Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Sexual Content, Queer Themes, Outing, Homophobic Language, Homophobia, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Anxious Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Past Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Good Friend Rose Landry, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-12 Updated: 2026-05-25 Words: 40,144 Chapters: 7/?

You and I in Screaming Color

Summary

Ilya flirts with danger with the kind of desperation of a man drowning clawing his way to the surface in search of air. He knows it'll catch up with him eventually. He just never imagined it would lead to this: getting traded as if dumped in the trash, like his career achievements, his blood sweat and tears and everything else he's given Boston, mean nothing at all.

Or, when Ilya gets caught in a sex scandal with a man while trying to get over Hollander, he changes the trajectory of his life forever.

Chapter 1: Trapped In This Hell of My Own Making

Chapter Notes

Disclaimer: This work was written solely from the insane mind of the author and her own two hands. No generative AI was used because the author despises GenAI with her entire being and would rather jump into a lake. Any em dashes that exist are there solely because the author has a love affair with said em dash and will die using them.

Is Rose Landry Dating Hockey Superstar Shane Hollander?

Yesterday morning, the internet imploded with what looks to be a superstar couple in the making. Marvel’s darling, Rose Landry, was seen leaving her hotel room looking all too cozied up to Montreal’s very own Shane Hollander. The two were photographed holding hands and making heart eyes as they walked to a local eatery. 

Inside sources say Landry is “utterly besotted” and that she’s never seemed happier. Fans have been speculating about this newly blossoming romance since Landry was spotted at Montreal’s most recent home game, sporting Hollander’s jersey. 

Love seems to truly be in the air this December! 

Snow drifts down from the sky in lazy circles. Ilya watches, head tipped back, smoke burning his lungs when he sucks on the end of his cigarette. He breathes out and wishes he didn’t. The burn, at least, is comforting. A balm to the hollowed out ache that won’t fucking leave him. He sags against the brick, the cold of it seeping through the fabric of his coat and bleeding into his skin, a reminder he’s not nearly drunk enough. 

Laughter spills from the entrance of the alley. Ilya cringes, flicks at his cigarette. 

He should go back inside. Inside has more liquor. More liquor means better chances of dulling the jagged edges gouging at the soft inner bits of his chest. But acquiring more of that liquor also means navigating the thumping, pulsing beat of sweaty bodies trying to press against him. Means also fielding the watchful eyes of his irritating, too observant teammates who’ve dragged him here kicking and screaming, insisting he needs to loosen up and get laid. 

“Com on, Rozzy!” Marlow’d said hours earlier, shaking him by the shoulders. “You haven’t been out in, like, weeks! Stop giving yourself blue balls and get your dick wet, for fuck’s sake!” 

Ilya sneers at the sky. Maybe he does need to get laid. Or, maybe he needs to drown in so much liquor he forgets why the very thought of sex makes him want to crack open his chest and claw out his own heart. Would it stop hurting, if he yanked it free and threw it in the gutter where it belongs? Would this awful, horrible feeling finally stop? 

He flicks the butt on the ground, grinds it beneath his heel. 

The world feels a little too grounded when he pushes away from the wall, and Ilya drifts out of the alley and down the street, hands shoved into his pockets as he wanders. Liquor seems like the best idea he’s ever had, and he wanders in search of somewhere different. Somewhere he can sit in a corner and drink until everything gets fuzzy again.

It takes three blocks to find the perfect little hole in the wall bar sitting nondescript on a street corner, and Ilya slips inside with a sigh. 

Warmth drapes over him like a blanket. He picks his way to the smooth bartop along the back wall, sliding onto a plush stool. It’s small, the bar. All rustic and wooden, with warm, soft lighting and gentle music filling the spaces between patrons. Ilya rests his elbows on the bartop, gaze sticking to the glittery, open top the bartender wears. He’s pretty, the bartender, smiling an easy smile as he sidles up to Ilya. “What can I do for you?” he asks. 

“Vodka, please.” 

“Sure thing. On the rocks?” 

“Yes.” 

Ilya’s granted a glass seconds later. He downs a gulp, relaxing at the familiar burn blazing a trail down his throat. 

“Opening a tab?” the pretty bartender asks. He’s not as pretty as Hollander, and it’s that thought that makes Ilya jerk his head in a nod and down another gulp. Yes, he needs a tab if he’s gonna be able to stop thinking or feeling for a night. 

Someone slides into the stool immediately beside his. Ilya’s gaze flicks over, takes in the too-casual slouch, one elbow on the bartop, the assessing gaze sweeping over him, too. The man smiles, crooked and alluring, arching a brow. “You here all alone?” His voice drips with something sensual, and Ilya stiffens. Grips his glass tighter. 

It’s not the first time a man’s ever hit on him. It’s the first time one’s done so this boldly. 

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug in lieu of an answer, opting to down the rest of his drink. The ice rattles when he slams it back into the bartop. Ilya doesn’t even get the chance to so much as lift his fingers before the man beside him waves down the bartender. 

“Get him another of whatever he’s having,” he says, “and I’ll take a rum and coke.” 

Ilya raises his brows. “I have an open tab.” 

His companion shrugs, smile easy and lecherous. “So do I, and I want to get you a drink.” He winks. Ilya can only stare. 

The man is attractive. He reminds Ilya a little bit of Sasha—body lean and lithe, wavy hair falling a little in his angular face and eyes glittering with mischief. He’s everything Shane isn’t, and something in Ilya clenches at the thought. He jerks his gaze away, staring instead at the rows and rows of liquor bottles in front of him, all lit in hues of different colors. It’s between a bottle of top shelf whiskey and scotch that Ilya catches it—a small little flag with rainbow stripes. Something complicated tangles inside him, and he thumbs at the empty glass in his hands, jaw working. 

A gay bar. He’s in a gay bar. Of course. 

The pretty bartender slides him another glass, and Ilya takes it, downing it in two gulps. It goes down easy, warming his insides and draping Ilya’s surroundings in a familiar, fuzzy haze. 

He doesn’t flinch when a warm hand lands on his arm and squeezes. 

