ale.

“Is boring like you, no?”

“He’s not boring, Ilya. Leave it, would you? Why do you have to be such a dick about everything?”

“Is Shane Hollander’s first boyfriend!” Ilya exclaimed. “I am best friend, no? You should tell me these things.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “No,” he disagreed. “You’re just going to make fun of me.”

Ilya grinned, holding onto that teasing edge and the glee over getting under Shane’s skin to ignore the way his stomach twisted. He didn’t say anything, let his expression do all the work as he waited Shane out.

“Fine,” Shane groaned. “We met at the training camp over the summer. He was another coach there.”

“He is hockey player?” Ilya asked, surprised. What other coaches had there been? Ilya was pretty sure Shane was the only player in the MLH. Maybe someone from the Montreal farm team?

“Figure skater, actually-”

Ilya snorted. “Figure skater?” He tried to picture it, Shane with some dainty figure skater. He couldn’t. Another hockey player at least would have made more sense.

“Don’t be like that,” Shane kicked him, rolling his eyes. “Yes, a figure skater. He mentioned getting a group together to get drinks when you come play us in a few weeks, actually. Maybe invite Evan?”

It was a terrible idea. The last thing Ilya needed to do was see the guy Shane was fucking now. But curiosity had always been one of Ilya’s greatest weaknesses. “Sure,” he agreed instead of the denial he should have given. “I will meet this figure skater of yours.”

Shane rolled his eyes again. “Don’t be a dick, please?”

Ilya laughed because Shane should know better. Of course, he was going to be an asshole. If this guy was worth Shane’s time, he wouldn’t take it too personally.

Ilya changed the subject after that, desperately needing to think about anything that wasn’t whose bed Shane was sleeping in. He should feel happy for Shane. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Shane deserved better than Ilya. He couldn’t be surprised when Shane started to see that too. Ilya didn’t have a right to be jealous when he’d never had a claim on Shane to begin with.

Shane left a couple of hours later and Ilya set the water in his shower as hot as he could stand it, turning his face to the spray and telling himself the water on his face was just from the shower and had nothing to do with the shadowed figure of another man with Shane, touching him, tasting him, holding him in the dark and sharing his space. Any evidence otherwise was quickly washed away.

He didn’t shut the water off until long after it had gone cold, stepping out of the shower with gooseflesh over his skin and wrinkled fingers. The bed felt cold and empty, uncomfortable in a way that had Ilya tossing and turning as he fought for sleep. Eventually, he gave up and dressed for the gym instead. Morning practice would start in a few hours; he might as well get a good workout in first.

Shane

Shane took the face-off against Ilya with his expression set into a stoic, determined mask, prepared for whatever unhinged chirping Ilya was planning to release to get him distracted. Ilya rolled his eyes like he could tell Shane’s strategy.

“Boring as usual, Hollander,” he complained. “Is whole team of boring people, no? I miss when you were Raider and was actual fun to play you. Maybe I will take nap on bench.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane groaned. The puck dropped, and he fought for it, sending it to Hayden. After that, Ilya was too busy cursing and chasing after him to do much chirping.

After the game, Shane sent Ilya the address for the bar Rick wanted to meet up at and left the rink with Hayden.

“I still wish I could come tonight,” Hayden sighed, having made the decision to back out at the last minute. Jackie hadn’t been feeling well lately, struggling more with morning sickness, and neither of them was sleeping too well because of it. “You’re still going to bring Rick over for dinner with Jackie, though, right? Before we leave on our roady?”

“Yes, Hayd,” Shane groaned. “I’m not hiding him from you. Go get some sleep, give Jackie my love, and tell her we’re still good for dinner in a couple of days, okay?’

Hayden sighed dramatically. “At least I don’t have to spend the night pretending to get along with fucking Rozanov.”

Shane rolled his eyes and bumped their shoulders together. “He’s really not that bad off the ice.”

Hayden laughed. “Whatever, man,” he said. “He’s your friend, I get it. Doesn’t mean I like the guy.”

They split ways in the parking lot and Shane walked over to his Jeep, climbing in and starting the engine. He needed to go home first to change before heading out and Rick would be picking him up soon. He didn’t want to be late and keep him waiting.

It ended up being a pretty big group of them that went out together. Rick had brought a few of his friends, including Mia and her girlfriend, so they had a pretty full table by the time Ilya arrived with Evan. Shane watched Ilya take in their surroundings, eyeing the giant pride flag over the bar pointedly before turning to Shane with a raised eyebrow.

“Pretty bold, Hollander,” he said, sitting down and pulling Evan in next to him.

Mia leaned in and wrapped an arm over Shane’s shoulders. “Whatever could you be talking about?” she teased. Her girlfriend grinned conspiratorially, wrapping a strand of vibrant blue hair around one finger and batting her lashes at Ilya exaggeratedly.

“Just two bros hanging out, obviously,” she added, eyes sharp with laughter.

Ilya laughed and relaxed into the booth. The bar itself was pretty laid back, right on the edge of the village and without the thrumming club music of some of their more famous establishments.

Unlike some of the busier clubs, the presence of a couple of rising-star hockey players also went mostly unnoticed. Shane couldn’t say for sure that they weren’t recognized, but he could say that at least they were ignored if nothing else.

“I’m Rick, by the way,” Rick introduced, holding a hand out to Ilya to shake. “Nice to finally meet you.”

There was something off in Ilya’s expression when he took Rick’s hand, his smile a little too stiff. “Ilya,” he returned, then shook Evan by the shoulder. “And this idiot is Evan Dykstra. We managed to ditch the rookie for the night.”

Evan laughed. “We shouldn’t have, though! Bood is fun. He would have loved this.”

“Hmm,” Ilya disagreed. “He is baby. Needs full night sleep before flight tomorrow. Not used to stress of MLH season yet, no?”

Evan rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and nodded his head to indicate Ilya as he addressed the table. “He’s such a helicopter mom.”

“Probably why he gets along with my mom so well,” Shane agreed. “Be nice to your rookies, yeah?”

Ilya groaned. “I am nice,” he insisted.

“That sounds like a lie,” Mia laughed, pouring a glass of beer from the pitcher and sliding it over to Evan, then pouring another for Ilya.

Evan laughed in open agreement while Shane leaned back into the booth, drinking from his own beer glass and letting the flow of conversation pass around him. Rick was a warm presence at his side, one hand resting on Shane’s knee under the cover of the table while Mia kept her arm draped casually over his shoulders. It probably should have been overwhelming, but instead Shane just felt warm. He liked Rick’s friends, liked seeing his own pulled into conversation by them and drinking together. It was the most comfortable Shane had ever felt in a group this large.

“Where are you headed next?” Rick asked, pulling Ilya’s attention back from Mia’s interrogation over the Centaurs’ power play strategy that evening.

“San Francisco,” Ilya groaned. “Is terrible. I hate West Coast.”

Evan raised his glass in agreement and chugged half. “Too fuckin’ right, man.”

Mia laughed. “Yeah, jet lag is the worst. At least your games are all on the same continent. The Grand Prix final is in Sochi this year”

Evan and Ilya grimaced in sympathy. They might have to travel more frequently, but they also couldn’t argue that even the longest of their flights wasn’t shorter than many of the ones taken by the international skating pair.

“No thanks,” Evan laughed. “I’ll take San Fran over that any day.”

They didn’t stay out too late. Between the game tiring them out and Ilya’s team needing to leave early in the morning, it wasn’t long before they were all saying their respective goodbyes.

That night, Rick went to Shane’s apartment instead of his own. Neither of them had much energy, so after a quick shower together, they crawled into bed and fell asleep. Shane would be going on his own roady soon, and Rick would be leaving for Skate Canada shortly after.

It was a pattern they knew they would face from the start. Neither of them had careers that allowed for much free time outside of the off-season. And it wasn’t so bad, they were still able to text and call most days. Shane spent his evenings away trying to do a better job of building relationships with JJ and a few of his other teammates, going out for drinks with them after away games and hanging out with Hayden back at the hotel. For the first time since Cliff had downloaded it to his phone, Grindr sat ignored through the various cities Shane went to until he eventually deleted it while going through his phone after All-Stars.

It felt nice to have someone to come home to, someone to share his victories and his losses with. And Rick shared right back with stories of his own competitions. Shane had never understood the point system in figure skating, never bothered to watch before, but he found himself watching live streams with Hayden from the road and studying up on the different jumps, spins and lifts. He caught himself daydreaming of what it would be like, going to the Olympics together and watching from the stands for once while Rick and Mia skated, having Rick there in the stands for his own games. Competing in different events, but all for the same country.

Jackie had the twins right before playoffs and Rick came to every one of their home games, Hollander jersey stretched across his shoulders and a smile on his face. And Shane made plans, plans for summer when he could introduce Rick to his parents. Plans for the cottage and time spent with Hayden and Jackie, maybe babysitting the girls together so his friends could have a night out.

Plans that were all disrupted when Rick sat Shane down on the couch in Rick’s apartment and gently broke up with him.

“I don’t understand,” Shane said, searching Rick’s face for answers. “Did I do something wrong?”

Rick’s face twisted with sadness and worse, sympathy. “No, Shane,” he murmured. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not that. It’s just… I kind of think we’ve seen the course, don’t you?”

Shane looked away, staring at the smooth leather of the couch and thumbing over the raised stitching. “What does that even mean?”

Rick took Shane’s hand in both of his, pulling it away from the couch and into his lap. “Do you love me?” he asked.