“You’re really hot,” the guy tells him, breath ghosting a brand onto the skin behind Ilya’s ear. “Wanna get outta here?” 

It’s stupid. So fucking stupid. Ilya shouldn’t even be here. He should be at the club, grinding up on one of the many women he can beckon with a mere crook of the finger. Seducing women is so fucking easy, and fun, and he could be having some good, meaningless sex right now with someone easy and safe. 

Ilya doesn’t want easy and safe. 

He lolls his head, grins the grin he knows gets his lays weak at the knees. “Yes. I do.” 

They end up pressed against the brick of the bar, cloaked in shadow, kissing. Ilya licks into a warm mouth with a wild desperation, trying so damn hard to stay locked in the moment, to not slip away to a place where the mouth against his tastes like ginger ale and something so uniquely different than the one he’s kissing right now. But this one tastes of rum and coke and it’s not at all the taste Ilya yearns for. He fumbles, skimming his numb fingers beneath the hem of a silk shirt and up the soft planes of the warm body beneath him. 

He thinks of firm muscle, of powerful thighs wrapping around him. The body beneath him’s different, all soft and lithe where Shane’s muscle and power. And, Ilya aches, cursing as he shoves at thin shoulders and pressing the wrong man down onto his knees. They shouldn’t be doing this here. Ilya can hear the roar of cars in the street, the rise and fall of voices drifting past. He knows better. He’s spent so fucking long knowing better, being careful, staying hidden. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the unrelenting agony gouging at his heart over and over again, but Ilya can’t bring himself to care tonight. He’s a penchant for chasing danger, and tonight he chases the high it brings with a wild desperation, as if fucking a man’s mouth out in the open can banish Shane Hollander and his pretty freckles and his pretty doe eyes from Ilya’s head forever. 

Except, when he tangles his hand in soft, wavy hair and tugs, he sees Shane’s glassy eyes staring back up at him, and he gasps, hips stuttering and palm scraping against the brick as he comes, swallowing down Shane’s name like a bitter pill. 

When the guy inevitably asks for Ilya’s number, he declines, fleeing the encounter with hunched shoulders and trembling hands fumbling for another cigarette. Distantly, he thinks there’s an irony to be had about running away with his tail tucked like this. He doesn’t let himself think about it too hard. Doesn’t let himself think about anything beyond the burn of smoke in his lungs and the biting chill sinking into his skin. 

Of course, he makes the mistake of glancing up. There, hanging over the street between buildings, is a billboard. One of many. Except, this one’s got Shane Hollander illuminated in bright colors, his face lit in his awkward media smile as he holds some obnoxious seltzer drink. City Seltzer, it reads, You’ll love this city. 

Ilya flicks his cigarette, heart clenching in his chest. Funny, he thinks, despite how it’s not funny at all. 

🚬

He’s scrolling his phone, sipping a protein shake, when he sees it. Or, rather, when his phone starts buzzing like a machine possessed, twitter notifications emblazoning on his screen one after another. Ilya’s brows knit, lips purse. He taps one. It brings up a series of photos. 

The phone slips from his hand and clatters onto the floor, dread lodging into his gut in a boulder of ice. 

No. No, no, no. 

A shrill ringing starts up. Ilya stares, bile rising in his throat. His phone rattles on the floor at his feet. Ilya can only watch, frozen in place, unable to move. This can’t be real. Can’t be happening. But the phone keeps buzzing at his feet, relentless, and Ilya’s legs suddenly feel like jelly. He sets his protein shake down, sinks to the floor. Tries to breathe through his nose. 

He thinks about reaching for the phone. Decides instead to thunk his head against the cabinets behind him, eyes squeezing shut. “Blyat,” he says, the curse cracking in his ears. His fingers scrape against the floor, knuckles pressing into the cool tile of the kitchen. He needs to pick up his phone. Call his agent, maybe. Except, fuck, his agent is Russian and is almost definitely gonna drop him, if he hasn’t already. 

Ilya’s chest goes tight. He scrubs a hand over his face, cursing again. Blyat. This is bad. So very bad. Hysteria rises out of him in the way of manic giggles colored in disbelief—of himself for even daring to do something so goddamn stupid, of the fact that the internet’s now privy to the fact that Ilya’s an equal opportunity whore who likes dick just as much as he likes pussy. He curls in on himself, laughter giving way to something broken and angry, vision smearing into a blurry mess as wet, hot tears smear trails down his face and drip off his chin. 

It’s here, curled up on his kitchen floor, where Svetlana inevitably finds him. 

“Ilyusha,” she calls, her gentle hands landing on his arms. “Come here, let me see you. Why are you on the floor?” 

Ilya lets her pull him into an embrace, hands twisting into the woolen fabric of her sweater and clinging. “Sveta? Why are you here?” 

She pets his hair. “You weren’t answering your phone.” 

Oh. Right. He spares a glance at the offending object where it still buzzes on the floor. 

“I am fine.” His voice cracks right down the middle. She levels him a look, the same look she gave him when they were sixteen and he showed up with a bruise on his face, courtesy of his father’s ire. It says, no, you’re not, and, I see you. I know you. You can’t hide from me. Ilya swallows down the rest of his protests, then, and lets Svetlana coax him off the floor. She lures him over to the couch, where she tucks a blanket around him as if he’s a babe. 

“I will look through your phone for you,” she tells him, the cadence of their mother tongue a comfort to Ilya’s ears. “Answer what needs to be answered, turn notifications off for what doesn’t. It will be okay, Ilyusha.” 

His throat goes tight. “Okay.” He isn’t sure if he’s agreeing because it’s the truth, or because he needs it to be. But Svetlana doesn’t leave him any room to doubt—no, she curls up next to him, head resting against his shoulder as she works, quick and efficient. 

The damage is what he expects: his agent drops him. His manager too. There’s backlash from fans across hockey, calls for him to be scratched, homophobic slurs filling his mentions. Many of them from his own fans. 

Russia wants his passport back. There’s hundreds of messages and missed calls from his brother. Svetlana blocks him with little ceremony. Ilya isn’t sure how he feels, after. Does he want ceremony? Does he want to scream and shout and throw pillows across the room? 

He catches a glimpse of his phone’s screen, after. Svetlana scrolls through his messages—there’s dozens of new ones, mostly from his teammates. Most seem…fine. Shocked, maybe. Several of them ask if he’s okay and to please answer back. 

There’s no new messages from Jane. 

Ilya stares up at the ceiling, whole body throbbing with the ache that always accompanies thinking of Shane, these days. Of course there’s no message, he tells himself. They aren’t anything. Shane has zero reason to reach out. He and Ilya were never more than scandalous rendezvous hidden away in various hotel rooms, and now, Shane has Rose Landry, someone he can have out in the open in the light of day. Someone very not-scandalous, someone perfect for the boring, perfect Shane Hollander brand. 

No, what Ilya gets instead is a phone call from LeClaire. 

Svetlana answers it, of course, nudging him and thrusting the screen in his face. It’s on speaker. 

“Hello?” Ilya croaks. 

“Rozanov, hey. I’d ask if it’s a good time, but, well. I think we both know it’s not.” 

He grimaces. “No, it is not.” 

“I’m sorry.” And LeClaire does sound sorry, which is somewhat surprising. “I wish I was calling with better news.” 

Dread coils in Ilya’s gut. He sucks in a breath. Clenches his jaw. “What is it.” 

LeClaire lets out a sigh. It fizzles over the line, crackling with hints of frustration. “You’re being scratched. Commissioner’s orders. The general managers want to have a meeting with you, too, tomorrow morning if possible.” 

The dread coils impossibly tighter. Ilya reaches up, pressing the heel of a hand into his eye, and hisses out a breath. He feels Svetlana’s grip on his waist go tight. It’s grounding, the touch. He leans into her. Stares back at the ceiling. 

“What about?” 

“Officially, I don’t know. But…unofficially, I’d advise bringing your agent with you.” 

Fuck. Fuck. “Okay,” he says, despite this being anything but. They’re going to trade him. Him. The star of Boston. All because he decided to go and get his dick sucked by a man and got caught. 

There’s a beat, and a sigh. “Rozanov, look. You’re an incredible player, and I respect the hell out of you. The whole team does. I know this whole thing is…not ideal, but we’ll do our best to support you on our end. My power’s limited, but if you need something, just say the word and I’ll help you figure it out.” 

Ilya nearly asks LeClaire to demand they keep him. To use whatever power he has to defy the GMs and the Commissioner alike. It’s a stupid thought, because no one can do either of those things. Still, he finds himself nodding along anyway. “Okay. Thank you.” 

The thanks echoes in the room, hollow. Fake. Ilya doesn’t try to fix it, doesn’t try to muster any actual gratitude. He’s too tired, too raw, and there’s little to be grateful for to begin with. He’s pretty sure everyone involved knows it, too, because LeClaire hangs up with little fanfare, and Svetlana tugs him back down so Ilya can resume hiding his face in the slope of her shoulder. 

Nimble fingers comb through his hair, gentle and comforting, and Ilya sinks into it, breathing in her familiar perfume. That damning ache throbs through him, and he wishes, not for the first time, that this could be something. That he could feel for Svetlana what he feels for Shane. It would be easier. Better, maybe. He’d be normal, with a pretty, sexy wife that’d leave every man jealous of him and every woman jealous for him. But he isn’t normal. He sits just a little to the left, not fully gay but too gay to fall in love with this beautiful woman he’s known his whole life. 

And isn’t that the worst part of it all? 

Ilya Rozanov - Gay? 

Yesterday, a new hashtag hit Twitter alongside a damning series of photos. Photos depicting the Boston Raiders’ star center, Ilya Rozanov, engaged in a scandalous, overtly passionate encounter with another man. There is no confirmation on who this other man is or if he and Rozanov are in a relationship. Rozanav, 25, is renown for his womanizing habits, often being photographed with different women while out on the town enjoying Boston’s nightlife. Inside sources claim the hockey player has never held down a long term relationship. 

In light of recent photos, the reason seems almost too obvious — though many fans are reluctant to accept the possibility of one of hockey’s biggest stars being gay. 

So far, Rozonav has yet to make any public statements on the matter.

The collar of his shirt chafes at Ilya’s neck. He sits ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, and does his damndest to ignore it. Shaking hands rest curled into fists on his knees. Beside him, Svetlana sits, prim and proper, hands clasped on the table in front of her. 

“I’m his manager,” she tells Boston Raiders’ management when they ask why she’s there, lying through her teeth with a steady calm Ilya can’t fathom, right now. This, of course, causes a stir, given her employment by the very team management she’s sitting in direct opposition of. 

“I…was not aware you were also employed by a member of the team,” one of them, Berkeley, Ilya thinks, says, voice terse. There’s an edge of condescension, razor sharp with its unspoken disbelief. Whether or not it’s disbelief of her capabilities or her willingness to work for Ilya is unclear. No one bothers to try to clarify. 

Svetlana shrugs easily. “I freelance.” She offers no further explanation, either. 

“This seems like a bit of a conflict of interest,” one of the other managers says. Murmurs of agreement rise from the wall of suits. Svetlana arches a brow, looking every bit unphased. 

“There is nothing in my contract barring me from freelancing as a representative for any hockey players, no less one on this team.” 

The ensuing silence is tense. 

“Right,” someone, the lawyer, Ilya thinks, says. The man fidgets in place, pushing at rounded spectacles in an effort to keep them affixed to his face, and rifles through the thick stack of papers he has in front of him. “Well. We, uh. We wanted to meet and have a minor…discussion…about the scandal floating across the internet.” 

Ilya’s jaw works. That godforsaken dread twists sharply at his insides, threatening to tear him in two. He keeps his stare fixed on the grey wall behind the Raiders’ management in front of him. Tries to look as stony and impassive as physically possible. 

“Ah, yes,” Svetlana says dryly. “The scandal that has nothing at all to do with my client’s job or capabilities.” 