Shane froze, forced himself to make eye contact again. Rick looked so calm. Not angry or sad or uncertain, just calm.

“What?” Shane asked, the word coming out as more of a shocked rasp than anything.

“Do you love me, Shane?” Rick asked, just as calm the second time. He looked like he already knew the answer, was just waiting for Shane to catch up.

“Sure,” Shane said, his own face twisting with confusion. Of course he did. He loved spending time with Rick, texted him all the time, and called him almost every day they weren’t together.

Rick snorted. “Sure?” he asked, then jostled Shane’s hand from side to side with one of his own. “No, Shane. I don’t think you do.”

“But-” Shane protested, pulling his hand back and away. His voice cracked over the word.

“No,” Rick said. He didn’t let him finish. “And it’s okay, Shane. Really. It’s not just you. I think maybe we’re too different. Or maybe we’re too alike. Either way, I don’t think it’s working. Do you?”

Shane wanted to say yes. Yes, of course it was working. They were supposed to spend the summer together, have time at the cottage and Shane wanted to introduce him to his parents. The hard part was over, they had the whole off-season ahead of them. “Of course it’s working,” Shane said.

Rick shook his head. “It’s not, Shane. We’re comfortable, sure. I like you a lot, and I know you like me too, but I don’t know that that’s enough. I love you, but I’m not in love with you. You know?”

Shane didn’t know. What was that even supposed to mean? He stared up at Rick, full of confusion, and tried to make sense of what was happening. When he couldn’t, he just stood up and went to leave. Whatever was happening, all Shane knew for sure was that he needed space if he was going to process it.

Rick let him go.

Later that night, lying awake in bed and wondering when the confusion would give way to the broken heart Shane knew he should be feeling, his phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Rick: I’m sorry. Take the time you need, okay? I’ll still be here if you want to stay friends

Shane looked at the message and couldn’t bring himself to answer. He would have to make new plans for the summer, ones that didn’t revolve around showing Rick his home. He wondered what it said about him that he felt more sad over the lost plans than the relationship itself. Was that what Rick meant? What did it even mean to be in love with someone?

Shane’s face was still wet, his eyes sore and vision blurry, when he eventually closed them for sleep. He could worry about responding to Rick’s message later.

Chapter End Notes

Man, it feels so good to be writing again. I've had hardly any time for it lately, so I'm sorry to everyone who's come to expect faster updates from me. I've barely had any free time lately and unfortunately that's a trend that's probably going to be the new normal for at least the next month while I'm moving. I hope you enjoyed the chapter though! Time's moving along quickly, next up is the 2013-2014 season and the Olympics! Until next time <3

Chapter 16: Politics

Chapter Summary

When the Russian government sets laws that threaten Ilya's plans to play for Canada at the Olympics, Shane makes a decision that could change the trajectory of his career.

Chapter Notes

Shane

“Have you talked to Ilya lately?” Shane’s mom asked, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Her laptop was open on the counter next to her, screen facing away from Shane. His hair was still damp from the shower, his run for the day out of the way already, and a slog of phone calls and video conferences were lined up with Farah and a few sponsors.

“Not for a few days, he’s in Boston with Svetlana still. Why?”

“I don’t know Shane, I’m just really worried. I know we’ve talked over Olympics logistics practically to death lately, but everything in Russia really seems to be escalating. They arrested four tourists yesterday. Dutch citizens! I want Ilya to play for Canada as much as anyone, but is it really safe?”

Shane shifted on the barstool, shoulders rigid. “They arrested tourists?”

His mom nodded once, the motion sharp and tight. Controlled. “Ilya renounced his Russian citizenship, but if they’re arresting citizens of other countries now, that might not even matter.”

Shane cursed under his breath, then winced. His mom hated it when his language slipped like that. But what was he supposed to say? Had Ilya heard yet? He had to have, surely. Knowing him, he had probably already decided there was nothing he could do and brushed past it. Shane knew Ilya wouldn’t let this stop him from competing if he made the team, and he was all but guaranteed to make the team.

There was still a little over an hour before he had to call Farah with his mom to go over their schedule for the day, so Shane took his coffee and retreated to the couch to pull his phone out and check in with Ilya. He logged in through his dummy accounts to see what people were saying online, too. It didn’t help. All Shane could focus on was how unfair this was. Going to the Olympics had been a dream of Shane’s long before he ever made the MLH, or even Juniors. He knew it was for Ilya, too.

Shane pulled his phone out again, tried not to fixate too much on the lack of response from Ilya, and pulled up a different message thread.

Shane: are you keeping up with what’s been going on in Russia?

He watched the dots dance across the screen, drummed the fingers of his left hand against his thigh impatiently while he waited.

Rick: yeah

Rick: it’s bullshit

Shane: people online are calling for boycotts

Rick: no way. athletes train their whole lives for the games. not everyone has entire professional leagues like you hockey boys

Shane: I don’t want to boycott either, but we have to do something, right?

Rick: I mean, there’s something we could do to speak out…

Rick: maybe it’s less about sitting out and more about speaking out…

Shane stared at the screen, thumbs hovering as he sucked on the string of his hoodie and considered it.

Shane: like speaking out in support of queer athletes?

Rick: like coming out. we are queer athletes, Shane. I’m talking about setting an example

Shane: you would do that?

Rick: probably. maybe. I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it…

Shane could feel his heart rate picking up, breathed in sharply through his nose and tried to exhale with a little more control. His skin felt too tight, hot and cold all at once, hypersensitive against the textured fabric of his parents’ couch. Could he do that? Would having another high-profile, out gay player help provide any protection at all for Ilya? And if there was even the slightest chance that it could, could Shane justify not doing it? Staying silent when his best friend had to face the rising homophobia in his home country alone?

Shane: no, i think you’re right

Shane: I have a meeting with my agent today. Maybe this is something we can talk about…

Shane didn’t wait for Rick’s reply. It still felt weird talking with him. That ache of disappointment that first flared when Rick broke up with him hadn’t gone away, but he was learning to get past it, too. He wanted to get past it, at least. He had so few friends that he could just be himself around.

But maybe it was time to change that, too. He had been prepared at the start of summer to bring Rick home, introduce him to his parents, tell them he was gay. He hadn’t though, hadn’t seen a reason to now that he was single again.

“Mom?” Shane asked, voice quiet and mug empty as he walked back into the kitchen. His mom was still standing at the kitchen island, laptop open on the counter and phone held in one hand.

“Yes, sweetie?” She asked, peering up through her glasses.

“I think there’s something I need to tell you,” Shane sighed, resting against the island to hide how his shoulders wanted to hunch forward, gaze falling to the granite and finger tracing lines across the smooth surface.

His mom waited, patient in a way she only ever got with family.

“I’m gay,” Shane muttered, still staring at the countertop. “I know you won’t care, and I wasn’t trying to hide it from you or anything,” Shane rushed to explain, not wanting to make his mom think he hadn’t been comfortable enough to tell her or that he was worried about her reaction. “Obviously, you don’t care, you’ve known about Ilya since before you met him, it’s just-”

“Shane,” his mom interrupted, laying a gentle hand over his shoulder. He didn't even remember her rounding the island. “Honey, breathe.”

Shane sucked in a breath, shoulders sinking as he deflated on the exhale.

“Why don’t you sit down?” his mom asked, helping Shane sit back onto the same barstool from earlier. “Thank you for telling me, sweetheart. Of course I care. Not that I’m mad or upset, never that. But I care about you, yeah? I love you. Whatever reasons you had for waiting to tell me, they’re your reasons, honey. It’s okay. I love you.”

Shane could hear the tears in his mom’s voice, could clearly picture them wetting her cheeks and imagined he could feel them collecting in his hair when she pressed a kiss to the top of his head, one hand pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear while the other rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

“I think I want to come out,” Shane said next, an explanation, in a way. One he was sure his mom would understand. “Ilya shouldn’t have to face this alone. Maybe we could talk to Farah about it in our call today?”

“Of course,” his mom soothed. “Oh, baby, of course we can talk about it. Are you and Ilya-?”

Shane pulled away quickly, wiping his own tears from his eyes. “No!” he insisted, emphasizing the denial with his hands.

He felt her fingers on his chin, urging his face up, and Shane stubbornly closed his eyes and groaned. “No, mom. We’re not. We’re just friends, okay? I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

His mom snorted but dropped her hand from his chin and let it go. “Okay,” she said instead of pressing. “Go wash your face. Our call with Farah starts in ten minutes.”

The cold water against Shane’s face helped cool the last of his nerves, relief settling in now that the hardest part of that conversation was over. His mom knew now, and she was an expert at handling his image. If anyone could help set this ball rolling in the direction Shane wanted, it was her.

Of course, the phone call started with the usual logistics. His mom was the one who brought it up in the end, once the rest of their agenda was finished. To her credit, if Farah was surprised, it didn’t show on her face or in her voice.

“It’s good timing, honestly,” Farah said, fingers tapping away against the keys of her own computer, eyes tracking windows on another screen, no longer locked in on their faces. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we see quite a few athletes come out leading up to the games, and public opinion is very much in their favor right now with the backlash against Russia. Add in the angle of Shane speaking out in solidarity for his known friend and fellow MLH player, another Canadian citizen likely to make the team, and we could definitely swing the optics in our favor.”

The next hour was filled with back-and-forth over strategy for looping his sponsors into their plans, brainstorming publications that might handle interviews favorably, and settling contingencies for potential fallout.

“I won’t lie to you, Shane,” Farah said, the clicking of keys coming to an abrupt stop as she made direct eye contact through the camera. “You may lose a sponsor or two over this, and there will be some backlash from fans and tension with the league. This is different than what happened with Ilya. You’re making a choice to speak out here, and like it or not it will be seen as political. I don’t see the Metros taking this very well, either. Montreal has a huge LGBT community, but the team and the city are two different beasts. Legally, they can only do so much. But if they decide to be difficult about this they can impact your career through avenues that are a lot less easy to prove. You could see less ice time, less media attention. If your relationship with the team becomes strained, they could call attention to the disruption of the culture in the locker room. Are you prepared for that?”

“No,” Shane said honestly. “But I can’t control that. I can only control what I do and say moving forward, and I think this is something I need to do.”

It would take time to get everything ready and implement the plan they came up with, but Shane still felt the relief of the decision having been made. It was done now. In a few weeks, he would make a statement, take a public stance on the issue, and have to deal with the consequences of what was already in motion.

Ilya

Ilya had a week left in Boston and was still sleeping off the alcohol he drank the night before when the door of Sveta’s guest room slammed open and she pulled the blinds.

“What the fuck, Sveta?” Ilya groaned, shielding his eyes from the light while his stomach twisted. He knew he shouldn’t have had so much shitty American vodka last night, but they were protesting the good Russian stuff and honestly, that was the most upsetting thing about the whole situation. Why couldn’t his home country get their shit together enough that he could at least drink their damn vodka without Sveta riding his ass over it?

“Your boy made the news,” she grinned, tossing her phone at Ilya. The screen glowed against the dark comforter, still bouncing as it settled.

“What?” Ilya asked, hands fumbling the device a few times before he was able to steady it enough to read.

He saw the thumbnail of Shane standing in front of his new cottage he was so proud of, then read the headline. “NHL ALL-STAR SHANE HOLLANDER COMES OUT AS GAY, SPEAKS OUT IN SUPPORT OF LGBT ATHLETES AHEAD OF SOCHI OLYMPIC GAMES”

“What the fuck?” Ilya muttered, the curse coming to him first in English as he read through the first couple of paragraphs of the article.

“Did you know he was going to do this?” Sveta asked.

“No,” Ilya replied. “Idiot. The commissioner isn’t going to like this.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he can get away with saying much against Hollander at this point. The support online is incredibly overwhelming. Whoever’s managing the optics on this deserves a raise.”

Ilya read through the article again. He still couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t Shane said anything? There was no mention of his figure skater, either. Was his boyfriend planning on coming out too? That would be sickening, having to face posts about them spotted out in Montreal on whatever cutesy dates the two went on. Deciding there was no reason he couldn’t ask, Ilya pulled his phone out.

Ilya: is boyfriend coming out too?

Shane must not have been too busy, because the reply came back almost immediately.

Shane: boyfriend?

Ilya rolled his eyes. Leave it to Hollander to play dumb.

Ilya: Frank or whatever. figure skater. your boyfriend, Hollander

Shane: we broke up…

Ilya stared at his phone screen, reached up to push the hair out of his eyes and reread that. What did he mean they broke up? When?

Ilya: ah, you realize how boring he is and leave. good for you, Hollander

Shane: he broke up with me, Ilya

Ilya: is boring AND stupid then, you are better off

Ilya groaned and tossed his phone. He shouldn’t have said that. Sveta picked it up from the bed, read over his messages, and snorted.

“You know,” she started in that tone Ilya hated. “This could be an opportunity. He’s out, you’re out. You’re both super hot and popular hockey players…”

“No, Sveta. Stop. We are just friends.”

“You don’t have to be…”

“NO!” Ilya repeated, louder, snatching his phone back. “Will you fucking stop? It’s not going to happen, okay?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes, just as tired of the old argument as he was. She left the room, and Ilya tried to fall back asleep, leaving his phone far enough out of reach to be less tempting.

The next time he woke up, Ilya felt significantly less hungover and immediately went for coffee in the kitchen, flipping Sveta off on the way there and scrolling through his phone. It still felt unreal that Shane had just come out like that. What’s worse, it couldn’t have been spur of the moment either. The whole article had Farah and Yuna’s planning written all over it.

And it directly called out the Russian government for their recent actions against queer citizens, speaking out in a way that Ilya never could, even as a Canadian citizen. Not if he wanted a chance at Sochi.

And despite the obvious planning, he hadn’t told Ilya about any of it.

They still weren’t as close as they had been before, Ilya knew that, but had they grown so far apart? Far enough that he wouldn’t tell Ilya about his plans to come out or that he’d been dumped by his idiot boyfriend?

Ilya still got weekly check-ins from Yuna, but realized that he hadn’t had so much as a single text message from Shane in a month. Here Shane was coming out in solidarity, in complete contradiction to everything Ilya knew Shane liked and wanted for his career, and Ilya hadn’t even thought to text him. He wasn’t being a very good friend. He took his phone out again and went back to their messages.

Ilya: back to Ottawa next week, are you in Montreal yet?

It took a few minutes for Shane to respond this time, just long enough for Ilya to finish his coffee and go hunting through the pantry for something he could eat as a late breakfast.

Shane: no, couple more weeks here. Not going back until the start of training camp

Ilya: drinks at Monks? Evan and Bood are in town

Shane sent a thumbs up back and Ilya figured that was probably all he was going to get. Maybe it was even all he deserved to get.

There were times when Ilya wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t backed away when he did, if he had doubled down and been honest instead of running away. But he had hurt Shane instead, and himself too. It was inevitable, in a way. Despite years of therapy, Ilya knew he still struggled with processing his own shit and communicating. Shane deserved someone who at least didn’t need a therapist to tell them that.

But he could and would be a better friend. It was the least he could do.

Shane

Shane met Ilya and his teammates at Monks, grateful that Ottawa was significantly more chill than Montreal and there were no phones out recording them or pushy fans, just a couple of double takes and shoulder shrugs before people went back to their own conversations.

“HOLLZY!” Dykstra cheered, beer sloshing over the rim of his glass when he shot up from the booth to pull Shane in for an over-the-top side-hug.

“Evan,” Shane greeted in return, taking the beer glass and setting it on the table before Evan could spill it on him. He turned to the other Centaur at the table, their rookie from the year before.

“And you must be Bood? Nice to meet you,” Shane said, holding his hand out for the rookie to shake.

Bood shook his hand, looking a little star-struck in the way of rookies still getting used to playing with the pros.

“Man, good on you for coming out like that, Hollander. That took some balls!” Evan grinned, pouring beer into an empty cup for Shane to take.

Shane chuckled and shook his head. It still felt weird, everyone just knowing now. He had gained a name for himself in the MLH, especially since his move to the Metros and their rise as contenders for the playoffs, but even non-hockey circles were talking about him now. It was exactly what he never wanted, and yet every article that came out of another potential Olympian speaking out against Russia or coming out themselves bolstered the decision. It was the right thing to do.

“Just time, I guess,” Shane acknowledged, then shot Ilya a grateful look for changing the subject to a discussion of the upcoming preseason. With four people, they had the perfect number for a few rounds of pool, and the best part was the structure it provided, giving purpose where there might have been uncomfortable gaps in the conversation. Shane always appreciated having something to do with his hands.

It was a good night, full of easy conversation and the kind of relaxed comfort Shane hadn’t felt around Ilya in a long time.

“It was good to see you again,” Ilya said, waiting outside while they watched Evan pile into a car with Bood. The poor Rookie was a bit too drunk, and Evan had already agreed to make sure he got home safe.

“Yeah,” Shane smiled, pulling his jacket closer against the chill of the night. It wasn’t even really fall yet, but it was Canada. Even summer nights could feel a bit cold. “You too.”

Shane thought about reaching out, inviting himself into Ilya’s space, following him back home. But they were finally starting to get comfortable again. If he followed Ilya back, inevitably, he would want more, and he didn’t think their friendship could survive a second rejection.

“See you later, Ilya,” he said instead, climbing into the back of his own ride. He raised his hand one last time in a brief wave and closed the door behind him.

When Shane went back to Montreal, he called Hayden to let him know he had made it and made plans to have dinner with the Pikes the next night.

Unfortunately, the locker room was just as bad as Shane feared it would be. The whole room went silent when he walked in, with Hayden glaring around at the rest of the team an JJ wincing in sympathy, giving a small shrug of his shoulders as if to say “what can you do?”

So Shane rolled his eyes and ignored them. At least Comeaux knew not to start anything after his altercation with Shane his first season on the team. Shane still had the A on his chest, still had the low tolerance of bullshit instilled in him by the Raiders, and had zero intention of letting his teammates shitty behavior get to him.

But as the season started, he quickly learned that there were other ways for his team to get to him that had nothing to do with their insults or silences. He knew right away that Farah had been right to warn him. Shane found himself spending more time on the bench than usual, Coach claiming it was to try new combinations for the year. JJ and Hayden played the same as always, but their other teammates were always a little late to have Shane’s back, leaving him open for brutal checks against the boards and missing easy passes. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away as shaky timing, the kind of poor chemistry that was only to be expected so early in the season. Shane had enough bruises at the end of most games to feel like he’d just done double overtime in the playoffs.

“All right there, Hollander?” Scott asked, watching Shane across the face-off circle for the start of their first game against the Admirals that season.