The men sitting across from them shift, their discomfort and anger palpable. The lawyer speaks again, voice thready and thin. “It, uh, it does, actually. See, here in Mister Rozanov’s contract, we here in the Raiders’ organization expect our players to represent our values. Having oral sex in public does not in any way line up with said values.” 

“And beating women does?” Svetlana asks. She leans forward, lips pursed and anger carved in devastating beauty on her expression. “Was the rookie last year, Fisher, not arrested publicly after beating his fiance black and blue? He is still under contract, yes?” 

Silence. Ilya dares to look at the men heading the organization he’s built from the ground up, the organization he brought win after endless win with his ruthless leadership and raw, carefully honed talents. They stare back, stony and ice cold. 

Nausea burns at the back of his throat. He resumes staring at the wall. 

“That’s. Different,” the lawyer tries. Svetlana barks a laugh that’s razor sharp. 

“I think not.” 

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Berkeley says. “What matters is that Rozanov is no longer fulfilling our expectations for the team. Effective immediately, he’s no longer on the Boston Raiders’ roster.” 

All at once, the floor drops out from beneath Ilya. He sucks in a sharp breath, a spike of agony spearing him like a lance. Effective immediately, he’s no longer on the Boston Raiders’ roster. His vision blurs, blotting out into nothing but a smear of white. Words echo in his ears, dull and distant, as if spoken from a hundred kilometers away. He’s aware of Svetlana in only the vaguest of sense—aware of her elbow pressing into his as if it’s happening to someone else, of her voice echoing in his ears, her accented English clipped and angry. She’s arguing. About what, Ilya isn’t sure. 

He isn’t sure of anything, anymore. 

Effective immediately, he’s no longer on the Boston Raiders’ roster.

Fuck. Does this mean he has to go back to Russia? His visa is a work visa. If he. If he's not employed, he can’t stay. Can he? God, if he’s deported, what’ll even happen to him? Nothing good. Jail, maybe. Or they’ll kill him. Maybe both. Lock him away from the world and torture him until he gives up, all because he likes dick a little too much. His hands itch with a want to reach for his mother’s cross. He keeps them curled on his knees by sheer willpower alone. 

Ilya doesn’t remember leaving the meeting. He comes back to himself in the car, hands fumbling to try and click the seatbelt into place. It’s only when Svetlana reaches over to swat his hands away, buckling him in with her own steady hands, that Ilya realizes he’s shaking. 

“You will be alright,” she says, her gentle Russian soothing. “Boston is stupid to trade you, yes, but you are why they win, now. You can do the same in Ottawa.” 

Traded. He’s traded. The relief tastes bitter. 

“How? My passport is unusable.” 

The car rumbles to life. “We will figure it out,” Svetlana says, her confidence unwavering. “Ottawa will help. They want you enough to help.” 

Ilya’s eyes burn. He blindly reaches for Svetlana’s hand, clinging to it the whole way home. She clings right back, grip tight, unyielding, and Ilya is so goddamn grateful for her. Svetlana is a liferaft in this awful storm of his own making—without her, Ilya’s not sure he’d keep his head above water. He doesn’t thank her. Not with words. There’s no reason to. This is just what they do. 

They take care of each other. They always have. 

Svetlana parks the car in the drive. The midday sun hangs overhead, too bright for the heavy storm Ilya carries. He stares at his garage doors hiding away his car collection, throat tight and hand prickly and numb in Svetlana’s ironclad grip. God, he. He needs to pack. Sell his house, probably. Should he sell his cars, too? It’s going to be hard enough to simply get himself over Canada’s border. Moving all his things—assortment of cars included—has Ilya’s temples throbbing. 

“Come,” Svetlana murmurs, tugging his hand. “We have lots to do. I will make a list.” 

And, ridiculously, pathetically, all Ilya can think about is Shane. A wounded noise tears out of him. What would Shane say, if he were here? He’d certainly be making lists. Catastrophizing, also, probably. Ilya sucks in a breath and it aches right down to his bones. “Thank you,” he mutters, and this time he means it so fucking much. Svetlana squeezes his fingers, her smile colored in melancholy. 

“Always.” 

The next several hours are spent in a blur of motion. Ilya gets boxes delivered, because he needs them to pack all of his shit, and busies himself with building cardboard boxes that he can pack his life away into. Svetlana sits perched on a barstool in the kitchen, laptop and all of his assorted legal documents spread out in front of her, her curls piled into a messy bun on her head while she fields phone call after phone call. Ilya doesn’t ask who it is she’s calling. He has a vague idea—immigration lawyers and Ottawa Centaurs officials are likely contenders. All people he probably should be the one talking to. He’s the one being traded, not Svetlana. 

He stares miserably at the plethora of cardboard boxes surrounding him, the pile of folded boxes at his knee. It hits him, then, the weight of his new reality, slamming into him with enough force to press Ilya forward, shoulders bowing and head drooping. Fuck. He’s going to Ottawa. The worst team in the entire NHL franchise. 

He’ll never win another cup again. 

The thought makes him angry. Never win a cup again? Him? He’s Ilya Rozanov. Generational talent. If Boston, who he built from damn near nothing, thinks they can knock him down so easily, well. They’ve got a hell of a reckoning coming, because Ilya may not be the carefully curated image they wanted (laughable, really, because what image? Straight?), but spite is his best friend and favorite weapon, and he knows how to wield it with a cutting efficiency. He grabs another box and slaps it together with a renewed vigor. 

Fuck Boston. Ilya will win a cup for Ottawa as the first out queer hockey player and he’ll do it gleefully with a middle finger raised. 

He nearly has every box put together when a knock rings out from the front door. Svetlana’s out of her seat before Ilya can even twist and look at her, stalking to the aforementioned front door with a ferocious determination. He can’t see the doorway from here, but he can hear the creak of the hinges. 

“What do you want?” Her English is clipped, harsh, echoing all the way to the kitchen where Ilya sits on the floor with his assortment of boxes. 

“Oh, hey. We, uh. We just wanted to come check on Roz.” 