“Been better,” Shane admitted. There was no use in lying or trying to hide the exhaustion he felt, the way he carefully navigated the ice to avoid aggravating injuries that never should have been so prevalent this early in the season.

“That was really brave, you know,” Scott said, tone warm with admiration.

“Aren’t you supposed to be chirping me? I don’t need your pity, Hunter.”

The puck dropped before Scott could respond, and the game was too intense for him to have another chance to follow up. By the time Shane made it back to the hotel that night, all he had the energy for was to change into pajamas and brush his teeth before falling into bed.

He tried to focus on the bright points. The rainbow flags and encouraging signs that filled the stands back home in Montreal, the heartfelt fan mail his mom made sure he received from kids in local hockey clubs who thanked Shane for coming out, for another way they were able to see themselves in a sport that had so few people representing them. Of course, there were the other Olympic hopefuls that followed, including Rick and his pairs partner.

But that didn’t give him his ice time back, or make the bruises hurt any less. His stats were the worst they had ever been, and that made it even worse. Here, look at the gay center who can’t protect himself, who’s letting his team down in points. This is who you want on Olympic ice?

Speculation rose that he might not even make the roster. Shane tried not to let it get to him. He spent more nights at the Pikes helping Jackie make dinner and watching Hayden struggle to manage the twins. He took advantage of not having to hide and let himself enjoy the village for once, going out with Rick and his friends to some of the busier clubs and losing himself in nights spent with strangers, ignoring the paparazzi shots of him with different men the next morning when he woke up.

It was all fine, he told himself. If not right now, then it would be soon enough. He just had to make it long enough for everything to smooth over.

And Ilya was there too, in his own way. Maybe not how Shane wanted, maybe never how Shane wanted, but he texted vitriol against Shane’s teammates terrible plays and his coach’s poor decisions. He sent snarky remarks over the tabloid shots from clubs and dragged Shane for his wardrobe. It was almost normal again, almost back to how they were before Toronto.

And despite the reduced ice time and increased injuries, when the Canadian team announcements were made Shane was right there on the list, on the same team as Ilya Rozanov. They would be going to Sochi together just like they planned. Now, Shane just had to make it there without getting himself on LTIR from a lack of coverage on the ice. He just had to make it to the games.

Chapter End Notes

Aaaaaand, next up is the Olympics! Loving the comments, so thank you for taking the time to leave them! Until next time <3

Chapter 17: Sochi

Chapter Summary

The Olympics are finally here, and with it comes a chance for Shane and Ilya to play on the same team.

Chapter Notes

Shane

“HOLLZY!” Cliff yelled across the airport, throwing his arms in the air and crossing over to Shane in huge, ground-eating strides. He’d filled out a little more since the last time Shane had seen him outside of pads and sweaters, more muscular these days. Neither of them could be considered rookies anymore.

“Cliff,” Shane acknowledged with a wry grin. “Pretty sure they can hear you all the way down in Boston, still.”

Cliff chuckled and shoved Shane’s shoulder, then pulled him into a rib-crunching hug. “Who could be quiet? Marleau and Hollander on the same team yet again! We’re unstoppable, man! I can taste gold already.”

“Tone it down, will you? You’ll jinx us!” Shane chastised, but he walked with Cliff over to the waiting area and sat next to him. They spent the wait catching up and discussing what players they knew on the other teams.

Shane kept half an eye on the door the whole time, waiting to see if Ilya was on their flight. When the time was called for them all to board and Ilya still wasn’t there, Shane figured he must be on one of the others.

The flight itself was like any other, though twice as long as even the longer flights they were used to taking during the season. For all Cliff’s bluster, the two were tired enough to try for some sleep once they were in the air, knowing it would be morning when they arrived and that there would be practice soon after landing. They even succeeded for the most part.

With respect for the MLH season, the hockey players were some of the last to arrive at the Olympic Village and had heard a lot of the horror stories already of sewage in the fresh water pipes and door handles coming off in people’s hands. At least they wouldn’t have to cram in three to a room, two was bad enough with the incredibly small beds and horribly uncomfortable and thin mattresses. Already, a good number of the guys were talking about trying to get rooms at a nearby hotel instead.

“I don’t think I can leave the Village,” Shane sighed, pulling his clothes out and sorting them away as best as he could with the limited space. Cliff sat on his own bed, bag half-unpacked at his feet and grimaced.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Pretty sure you’re safe enough here in the Village, but leaving? Probably not, dude.”

“It will be the same for Ilya,” Shane added. “You should go, though. You don’t have to sleep here. Get some good rest and enjoy Sochi and all that.”

Cliff was already shaking his head before Shane was even finished speaking. “Nah, I’ll be fine here too. Besides, I haven’t roomed with you in years! You’re not getting rid of me that easily! I bet this village gets wild after hours, man. We should check it out tonight!”

Shane laughed and shook his head, relieved that Cliff was staying even if he would never admit it. It felt nice to know that he wouldn’t be left behind after all.

Cliff still hadn’t unpacked the rest of his bags by the time they left to explore the grounds. There were a couple of hours left before the first practice, and some of the team hadn’t arrived yet, Ilya among them.

“Look, coffee!” Cliff exclaimed, pointing to a little cafe with a glass front and a small patio. Most of the tables were empty, including the ones inside. “Man, I could kill for some coffee right now. Practice is going to be rough.”

Shane snorted but nodded in agreement and followed Cliff over to the cafe. They had just finished giving their orders to the barista when the door opened again, and Scott Hunter walked through, followed by Carter Vaughn.

“Hollander!” Scott greeted. “Marleau, good to see you.”

Vaughn followed with his own greetings and soon enough all four of them were crammed around one of the small tables, extra chairs pilfered from empty ones nearby and steaming cups sitting in front of them. “How’s the dorm? we’ve heard some stories but our room has been fine so far, at least.”

“Same,” Cliff agreed. “A lot of the guys are talking about staying in a hotel nearby though.”

Vaughn’s nose curled with distaste. “Yeah, we heard. Not our team! We’re here for the full experience!” his eyes caught Shane’s then. “Besides, fuck Russia, am I right?”

Shane laughed and nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed.

“You haven’t had any trouble, have you?” Vaughn asked. “Like, with the gay thing? That was stupid brave of you to speak up like that.”

Shane shook his head. “No problems,” he assured. Besides, it wasn’t really himself he was worried about.

“It’s crazy how many athletes came out in protest!” Vaughn continued, bumping Scott in the shoulder. “Balls of steel, man! I was telling Scott on the flight over how cool it is, you know? Nice to see some actual advocacy for causes that matter around here. We have a platform not many people have access to.”

Shane watched Scott shift his weight in his seat, eyes going tight at the corners as his knuckles went white against the mug in his hands. Shane tilted his head in silent question and Scott shook his head minutely in a discreet denial. Shane nodded, just as understated in the action. If Cliff or Vaughn noticed, they didn’t say anything.

“I think I could use a walk before practice,” Shane said then, standing and finishing the last dregs of his coffee.

“I still need to unpack,” Cliff groaned.

Vaughn winced and nodded. “Me too,” he said, looking up apologetically.

“I could use a walk,” Scott said, standing as well. “Mind some company?”

Shane smiled and led the way out of the cafe, leaving Vaughn and Cliff to return to their respective dorms to unpack.

“So, Vaughn doesn’t know?” Shane asked, once they were far enough away from anyone to ensure that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“No,” Scott agreed. He chewed his bottom lip and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I kept thinking I ought to, you know? But I couldn’t even go through with being seen out on a date with my boyfriend. I just panicked. I’ve never panicked like that about anything. It’s stupid!”

“It’s not,” Shane denied. “You’ve seen how my season’s been going.”

“Do you regret it?” Scott asked.

Shane shook his head. His sigh left his lips in a cloud of white, caught suspended in the cold winter air. “Not really,” he denied.

Scott nodded.

“But I don’t blame you or anyone for choosing not to,” Shane added, still putting one foot in front of the other down the walking path. “You think your team wouldn’t take it well?”

“I don’t know,” Scott murmured. “We’ve got lots of good guys like Vaughn, but it can be hard to tell for sure. I need to, though, eventually. I- my boyfriend deserves to not have to hide with me all the time.”

Shane smiled. “Tell me about him?”

Scott’s own grin grew twice as large as the one Shane wore. “He’s great,” he said. “So funny, and smart. He’s applying for a master’s program, and I’m sure he’ll get it. It’s hard for him though. He isn’t in the closet like we are. Or, well, like I am, I guess. But I’ve never been this happy before.”

“You love him?” Shane asked.

Scott blushed and nodded, grinning again.

“That’s what makes it worth it, I think,” Shane said. “It’s easy to stay hiding and be miserable when the only one it affects is you, you know? This whole thing with Russia just made me realize that hiding doesn’t affect only me.”

“So are you and Rozanov-?”

Shane cut him off before Scott could finish by vigorously shaking his head. “No,” he asserted. “We haven’t been anything like that for each other in a while, and we weren’t a relationship or whatever before either. But with everything happening, those tourists getting arrested, I couldn’t let him be the only one, you know?”

Scott’s expression softened, and he nodded.

They spent the rest of the walk with Scott telling Shane all about Kip, how they met and what the other man was like. Shane was happy for Scott, that he had found someone so kind and genuine to be with. He hoped they were able to work it out.

By the time Shane made it back to his room, it was time to head to practice, so he grabbed his gear and walked over with a dragging Marleu who had collapsed on his bed for a nap the minute he finished unpacking.