Ilya’s heart clenches in his chest. He drags himself up to his feet, drifts towards the door because he needs to see for himself, to confirm he’s not hallucinating voices. And, he’s not—Cliff Marlow stands across the threshold, shoulders hunched and a case of beer cradled in his arms, Conner Conners standing right next to him. 

Something tangles in his chest. Something Ilya can’t bring himself to examine too closely. 

“You are checking on me, now?” His voice comes out rough, flat. “Why? Did you not hear? I am, ah, scandal to management.” 

Marlow scoffs. “Management can fuck off, man. You’re our captain, gay or not.” 

Ilya makes a face. Ah. So they don’t know. “No. Not anymore.” He turns, stalks back to the kitchen, because looking at them isn’t something he can do, right now. Not when his eyes burn and he has to blink to keep everything from going all shiny and blurry. 

Svetlana must let them in, because Marlow’s voice follows. “What the hell do you mean, not anymore?” 

Ilya stares at his boxes. He reaches for the cross hanging on his neck, fingers toying with it as if the metal alone can give him the strength to not crumple beneath the weight pressing down on him. “I’m traded. Ottawa. I must be there by next week.” 

There’s a beat. Then, “Fuck. That’s so fucked up.” 

The laugh that bursts from him is sharp and bitter. He risks a glance over his shoulder and finds Marlow and Conners both wearing matching, angry looks. “Da. Very fucked up.” 

“There’s gotta be, like, something that can be done. Right? Like, they can’t just trade you away because you like dick.” 

They shouldn’t be able to, but they have. Ilya shrugs, tired and angry, and drops back to his knees, reaching for the next box. “Maybe. Sveta tried.” 

A familiar, gentle hand finds his shoulder and squeezes. “I did try, this is true. Perhaps if I were actual lawyer, I could have stopped it. But the general managers were very decided. Was not much I could do.” 

“This is fucked up,” Conners mutters again. Glasses clink, and he steps over boxes to root through Ilya’s drawers, producing a bottle cap opener. He cracks open a bottle, holding it out to Ilya, who takes it because, well, he deserves it, he thinks. 

Ilya takes a sip, leaning into Svetlana a little. “How is the team?” 

Conners and Marlow exchange glances. The weight of everything grows just a little heavier, then. 

“It’s…kinda divided, I guess, right now,” Conners says. “Some guys don’t really care. Some are kinda dicks about it.” He shrugs, a little helpless, and slouches against the counter. “They’ll probably still be pissed about the trade announcement when it drops. I think.” 

Ilya doubts it. He doesn’t say as much, choosing to take another swig of the beer. 

“Who gives a shit about the assholes?” Marlow sets the case down, arms crossing over his chest and expression serious. “We’re not here for those fuckheads, we’re here for you. So tell us what you need, man.” 

And, Ilya doesn’t really know what to do with that. What does he need? A time machine, maybe, to go back to that stupid night and tell himself to just go straight home, to not drink his sorrows away. Or maybe he should go further back to that fateful day in Saskatchewan and tell himself to skip that cigarette. To not be in the right place to meet Shane Hollander because Shane Hollander will ruin him forever with his awkward smile and pretty freckles. 

He doesn’t say any of that. No, instead he gestures to the plethora of boxes and mutters, “Make your asses useful.” Ilya doesn’t have to ask twice. Conners and Marlow put themselves to work immediately, helping build boxes and removing Ilya’s possessions from every drawer they can get their hands on, stuffing them into each box they put together. It’s not very neat or organized, because when asked where he wants things, Ilya just shrugs. 

He doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to, when there’s so much more to care about. Like whether or not he’ll even make it to Canada, or if Russia will snatch him at the border. Unlikely, according to Svetlana, but Ilya can’t escape that particular worry. 

Where his dishes end up seems wildly unimportant in comparison. 

By the time they stop, most of Ilya’s kitchen and living room are packed away. Someone, Marlow, he thinks, orders a pizza. The four of them crowd around his coffee table, boxes spread across it, and eat without plates. Conners and Marlow try their hardest to fill the quiet with casual conversation, gossiping like school girls about other hockey teams. Most notably, who’s doing shitty and who’s doing great in the western conference. It’s a conversation Svetlana joins with vigor, hands flying about as she rants about different teams’ lineups and how they compare to Boston’s. Ilya can’t help but smirk a little at the slackjawed looks Marlow and Conners shoot each other. 

His best friend is smart, and he loves her for it. 

Ilya risks glancing at his phone, then, something he’s avoided for pretty much the entire day. There’s still dozens of notifications littering his screen—mostly mentions from social media he has no issue ignoring—but what snags his attention is a text. A text that’s been there for hours, if the timestamp’s to be believed. 

Jane (1:04PM) 

Saw the news. Hope you’re okay. 

He stares. 

They haven’t texted since the day Shane bolted from this very fucking couch Ilya’s sitting on right this second. A tangled knot of emotions tugs sharply in his chest. Ilya hovers his thumb over the notification, teeth digging into his lip. Does he answer? He wants to. Fuck, does he want to. But what would it do? Shane’s with Rose now. Rose, his pretty, perfect, movie star girlfriend who has no scandals and who he can walk down the street with and hold hands without the entire world ending. 

Ilya swipes the notification away, the heartache panging through him with a vengeance. He goes to drop his phone back down onto the couch cushion when it lights up, buzzing in his hands. A phone call. 

The contact name emblazoned on the screen has him freezing. 

Incoming Call: 

Jane

Chapter End Notes

So I've cracked and decided to give into the brain worms that have been eating me alive. I am going to keep this open to all comments and not locked for now, but I am very aware of what's happening in this fandom so that may change as needed. I write to share, though, so for now, I'll keep this fic as open to sharing as possible...anyway. I have no schedule, but I am trying to write ahead with this one. Though I have a lot of other projects for another fandom, so we shall see how quickly I'm able to update.

In the meantime, enjoy!

Chapter 2: Through the Crack in the Closet Door

Chapter Notes

WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of homophobic slurs. Readers, please be advised.

Comeau’s breathing too loud. 

He’s sitting on the bench next to Shane, so close Shane’s skin prickles sharply at the proximity. The feeling clashes with the rub of his practice jersey against the back of his neck and the sweat-soaked fabric sticking to his clammy skin. The smell of sweat’s strong, today, too—Shane wrinkles his nose against it, squinting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing nonstop overhead. Are they brighter than usual? Shane thinks they must be. Louder, too, rising above the typical after practice chatter as if they’ve got a personal vendetta against him and spearing at his eardrums until the buzzing and Comeau’s breathing are all he can hear. 

Shane tugs harshly at the shoelaces of his skates, eye twitching. The need to be home twists inside him, sudden and vehement, and it takes all the control he’s got left to suck in a breath and focus on carefully tugging off his skates, one and a time. They thunk onto the floor in a pile. He doesn’t bother straightening them, instead going for the practice jersey, which he rips over his head with a breath. 

Today’s a day he wishes he could just. Hit the restart button on and try again. Shane frowns as he folds the jersey, twisting to tuck it into his duffle. He’s being stupid and dramatic, he knows he is, but he feels as if he’s been stuck just a little bit off center all day long, and he hates it. Like. Nothing’s been wrong, exactly, but nothing’s been right either, and somehow, that’s so much worse. 

Prime examples—the almond based coffee creamer he likes? Yeah, somehow he got the wrong flavor at the grocery without noticing. So his coffee tasted wrong. His oatmeal overcooked just a touch too much, too, and the texture was awful. Shane only ate two bites of it. So he’s starving, has been since he got to the locker room this morning. He also accidentally grabbed the wrong socks, so all practice, he’s had to grit his teeth and suffer wearing socks with the stupid seam rubbing at his toes, and that only made him aware of all of his clothes touching him, which has him itching to strip down bare and scald his skin off in the shower until he can’t feel anything anymore. Shane forces himself to go slow, to take off one piece of clothing at a time, focusing on breathing as he folds each one. 

Practice itself was shit, too, because his frayed focus left him more scattered and disorganized than he should be. He missed goals he usually nails with his eyes closed. His drills were messy. Chirps landed with sharper barbs than normal, gouging at his already raw skin. 

“You in la-la land, Holly?” 

“Christ, that was shit. What the fuck is wrong with you today, Hollzy?!” 

“Hah, did Rose Landry’s pussy make your brain bleed out your ears?” 

“Jesus, dude, my toddler shoots better than you are right now!” 

He reaches for his shower caddy, throat tight. On the shelf of his locker, his phone lights up. It’s a text from Rose. A reminder about dinner, tonight, probably. He ignores it, guilt and embarrassment like needles against his skin. Shower first. Then…then, maybe, a rain check. He won’t be fun to hang out with, tonight, probably. 

“Oh, woah, what the fuck?” Drapeau’s voice booms through the locker room. He’s standing at his bench, towel slung low on his waist and brow furrowed as he stares at the phone in his hand. 

“What, you get dropped by a puck bunny?” Olsson calls out, catty and grinning. Drapeau flips him off with a scoff and waves his phone. 

“No, idiot, look—Rozanov’s gay, apparently.” 

Shane freezes. Stares. The words echo strangely in his ears, as if he’s somehow lost his grasp on English. Because there’s no way he’s heard what he thinks he’s heard. It’s. It’s not possible. Can’t be. He’s stuck, watching in abject horror, as the mood in the locker room shifts. Notifications start pinging from various phones. Then—

“Oh, holy shit.” 

“What the fuck? This has to be fake, right? Rozanov’s, like, fucking new girls every week.” 

“That looks pretty fucking real to me.” 

“Yeah, I mean, having a dude suck your dick in public is pretty fucking gay, Wilson.”

“Fuck off.” 

“I can’t believe Rozanov’s a fag, holy shit.”

The word hits like a punch to the jaw. Shane jerks at the force of it, stomach twisting. Part of him bristles, anger crackling to life just beneath his skin because how dare one of his teammates say something so goddamn vile. Except, the anger dies a swift death, replaced with a spike of ice lodging in his spine at the echo of laughter that echoes the statement.

His stomach drops right out of his body, and Shane lurches, beelining around the corner for the showers. Except, the second he’s alone, his legs decide to buckle, sending him down into a heap on the floor. His shower caddy crashlands next to him, spilling onto the tile. Shane blinks. Breathing is hard, suddenly. Fuck. This isn’t real. It can’t be. Ilya’s always claimed to be so fucking careful—what. What’ll happen to him? Surely, he’s safe over in Boston. Being…being gay is legal in the States, so even Ilya being half-gay or whatever should be fine. Right? 

Shane’s hands tangle in his hair, tugging. Spots dance in his vision. Distantly, he’s aware he’s shaking. But he can’t seem to make himself stop. No, his head’s spinning like a top, mind churning over the nightmare someone else is living, the same nightmare that haunts the eves of his own psyche. 

Ilya Rozanov, one of hockey’s best and brightest players, has been outed. 

There’s no gay hockey players. And Ilya’s not just been outed, he’s been outed in the worst way possible, with a sex scandal and everything. What if. What if the League retaliates? What if Boston lets Ilya go? What happens then? Shane tugs harder at his hair, vision blurring into a smear of shadows and light. Fuck. Fuck. He wants to claw at his own skin, if only to find the tether to this plane of existence because nothing feels real, right now, but moving is a feat of the likes that’s beyond him, now. 

“Shane?” 

The sound of his name tugs at the edges of the hazy panic blotting out his surroundings. Shane twitches, tugs harder at his hair. His chest hurts. His body feels heavy. Head feels light. He wants to throw up. Thinks he might, too, with the way his throat burns. 

“Woah, hey, buddy.” 

Warm hands grasp at his, tugging them free of his hair, the sudden contact making Shane flinch. 

“Breathe, Shane. C’mon. In and out.” There’s a grip on his shoulders, now, tight, firm, and it’s grounding. Shane listens to the voice—Hayden?—and sucks in a shaky breath. It hurts, but it feels fucking fantastic, and he sucks in another. 

“Easy, come on. Let it out, then in again.” 