The first one to greet them on their way to the locker room was Eric Bennett, tendy for the Admirals in the MLH and for Team Canada in Sochi. He had a giant grin on his face and welcomed them in with fist bumps.

“This team is going to be unstoppable,” he grinned, then caught the next guy coming in and waved. “Hey Roz! Flight just get in?”

Shane heard Ilya’s dramatic groan of annoyance as he agreed and dropped his bag on the bench. “Stupid delay for a bird of all things!” he exclaimed. “What kind of pilot hits a bird?”

Eric just laughed and shuffled over to make space.

“Hey,” Shane greeted when Ilya claimed the locker next to him.

“Hi,” Ilya grinned, pulling his pads out to gear up for the ice. “Same team finally!”

Shane grinned and sat to pull his skates on. He was excited to play with Ilya again. So far everyone had been really welcoming. He hoped that meant that he would get to enjoy actually playing for the first time all season, instead of having to deal with a team so set on watching him fail.

Joining the rest of Team Canada on the ice was like coming home. His passes were connecting, regardless of what line pairings Coach tried him on. Everyone was in high spirits, teasing and having a good time. Not once did Shane feel excluded, or the too-sharp barb of a cruel chirp hidden under the guise of friendly teasing.

While most of the team was staying at a nearby hotel with their families, Ilya, Cliff, and Shane went back to the dorms after practice and made plans to meet up later to walk to the dining hall. Only, Cliff couldn’t find the shirt he wanted to wear when the time came to leave and sent Shane on ahead, telling him to get a table and that Cliff would be right behind him.

The trip to the dining hall started off uneventful enough, until the sound of raised voices caught Shane’s attention just outside of their building. The loud Russian words were enough on their own to get Shane to stop, but then his full attention was hooked when he recognized the answering voice, if not the words themselves. Turning toward the sound, Shane all but ran down a narrow alley between buildings until he found Ilya. He was still talking, hands raised at his sides and Russian flowing from his lips at a rapid clip. One man had a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the wall while another talked on a walkie-talkie.

“Everything okay here?” Shane asked, startling the man into letting Ilya go. Shane watched Ilya sink into the wall behind him, chest heaving.

“No problem,” the man said in heavily accented English, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. “We go.”

With that, both men hurried in the opposite direction from how Shane arrived, and he jogged up to Ilya.

“Hey,” Shane murmured. “Are you okay? What happened?” he asked. He wanted to reach out, but didn’t know how Ilya might react to being touched right now. His breaths looked measured, at least. Still heaving for air but with a careful distance between each breath that spoke to consciously working to calm down.

“Fine,” Ilya muttered moments later, closing his eyes and knocking his head back against the wall. “Fuck.”

“What were they saying to you?” Shane asked, hating to push but needing answers. Those uniforms were unmistakable, identifying the men as official security for the games. It was not a good sign that they felt confident enough cornering Ilya like that only to rush off the minute he wasn't alone anymore.

“Some shit about needing to follow them, problem with paperwork or something. Was excuse, I’m sure.” Ilya explained. Shane didn’t think that was all of it, but decided to let it go for now.

“I don’t think you should be walking around alone, not if they feel confident enough to try shit like that. And we need to tell coach tomorrow. First thing.”

Ilya nodded, looking exhausted. “Okay.”

Shane led them back towards the main paths and on to the dining hall, but knew Ilya wouldn’t want to sit through a full meal in the loud space while still coming down from that level of panic, so he changed directions at the last minute and crossed to the 24-hour McDonald's instead. Ilya didn’t seem to notice until the smell of fries hit him.

“McDonalds, Hollander?” he asked, incredulous.

“Shut up,” Shane groaned. “Let’s just order something and take it back with us. I think we’ve had enough of seeing the village for the night.”

Ilya’s delighted surprise mellowed a bit at the reminder and he nodded. As soon as they had their food, Shane walked with Ilya back to their building and up to their floor.

“My roommate is sleeping in hotel,” Ilya said outside the elevator. “Want to come eat this in my room? Then smell of fries won’t have to contaminate all of your clothes,” he teased.

Shane’s nose wrinkled and he nodded, realizing Ilya was right. “Gross,” he agreed. “Sure, lead the way.”

Ilya’s room was down a different hallway, but otherwise exactly the same as Cliff and Shane’s. Realizing that Cliff would be wondering where they were by now, Shane sent him a quick message letting him know they were okay, that they were skipping dinner in the dining hall, and that he would fill him in later.

Cliff sent a thumbs-up in response, and Shane turned his attention to the extremely questionable chicken salad he ordered.

They ate mostly in silence, and when they were done, Ilya took their trash out to the hall and threw it away.

“Want to watch a movie?” Ilya asked, holding up his iPad with one hand. Shane knew he should try and get some sleep, but between the adrenaline of finding Ilya cornered by village security and the jet lag, he didn’t think sleep was on the table any time soon. Maybe a movie could at least help with the adrenaline part.

“Okay,” he agreed, then quickly vetoed the first three movies Ilya tried to cue up. An action movie definitely wasn’t going to help with the adrenaline. They settled on a comedy eventually, and Shane sat with his back to the wall on the spare bed, the iPad propped up on a pillow between them.

Ilya

The comedy they ended up watching wasn’t any good, and Ilya quickly found himself losing interest. It felt nice to have Shane so close again. They hadn’t spent time together like this in so long. Ilya had almost forgotten what it was like, how companionable and easy it was to share space with Shane Hollander.

He looked as beautiful as ever in the soft glow of the screen, his freckles dusted beneath eyes heavy with exhaustion, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. Feeling bold, or maybe just stupid after the near miss from earlier, Ilya leaned over to rest his head on Shane’s shoulder. Shane stiffened, but then he relaxed again when that was all Ilya did.

“This is nice,” Ilya said, reaching over to trace the patterned lines on the cheap comforter beneath them. Shane hummed in agreement, and Ilya could feel the vibration under his ear, the puff of Shane’s breath against his forehead.

“I’ve missed you,” Ilya said next, the words whispered into the quiet transition between scenes. Shane paused the movie.

“Ilya,” he said, his tone tired but sharp with warning. Ilya never had been any good at listening to warnings.

“Shane,” he replied, turning his face until his lips met skin and placing a soft kiss where Shane’s shirt met his neck.

“We can’t do this, Ilya,” Shane sighed, all warning gone and replaced with the deepest exhaustion.

“I will be better,” Ilya promised, meaning it. He had been terrible to Shane before. So what if Shane could never return Ilya’s feelings? If the past years had taught Ilya anything it was that he was willing to take whatever scraps of Shane’s attention and affection that he could get, for as long as he could get it. He had been stupid before.

“I can’t” Shane whispered back, voice cracking. Ilya sat up abruptly to see his face, reaching out to cradle Shane’s chin with one hand when he realized Shane was crying. That only seemed to make Shane cry harder.

“I can’t do casual with you anymore, Ilya. I don’t want to. I can’t sleep with you again and go back to being your friend like nothing happened. Please don’t ask me to. Because I’ll do it, I’m so fucking weak for you and I’ll do it, but it will break whatever friendship we have left when you leave again after.”

Ilya didn’t know what to say. He was speechless, struck dumb by Shane’s confession and his tears. It was exactly what Ilya wanted, what he thought he would never get and knew he could never deserve. Shane was too good. Too good for someone like Ilya.

He didn’t know what to say, so instead he leaned closer to answer in the only way he knew how. He kissed Shane’s forehead first, then the tip of his nose and down to his lips. He kept the touch light, loving, almost chaste. Shane melted into it, sinking back into the wall and pulling Ilya with him until he was straddling Shane’s lap, letting his full weight rest against him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Shane whispered, lips brushing Ilya’s cheek when he broke from the kiss.

Ilya sucked in a startled breath, feeling his own tears slide down his cheeks. “Fuck, Shane,” he whispered, and kissed Shane again full of desperation and hunger, wanting to be closer, to crawl inside him and exist in the same skin. “I love you,” he said, not sure if he managed it in English or if he’d slipped into Russian, so he said it again, over and over. “I love you,” he murmured, kissing up Shane’s jaw. “I love you,” he said again into the shell of his ear. “I love you.”

Shane was sobbing again, though Ilya could see that he was smiling too. He grinned so wide it pulled tight the skin of his cheeks and tugged at his eyes. “Yeah?” he asked. Ilya groaned and nodded. “Fuck, I need you,” Shane moaned. “Please?”

Ilya was more than happy to give Shane exactly what he wanted, what they both wanted. He slowly helped Shane out of his clothes, taking the time to fold them for him and set them aside, then Ilya did the same with his own. Only once they were both fully bare did he lay Shane out on the bed and settle his weight over him. Ilya hadn’t had time to unpack, his lube and condoms still buried somewhere in his mess of a suitcase, but Shane didn’t seem to mind when Ilya pressed his full weight against him on the too-small bed and they held each other, exchanging kisses and breath as they slowly moved together toward an uncomplicated release. Just two bodies trying their best to be one, cocks caught between them with only the slick glide of precum to ease the friction and Shane’s whimpers filling the air alongside Ilya’s moaned endearments. They fell asleep tangled together, hastily wiped clean and pulled under the comforter for warmth.

“Good morning,” Shane sighed the next morning, pale light coming in through the small window overhead. Ilya grinned.

“Good morning, моя любовь. My love,” Ilya replied, making sure to translate the Russian endearment. He still wasn’t sure how he could have come to be here, tangled together with Shane. With a Shane who loved him.