Right. Out. In. Out. In. Shane breathes, slow, careful, and the world filters back in, one detail at a time. The haze of steam hanging in the air. The cool tile beneath him. Hayden, gripping his shoulders in a vice grip, staring at him with wide, worried eyes. A flash of shame scorches at Shane, and he shuffles, curling to press his forehead to his knees. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. Hayden squeezes his shoulders again. 

“You’re good, dude. Just. Kinda worried, s’all. I mean, you’re sitting on the floor.” 

Oh. He is, isn’t he. Shane’s nails dig into his bare shins, disgust churning alongside the nausea already burning at his stomach. His body goes tense, the desire to get up and hobble to the shower to scrub his skin raw gripping him, but some shred of logic keeps him put, all too wary of the way he’s still trembling. 

“I’m fine,” he tells his knees. Which comes out extremely unconvincing to his own ears, if the way his voice wobbles is anything to go by. It’s clear Hayden doesn’t buy it, either, because his hands spasm where they rest on Shane’s shoulders. 

“Yeah, okay, sure. I’ll believe that when you get off the locker room floor, buddy.” There’s a sigh, soft and tired, and Hayden retracts his hands, the sudden loss of pressure almost unmooring. Then, quieter, “You wanna maybe try that again?” 

And, Shane isn’t sure how it happens, really. Maybe it’s that he feels scraped raw, like an exposed nerve, all too aware of the flicker of the lights overhead and the way Hayden’s clothes rustle as he shifts in place in front of him. Maybe it’s the echo of his teammates in his head, laughing at the nightmare playing out right in front of them, the nightmare that’s got Shane gripped tightly in its claws and refuses to let go. 

Either way, he opens his mouth to double down, to insist he’s fine, and blurts instead, “I think I’m gay.” 

His insides clench the moment his words register. He jerks his head up and stares, horrified, as Hayden’s face goes slack with shock. Oh, fuck, he really is gonna throw up, he thinks. 

“But you’re dating Rose Landry?" Hayden blurts back. Shane’s head thunks back down to his knees, some horrible noise tripping its way free of his throat because, oh, god, Hayden’s right. He’s dating Rose Landry. A woman. And he’s. He’s just come out to Hayden on the floor of the locker room because he’s freaking the fuck out about the very notion of being outed, his literal worst nightmare, because he. He’s not just half-gay, he’s, like, full gay. Oh, god. Oh, no. 

“Fuck,” he croaks. 

🏒

Me (3:26PM) 

Hey, sorry this is so last minute, but I need to cancel tonight.

Sorry. 

Rose Landry (3:27PM)

no worries! everything okay? 

Me (3:34PM) 

Yeah, just don’t feel very good. Sorry again. 

Rose Landry (3:35PM) 

aww :( <3 feel better babe! 

🏒

“Here.” 

A can of ginger ale appears in front of Shane. He takes it, muttering a soft, “Thanks,” before resuming his staring contest with the corner of his coffee table. Hayden flops down onto the couch beside him, the distinct sound of a can cracking open echoing into the quiet stretching between them. Shane thumbs at the tab of the can. Stares harder at the table. 

Hayden insisted on taking him home. Which meant, apparently, coming inside and sitting down on Shane’s couch before Shane could fully process him actually being here. So now they’re here sitting side by side on his couch, the metaphorical elephant heavy and awkward where it sits between them, and Shane wishes he could sink down into the ether of the couch cushions forever. 

“Okay, fuck it.” Hayden leans forward, depositing his beer can onto the coffee table. “I’m ordering us pizza, because we deserve it—yes, even you, mister bird food—and then I’m gonna stuff my face and you can tell me as much or as little as you want. Just, rip the band-aid and get it all out.” He fishes out his phone, screen illuminating his face in blue light as he presumably sets out to do just that. Which. Shane makes a face, insides squirming at the notion of cheese and grease. (It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is supposed to be chicken and rice and steamed vegetables. It’s there, prepped and labeled and ready in his fridge, two whole servings because Rose was supposed to come over.) He’s not even sure he’s hungry, really, stomach still all twisted up in knots. But he can’t seem to find his voice to say as much, so he’s left watching Hayden with wide eyes, fingers still toying with the tab of his can. 

Thirty minutes later finds them still seated at the couch, a pile of boxes spread across the coffee table—two pizzas, one thin crust with cheese, the other a meat lover’s loaded with sausages and pepperoni and whatever else, a boxed caesar salad, and wings—the TV on low playing ESPN. There’s a game on. Toronto versus New York. Shane watches without really seeing, jerseys blurring together into a meaningless smear of colors. Across the bottom of the screen’s a banner that reads: ILYA ROSANOV SCRATCHED FROM RAIDERS VS NOMADS TOMORROW. 

Shane looks away, throat tight. 

“Fuck yes, this hits the spot,” Hayden says, smacking his lips. He’s balancing a plate on his knees, pizza sauce already smeared across a cheek. It’s ridiculous and so utterly mundane and normal, Shane can’t help the snort that breaks loose, tension easing from his body just a notch. 

“You’ve got pizza sauce on your face.” 

Hayden blinks, pausing mid-chew to scrub the heel of his palm across his face instead of using a napkin like a sane adult. Shane shakes his head and reaches for the salad. 

And it’s…normal. So utterly, extremely normal, Shane could almost believe that earlier didn’t happen. Nothing’s changed at all, no one knows the secret shackled to his soul, and Ilya Rozanov is just the asshole womanizer Shane totally hates like he’s supposed to. 

Except the illusion shatters when Shane looks at the TV again, gaze zeroing in on that awful banner scrolling the bottom. 

ILYA ROZANOV SCRATCHED FROM RAIDERS VS NOMADS TOMORROW.

He swallows, gaze dropping to the salad bowl in his lap. There’s too many croutons, and the dressing’s a touch too rich. Shane would rather have a spring salad with a lighter dressing. A vinaigrette, maybe. 

His phone buzzes on the couch beside him. It’s from Rose. 

Shane flips his phone over and sets the salad on the coffee table, appetite gone. 

“So…” Hayden licks his fingers, brows raised. “You wanna, like, talk through this, or are we just gonna sit in silence for the rest of the night?” 