“We need to get ready,” Shane sighed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Ilya groaned in protest and bit the skin just under his clavicle, then trailed lower to wrap his lips around Shane’s cock. Shane’s fingers immediately threaded through his hair, scratching against his scalp.

“Ilya,” he chastised. “Fuck. We don’t have time for this.”

Ilya moaned his disagreement and reached up to tease at Shane’s rim with one finger. For all that Shane was right and they really didn’t have very much time if they planned to get breakfast, Ilya honestly didn’t care, and Shane didn’t seem to either because he didn’t make him stop.

Ilya gathered some of the spit that pooled beneath his lips and used it to slick his finger, then pushed it past Shane’s rim to tease at his prostate. It didn’t take long before Shane was coming down Ilya’s throat. Ilya climbed from the bed before Shane could return the favor and grabbed his towel and toiletries.

“Shower is small,” he said, hating that as much as he knew Shane would. “And you need to go get fresh clothes. I will meet you and Marleau at your room to walk to breakfast, okay?”

Shane obviously wanted to protest, but practicality won out, and he nodded instead. Ilya kissed his pouting lips and smiled. “Good boy,” he praised. “I will see you soon. I love you.”

At those words Shane’s soft grin took over in place of his pout. “I love you," he echoed, then stood to pull his own clothes back on and left for his room.

Shane

Cliff didn’t say anything when Shane walked into their room still wearing the same clothes as the night before. He just rolled his eyes, threw a towel at Shane, and pointed to the shared bathroom for him to go and shower. He waited until Shane was finished and dressed before bringing it up.

“So,” he said. “You and Rozanov.”

Shane bit his bottom lip and nodded just once, a sharp, awkward movement led by his chin. Cliff still didn’t know the full extent of what had happened between them back when Shane was still playing for Boston; he wasn’t an idiot and knew things had gotten messy, if nothing else. He didn’t look upset that Shane was involved with Ilya again, more concerned than anything else.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “This isn’t like last time. I told him I couldn’t do what we did before again, and I don’t think that’s what he wants either.”

Cliff just nodded and went to the door, holding it open for Shane. Ilya was just rounding the corner down the hall when Shane closed the door behind them.

“Morning!” he called cheerfully.

Cliff rolled his eyes. “Morning Roz, let’s get breakfast, yeah?”

Ilya nodded, and the three of them walked to the dining hall together with no incidents. Canada was in Group B with their first game against Norway scheduled for that night. Shane and Ilya explained what happened with security the night before and coach doubled down on the order for Ilya not to go anywhere alone and assured them that he would be bringing it up with Canadian management and the IOC. Practice that morning went well enough, with lines decided on for the game later. The three would be playing on the second line together, with Shane at center and Ilya and Cliff his wingers. While Shane hadn’t seen Ilya play anything but center since their time together at All-Stars, he took to the change with the same unruffled grace as anything else and their chemistry during practice was undeniable, Cliff slotting right in like the missing piece to the puzzle. Granted, it probably helped that Shane and Cliff had played together like that for years.

“Nice shot, Marly!” Ilya cheered that night, cheeks flushed as they left the ice for the locker rooms. Neither team had scored any goals in the first period, but Team Canada had the most attempts and Cliff’s last shot was an impressive one, just barely kept out of the net by the tips of the opposing tendy’s gloved fingers.

One of their first line forwards, a vet who played down in San Jose in the regular season, ruffled Cliff’s hair and grinned at them.

“The chemistry you three have is crazy!” he cheered. “If one of you doesn’t end up with a goal in the next period, I’ll eat my stick.”

He wasn’t wrong either, their team scored two goals the next period and both were netted by the second line. Ilya sunk the first in a corner shot off a rebound and Shane made the second with a quick, blink-and-you-miss-it wrist shot.

While the third period started with a goal for Norway, Team Canada’s first-line center managed to get their full lead back with another goal minutes later, and the rest of the team helped hold it all the way to the buzzer. A nice, easy win in regulation time to set the tone for the rest of the preliminary matches.

That night, Shane didn’t even pretend that he planned to come back to their room before breakfast. Instead, he packed a few changes of clothes and his toiletries into a small duffel and let Cliff know he would see him at the dining hall in the morning, then went to meet Ilya in his room.

Ilya was still puffed up from their win when Shane arrived and pulled him into a devouring kiss, hands falling to grab Shane’s ass and crush them together.

“The only thing I love more than playing against you is playing with you, солнышко,” Ilya sighed between kisses.

“More than fucking me?” Shane teased when his lips were free again, all but moaning the words into the space between them.

Ilya growled and lifted Shane, carrying him over to the bed. He finally had the time to unpack after practice that afternoon and had left the lube and condoms in easy reach of the spare mattress. “Who says I have to chose?” Ilya teased. “I think today I will have both.”

He peeled Shane’s shirt up and off, then set it aside on the dresser without getting up. His lips stayed glued to Shane’s skin, mapping his neck and chest with his mouth and tongue. The rest of Shane’s clothes followed and Ilya dumped his own on the floor beside the bed before lubing his fingers to rub teasingly against Shane’s rim while kissing him, tongue thrusting between his lips with the same relentless pace as his fingers in Shane’s ass.

“Please, Ilya,” Shane begged when Ilya pushed a third finger past his rim.

“Soon,” Ilya soothed. “Almost, Shane,” he murmured, sucking a bruise into Shane’s neck. Shane fell into more useless begging, wishing Ilya would hurry, needing to feel him. His skin buzzed with it, fingers scraping against Ilya’s back and lips seeking every inch of skin he could reach. He barely noticed Ilya’s fingers retreating, the pause while he rolled a condom over his cock and slicked it with lube. One minute Ilya was pressing him into the mattress, fingering him open, and the next his cock was pushing past Shane’s rim, filling him in one long, smooth glide.

“So good for me,” Ilya praised, cupping Shane’s jaw with one hand, tongue slipping past Shane’s parted lips. He still used the same cinnamon toothpaste that Shane remembered. “So good.”

“I love you,” Shane murmured, fingers seeking Ilya’s curls and burrowing between them. He felt torn apart, held together only by Ilya’s strong arm’s around him.

“Я тебя люблю,” Ilya moaned, thrusts gaining momentum and losing rhythm already. They were both so close, already primed after the high of the game. Shane’s own breaths fell in broken whimpers from his open lips.

Shane couldn’t say which of them came first, lost even more track of time in the warmth after as Ilya cleaned them up and carried Shane over to the other bed to sleep. It wasn’t long before they were both out, tangled together on the too-small, too-thin mattress, more comfortable and content than either could remember being in an incredibly long while.

Chapter End Notes

I hope I didn't worry any of you too much and I'm sorry for the wait! It's been a long month of work, moving and family commitments and I honestly just haven't had any creative energy left around all of that. To make things worse, this is now the third time I have written, scrapped and re-written this chapter. I'm still not 100% happy with it, but it is the best version I've got and at some point I just have to move forward with it. So, that said, I hope it's not too much of a disappointment. Please let me know what you think in the comments! Until next time <3

Chapter 18: Return

Chapter Summary

Team Canada takes gold at the Olympics and Shane and Ilya return home.

Chapter Notes

Ilya

Team Canada finished the preliminary round with an overtime win against Finland. The same could not have been said for Team Russia, who lost to Team USA the day before after a controversial call-back of a goal late in the third, wherein it was ruled that the net was moved during play, negating the goal.

Team Russia were convinced the win had been stolen from them, but Ilya hadn’t even needed to watch them play to know that it was because their whole team was an incohesive mess and their goalie was playing through an injury.

So while Team Canada were able to take a break on the 18th, Russia was forced to play for their spot in the quarterfinals through the qualification playoffs. Ilya, probably because he was a glutton for punishment, dragged Shane and Marleau along to go and watch.

The stands around them in the Bolshoy Ice Dome were almost at capacity, full of Russian fans there to cheer their team on. The game itself was brutal, Team Russia muscling their way to a four-goal shutout with a battered Team Norway leaving the ice in defeat.

Ilya should have expected that his father would be there. Grigori was in full regalia, medals gleaming on his chest, eyes just as cold as Ilya remembered. He looked older, like the years between kicking Ilya to the streets and that day in Sochi hadn’t been kind to him.

“Does it make you happy to see Russia fight for their place, traitor? How dare you show your face here. You think you can hide behind a new flag and avoid the consequences of your actions? Your mother would be disgusted, as I am disgusted,” he spat, the Russian words spit from between chapped lips, jaw tight with anger.

Ilya froze, caught in the surprise of seeing him again after so many years. He felt Shane’s hand settle on his shoulder and shrugged it off, a quick, reflexive jerk of shoulder muscles coiled tight and ready to bring his hands up in defense.

“Ilya?” Marleau asked, coming up on his other side. “You know this man?”

Ilya sucked a breath through clenched teeth and nodded. His father spat on the ground in front of his feet and turned to walk away.

“Who was that?” Shane asked when Grigori was gone. If he was hurt by Ilya brushing him off so violently, he didn’t show it.

“My father,” Ilya explained.

Cliff cursed and Shane closed his hand around Ilya’s, squeezing his fingers tight enough to bruise.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shane said, and used his grip on Ilya’s hand to pull him through the crowd to the stadium doors. They left the building in a single-file, determined procession with Ilya sheltered between them. He let himself relax, knowing Marleau had his back and Shane would lead them to where they needed to be.

Ilya only let himself really crumble once they were alone in his room again, just him and Shane with Marleau off on a self-imposed mission to bring back coffee.

Ilya sat heavily on the mattress, and when Shane crawled into his lap, arms wrapped around him, Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck and cried. He soaked Shane’s shirt with his tears while Shane ran soothing fingers through his hair and murmured comfort into his skin.

“You’re so much better than him, Ilya,” Shane said eventually, cupping Ilya’s jaw in both hands and kissing him gently on the lips. “And so much better off without him.”

Ilya closed his eyes against the praise and choked on another sob.

“I hate him,” he admitted, voice cracked and hoarse between them. “I hate him so much. He is not a good man. He was never good enough for her.”

“Ilya?” Shane whispered.

“For mama,” Ilya explained. “She was so good, Shane. So beautiful and kind. And he was terrible to her. I think he killed her.”

Ilya heard Shane’s breath catch with surprise and realized he could have phrased that better. “Not like that,” he rushed to explain. “Mama… she was sick. Depression. Her death was an accident.”

Ilya paused, then considered what he said and shook his head, released a morbid and humorless chuckle around a gasp of air. “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills,” he explained.

“Ilya,” Shane murmured, voice warm and scared and so full of sympathy.

“I don’t want you to think she was weak,” Ilya continued, needing that much to be clear. “She was so strong. She put up with Papa for a long time. He did not make it easy.”

Shane’s own sobs had built up in strength, even as Ilya’s subsided, and his tears soaked into Ilya’s hair where his cheek met the flattened curls, still curled around him with one hand stroking Ilya’s back in comfort.

“And I am sick too,” Ilya explained. “Like mama. Depression. I think… maybe this is something you should know.”

With that, Shane sucked in another breath and sat back to put enough distance between them so he could see Ilya’s face. “What? You’re not going to-”

“No,” Ilya agreed before Shane could finish. “Do not worry so, солнышко. I take medication, and see a therapist. My life is very different than my mama, yes? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you like that.”

Shane shook his head vehemently. “Don’t apologize,” he insisted. “I want to know. Thank you for telling me. I’m so sorry about what happened with your mom. Fuck, I- I’m so sorry Ilya. Of course I don’t think she was weak. I never could.”

Ilya smiled through the tears, just a small tug at the corners of his mouth, the motion about all he could manage for now. “She would have loved you,” he said. Papa was wrong. Mama would have been happy for Ilya. She would have loved Shane.

Shane smiled through his tears too. “Yeah?”

Ilya nodded and leaned in to kiss him, tasting the salt of their combined tears and holding Shane close. They were still wrapped around each other, exchanging soft, close-mouthed kisses when a knock came from the door, and Shane stood to answer it.

“You okay?” Marleau asked, handing a coffee to Ilya and one to Shane.

“Yeah,” Ilya replied, taking a sip of the hot, bitter drink and letting it ground him. Marleau nodded and let it go, leaning back against the wall and sipping from his own cup. He filled the silence with what he knew of the current rankings and how the quarter-finals were shaping up to be. They would need to leave for practice soon and would have another game the next day. Their opponent was yet to be determined, though the game itself would be at the same time as the others they had played so far.

They lingered together, finishing their drinks and headed for practice not long after that. Ilya felt more settled as he walked between them and did his best to push the interaction with his father as far from his mind as he could. They had a tournament to win.

Shane

Their game against Latvia the next day was altogether uneventful, ending 2-1 in Canada’s favor and sending them on to the semifinals, where they would face Team USA in a game that was bound to draw a crowd for the two powerhouses. Ilya was already chirping Scott for everything from his age to his hairstyle long before they even hit the ice against them.

“Captain America is dinosaur too, just like Scott Hunter,” Ilya proclaimed loudly during warm-ups, knowing Scott could hear him. “Isn’t his whole thing that he fought in World War Two against the Nazis?”

Shane groaned while Cliff laughed and agreed.

“Hey, Hunter!” Cliff called across the ice. “Ever punch Hitler in the face? What were the USO girls really like?”

“Like he would know!” Ilya guffawed. “Hunter is a 100-year-old virgin. Much too awkward to talk to girls.”

Scott shook his head at their antics and rolled his eyes. Shane was sure that if they weren’t in front of a crowd of over 11,000 international spectators, he would have been flipping them off.

Eric Bennett, their goal tender for the games and Scott’s teammate back in the MLH, was rolling with his own laughter over their chirping.

“You know Scotty, I think they’re right! When’s the last time you got laid?”

“Et tu?” Scott sighed. “I hope you like bag skates, Bennett. That’s all you’ll be doing when we get back to New York.”

The first period was a slog of constant backchecking and fighting for the puck with very few shots against goal for either side and both goaltenders looking bored with the puck hogged between the forwards and d-men. The whole team entered the locker room out of breath and in desperate need of a reset. Lucky for them, Team Canada squeaked in a goal at the top of the second period, thanks to a little puck luck and Cliff being in the right place at the right time. It was the only goal scored by either team for the entire game and clinched Team Canada’s spot in the gold medal game after a day off to rest and practice.

The gold medal game against Sweden began like any other and tasted of victory by the end, the entire team dogpiling Bennett for a beautiful shutout. Through it all, Shane had eyes for no one but Ilya. He was incandescent in his joy, smiling brighter than Shane had ever seen him. It was a struggle not to pull him into a kiss right then and there at center ice for the whole world to see. Instead, they hugged each other amidst the press of sweaty bodies and cheering teammates.

That night, even their teammates who had spent the rest of the time staying in a hotel nearby stayed late at the village to celebrate. Their whole building turned into one giant party celebrating their win and that of other Team Canada athletes, including their women’s hockey team, who had secured their own medal a few days before. While the celebration was largely centered around Team Canada, athletes from almost every other team also circled through at one point or another, including Hunter and Vaughn, who came by to congratulate them on their win.

“You two seemed… cozy. On the ice,” Scott said in a rare gap where Shane wasn’t attached to Ilya at the hip. Instead, Ilya had gone to get them more drinks and been waylaid by some of the women’s team, laughing and knocking back shots with a few of their forwards. Shane smiled as he watched him from across the room, happy to see Ilya so relaxed.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed, smiling.

“Something happen between you two?” Scott pressed. Shane laughed. It hadn’t even been two weeks since he told Scott that there was nothing between him and Ilya. And maybe there hadn’t been at the time, but the same couldn’t be said now.

So Shane nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We haven’t really talked about what we are exactly, but it’s not nothing.”

Scott grinned. “Congrats, then,” he said. “I’m happy for you both.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a commotion broke out in the middle of the room.

“BACK OFF!” Shane heard one of the women shout, obscured by the press of bodies around her. She was one of the forwards Ilya had just been celebrating with, and Shane searched around her frantically for a glimpse of Ilya’s curls above the crowd.

More shouting followed, a mix of English and Russian that rose in volume in time with the increased agitation of crowded bodies. Next thing Shane knew, he was being pushed back by the crowd trying to make space for the fight breaking out in the middle of the room.

“Ilya?” he shouted, looking for Ilya among the crowd of angry faces and flying fists. “Ilya!”

Scott grabbed his shoulder and pulled Shane down to duck a rogue punch. “What’s happening?” Scott asked, eyes wild and scanning the crowd to survey a path through to where they had last seen Ilya.

Shane shook his head, unable to answer as he pushed into the mess of bodies. He felt Scott fist the back of his shirt to keep up with him through the press. It got harder to find any openings the closer to the middle of the room that they got, but eventually Shane spotted a tuft of golden-brown curls over the crowd and angled them towards it. They found Ilya back to back with Marleau, one of the women’s team forwards tucked between them while a second member of the women’s team threw punches alongside Marleau against a crowd of angry Russian players.

“Ilya!” Shane shouted, pushing his way closer and closing ranks. He didn’t have any experience in this kind of fight but he wasn’t going to let Ilya face it alone. He already had a bloody lip and the beginnings of what looked to be a terrible black eye.

“Get out of here!” Ilya protested, gritting the words through blood-caked teeth.

“Where would be the fun in that?” Scott taunted, though his confidence ended there, and his shaking fists betrayed his anxiety about the situation. He held his ground anyway and was the next to throw a punch, his fist connecting with the face of a snarling Russian d-man. Cliff grinned and congratulated him on the hit before turning back to his own battle against a grumpy-looking man with a split lip.

It took almost the whole Canadian team, along with a few team members from other countries, to break up the fight and send the Russian team packing. By the time they left, Ilya wasn’t the only one sporting a black eye.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked, running his thumb over the split skin on Shane’s cheek.

“Fine,” Shane grimaced, spitting blood onto the floor and inspecting his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing seemed to be loose or missing. “What happened?”

“Those assholes just came over and started shouting at Rozanov. Guess they didn’t take his winning gold for Canada too well,” the brunette from the women’s team spat, shaking her hand out and examining her own bruised knuckles. Shane had no idea who she was but decided then and there that he liked her. Maybe he should do better at following the women’s side of the sport.

“No, they were not happy,” Ilya agreed, grimacing. “You okay?”

She grinned ferally, eyes glinting. “Oh you betcha, I was getting bored anyway. What’s a good win without a brawl after anyway?”

Marleau laughed and shook his head, looking star-struck. Shane had a feeling this girl would be all Cliff wanted to talk about for the next few weeks. He shook his head in exasperation at his friend’s antics and pulled Ilya’s split knuckles up to his lips for a brief kiss.

“I think that’s enough excitement for one night,” Shane sighed.

Ilya toyed with the split skin of his lip with the tip of his tongue, winced and nodded. “Yes, okay,” he agreed, then turned to say goodnight to those around them. He and Shane left together for Ilya’s room after that.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Shane reached for his toiletry bag to pull out the first-aid kit and pointed to the bed for Ilya to sit down.

“I’m fine,” Ilya protested, eyes alight with humor as he watched Shane pull packets of antiseptic wipes and butterfly bandages from the kit.

“I’m sure you are,” Shane replied dryly, walking over to the bed and stepping between Ilya’s knees, angling his face up to survey the damage better in the light. He tore one of the individually wrapped wipes open and brought it to the cut on Ilya’s brow. Ilya hissed and flinched when the alcohol made contact, and Shane winced, dropping a kiss to Ilya's temple in apology. “Let me take care of you.”

Ilya sighed in response, his shoulders drooping, and submitted himself to Shane’s careful ministrations. When Shane was done, he let Ilya return the favor and then packed the first-aid kit back into his toiletries bag.

They were both beyond exhausted after a long day and far from sober after celebrating downstairs, so with silent agreement the two set about their nightly routine and crawled into bed for sleep. There would be opportunities for celebration of a more personal kind later.

Ilya

Because the MLH had only given them so many days off, Shane, Ilya and all of the other professional players left the next day on a series of chartered flights back to the US and Canada. Unlike the flight to Sochi, Shane and Ilya were together on the return flight and watched movies on Ilya’s iPad, trying to stay awake to help reset the jet lag as quickly as possible when they got back.

Having agreed to pick them both up at the airport, David and Yuna met them at baggage claim and helped cart their luggage to the car. It wasn’t long before they were all safely back at the Hollanders’ home in Ottawa, dinner on the table and easy conversation flowing.

“How did you end up getting punched in the face? I didn’t see any fighting on the ice,” Yuna said, passing the potatoes and staring from Shane to Ilya and back.

“Some guys from the Russian team went after Ilya last night. It’s okay, our team was able to break things up pretty quick,” Shane said, brushing off his mother’s concern. Ilya grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t even know they were there until after the first punch was thrown.”

“It’s not like you started the fight, Ilya,” Yuna contested. “I’m just glad you’re both okay. And let me guess, no follow-up from security at all for them attacking you like that?”

Ilya chuckled dryly and shrugged. Obviously not. And they didn’t want to escalate the problem to the IOC either, not when no one was hurt too badly, and it could potentially impact their presence at future games. It was better to just let it go.

Ilya helped Shane collect everyone’s plates after dinner, and they brought them to the sink to rinse and load into the dishwasher. Shane was quiet, though it was obvious from the stiff way he held his shoulders and bit his lower lip that he was working his way up to saying something. Ilya knew that sometimes it was best to just give him the time to work out what to say.

“I think we should tell my parents,” he said when the last plate was loaded into the dishwasher. He turned so his back was to the sink and faced Ilya.

“About?” Ilya asked. He thought he knew, but didn’t want to assume in case he was wrong, either.

“Us,” Shane explained. “I mean, we’re not really planning to keep this a secret, are we? There wouldn’t be much point.”

“No, not a secret,” Ilya agreed. “Okay.”

Shane smiled then, a small, nervous expression that Ilya thought was a little unnecessary. There was no reason to be nervous. They had never had a problem with Ilya over his sexuality, nor had they reacted badly when Shane came out to them the summer before. And they already liked Ilya. He wasn’t sure why Shane looked like he was working himself into a panic with each fresh breath.

“Shane,” Ilya sighed, stepping into his space to crowd Shane against the counter and cupping his face. He placed a light, soothing kiss to Shane’s lips and pressed their foreheads together. “Why are you panicking?”

“I'm not panicking!” Shane denied, throwing his head back with a groan. “I just don’t know what to say!”

“Is easy. You say ‘Mom, Dad, Ilya is my boyfriend now.’ See? Easy.”

“Boyfriend?” Shane whispered, the word sounding like a question.

Ilya rolled his eyes and bumped their foreheads together like he might on the ice, though a little softer with respect for neither of them wearing a helmet. “Yes, boyfriend.”

“Okay,” Shane said and smiled again, small and happy and a little shy. Ilya kissed the smile from his lips and deepened it before stepping back to give Shane the room he needed to go and tell his parents.

Of course, it went as well as Ilya predicted. Yuna looked like she wanted to take them out for a second dinner just to celebrate and David just shuffled awkwardly as he acknowledged the development with the same level of grace that his son unfortunately inherited.

“Well,” Yuna said once things had settled back down and everyone had a cup of tea courtesy of David. “We’ll need to loop Farah in, of course. What kind of timeline are we looking at here? Do you two want to keep this private for a while or move forward with an announcement?”

“Mom,” Shane groaned. “Do we have to? I don’t want to make some announcement or whatever. Can’t we just let it go?”

Yuna’s gaze turned stern over the rim of her mug. “It’s important that we get ahead of it if we want any control over the narrative, Shane. You know that.”

“But it’s not a narrative,” Shane protested. “It’s my life. It doesn’t have to be some public announcement.”

Yuna seemed to bite back whatever she planned to say when David set his hand on her thigh. “Fine,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “We can talk about this later, after you’ve had some time to sleep off the jet lag. I’ll make us a group call appointment with Farah in a few days to talk strategy.”

Shane rolled his eyes and sat back into the couch but let it go. Ilya rubbed a soothing hand over his knee and gave a comforting smile.

“Ready to go?” he asked when it was clear the conversation was over, at least for now. Shane closed his eyes and nodded, taking Ilya’s offered hand and standing from the couch.

“Goodnight,” Ilya said to the Hollanders.

Yuna and David stood as well, walking with them to the door and saying their goodbyes while Ilya and Shane pulled their shoes on.

They took separate cars to Ilya’s apartment. Shane would have to leave for Montreal the next day, so when they arrived, he left his big suitcase in his jeep and brought up the smaller duffel with his toiletries and a few changes of clothes upstairs with him.

The ride up the elevator was spent in tired, companionable silence, and once they were inside, Ilya abandoned his bags in the living room to deal with later and led Shane over to his bathroom and the large walk-in shower.

Shane sighed the minute the warm spray hit his back, letting his forehead fall to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. His tired sigh shifted to a guttural moan when Ilya’s fingers scrubbed through his hair, gently massaging shampoo into the roots and against his scalp. He gently encouraged Shane to lean his head back into the spray so the suds wouldn’t get in his eyes and then ran a soft, soapy washcloth over his body to wash away the sweat and flight grime from Shane’s skin. His mouth followed the path of the washcloth, gentle kisses flowing over clean skin, and when he was done, Ilya pushed Shane against the cool tile and knelt before him to take his cock between his lips.

“Ilya,” Shane sighed, eyes closed, and head tilted back against the tile. He tangled his fingers in the soaked strands of Ilya’s hair.

Ilya moaned in response, his throat vibrating around Shane’s cock with the sound as he sucked him. He took his time with Shane, holding him deep in his throat, bobbing and sucking with a slow, easy rhythm until Shane fell over the edge of his own orgasm like sinking over the side of a waterfall. Ilya swallowed around him as Shane came, and when Shane pulled out, he dragged Ilya up for a deep and searching kiss, tasting himself on Ilya’s tongue.

Shane washed Ilya in turn, taking his time as he did so. He fisted Ilya’s cock when he was done and sucked a collar of bruises into his skin as Ilya shook apart, crushed between Shane and the tile wall of the shower. They helped each other dry off after that and didn’t bother with sleepwear, falling into Ilya’s bed together in a tangle of limbs still warm from the shower and buried under the thick down of Ilya’s comforter.

While leaving was inevitable and Shane knew that the warm break of the Olympics could only last so long, he still dreaded returning to Montreal the next day. The cold grip of a toxic locker room, no doubt made worse by Shane’s obvious success while away from them, didn’t even wait for Ilya’s door to close behind him before sinking its claws beneath Shane’s skin.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured, his tone full of concern when he noticed the change come over Shane’s expression on the short walk to the elevator. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Shane replied, brushing off Ilya’s concern. “Just thinking about the rest of the season, I guess.”

Ilya grimaced. “The Metros do not deserve you,” he said, lacing his fingers through Shane’s and bringing his knuckles up to his lips. “They are a stupid team.”

Shane laughed, though the sound was hollow between them. “Not like I have much of a choice,” he sighed.

“Maybe you can ask Farah to help, see if there are options for a trade.”

“Maybe,” Shane said, though he didn’t sound at all confident. “Can we not talk about this right now, though? I just- I don’t want to leave on a bad note.”

Ilya’s lips tightened, wanting to deny the request, but he nodded anyway. Ilya could talk to Yuna about this later and see what plans were already being made to get Shane away from a team that refused to let him shine and left him alone and unprotected on the ice. Ilya was positive that, even if Shane wasn’t aware of it, plans had to already be in motion between his mother and agent who would never leave him in a situation like that without trying to find a way out of it.

So instead of pushing the issue, Ilya took his time kissing Shane goodbye and stayed in the parking lot to watch him pull away until Ilya could no longer see his car in the dim lot. Only then did he go upstairs and set about unpacking.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you again to everyone still with me, and let me know what you think in the comments! We've got a few plot points left in this AU, but the boys are both out, they're finally together, and there are just a few more loose ends to tie off. I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far! Until next time <3