Talking through this is probably the last thing Shane wants. But not talking is somehow worse, because the metaphorical, unwelcome elephant’s taken to sitting on him, slowly crushing Shane under its oppressive weight the longer he stares at the TV and its blinking, horrible banner reminding him of why Hayden’s even here to begin with. So, Shane clears his throat, one hand reaching up to toy with the strings of his hoodie. 

“Um. No, not really. I just. I don’t really know what to say.” 

“Maybe start with why you think you’re gay…?” Hayden tears off another bite of pizza, humming. “Honestly kind of confused how you don’t know.” 

And, god, so is Shane. He shrugs, twirling the string of his hoodie as if it’ll give him answers, and swallows around the lump in his throat. “I dunno. I, uh. I mean. I just. I guess I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I’d find a girl that makes me feel—” He cuts himself off. Makes me feel like Ilya does, he doesn’t say. He shrugs again, helpless, the words burning where they sit trapped inside his throat. 

“Shit.” There’s something almost distressed in Hayden’s voice, like when he’s misplaced one of the girls’ toys and is rummaging for it in the minutes before disaster. There’s a rustle, and then Hayden’s scooching close enough to knock their shoulders together. “That sounds kind of awful, actually.” 

It is. It’s really awful. Shane’s hands curl into the loose fabric of his sweats, knuckles pressing down into his thighs hard enough to hurt. He thinks about Rose, how she coyly asked him out to dinner, calling it a date with a question mark. Thinks about the way he thought too hard about how he smiled when he said yes. Was this the smile of someone besotted? Was this the right face to make when she rocked up onto her toes and kissed his cheek? Shane didn’t know. Still doesn’t. He’s stuck here wearing a plastic mask of his own making and he fucking hates it. 

“Well. You can’t keep dating Rose. That’s…you deserve better than, like, torturing yourself.” 

Shane hunches his shoulders. Hayden’s probably right, but something in him still manages to ache at the notion. Despite everything, he likes Rose. She’s nice, and funny, and he loves talking to her. Could talk to her for hours, probably, about anything and everything. He’s loathe to lose that, though he probably deserves to. 

“I’ll. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” 

“Good.” Hayden knocks their shoulders together again. “You know I love you, man, right?” 

His eyes burn, and Shane ducks his head, blinking. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and wobbly. He knocks Hayden back, a fragile smile finding its way to his lips. And it’s different, sitting here being seen with more totality than he’s ever been seen by anyone but Ilya Rozanov, but it’s a good different, because his best friend sees him, the real him, and is still sitting right here. 

“Good. Now, let me show you some quality, trashy TV Jackie’s been subjecting me to.” Hayden lurches to the side, snagging the remote from the side table, and turns the channel. ESPN vanishes, taking its horrible news banner with it, replaced instead with some flashy, too-loud reality TV show he knows Jackie and Hayden are obsessed with. Shane’s shoulders drop. He sinks back into the couch. Beside him, Hayden begins to explain the intricacies of the drama unfolding on the screen—who betrayed who and how, who’s in love with who, who’s fucked who, and everything in between. Shane has absolutely zero interest in anything that is happening onscreen, but listening to Hayden rant and rave is funny and easy, and Shane listens and drinks his ginger ale and even dares to eat a slice of pizza.

His gaze drifts to his phone, still face down on the couch. Shane bites his lip. Hesitates. Flips it over. There’s no new notifications on his screen. For some reason, he’s disappointed. 

He taps his way to his messages. Rose sits at the top, her unread message screaming its existence with a blue dot. Below is his mom, and Hayden, the team group chat that he’s got muted because the notifications get too overwhelming…

Shane has to scroll to see Lily’s messages. His throat goes tight, thumb hovering over the contact name. 

He locks his phone and drops it back down onto the couch. 

BREAKING: ILYA ROSANOV TRADED TO OTTAWA CENTAURS

Boston Raiders’ management announces today that they have traded their star center, Ilya Rosanov, for Ottawa Centaurs’ rookie defenseman Miles Holmes. 

“We’re looking for a change,” Jonathan Berkely, CEO of the Boston Raiders, told ESPN. “Rozanov’s gotten us back on the map, but we’re ready to look to the future.” 

This trade comes right on the heels of the sex scandal that broke the internet between Rozanov and an anonymous man. When asked, Raiders’ management declined to confirm if the trade is related. 

“We’re excited to welcome Rozanov to our roster,” Clyde Young, Ottawa Centaurs’ general manager says. “It’s not everyday you’re gifted a generational talent.” Centaurs’ management refused to comment on the sex scandal. “We are committed to maintaining the privacy of our players, new and old alike.” 

Rozanov is set to start on the Centaurs’ first line in January after the break for All Stars. 

“Shane!” Rose throws her arms around him, squeezing him in a hug. Shane loops an arm around her waist, half-squeezing her back. There’s a tangle of knots in his chest that tighten when he gets a whiff of her sweet scented perfume—the same perfume he shyly told her smells nice the last time he saw her. (Shane doesn’t often care for perfume or cologne. Most of the time, the stuff makes his head hurt. But Rose always smells nice and fresh, and this perfume is something entirely her.) 

She lets him go, but not without a light peck on the cheek. “I checked the menu before suggesting this place,” she tells him, sliding back into her chair. “There should be plenty for you to pick from with your performance diet.” 

Sure enough, a glance at the menu shows plenty of health-conscious options that fit right inside his strict diet regiment. Shane’s heart squeezes a little in his chest, guilt following with the deft twist of a dagger. He ducks his head and tries to ignore the throbbing ache gripping him in a vice. 

“Gosh, I can’t believe the news—did you see the stuff about Ilya Rozanov?” 

Shane goes stiff, stomach twisting. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, I did. Really…really sucks. Getting outed like that, I mean.” Sweat prickles at the back of his neck. He shifts in place. Tries to keep his expression neutral. Normal. 

(What’s normal? Is his plastic mask fixed in place correctly? Can she see through him?)

Rose frowns, brow pinching. “Do you ever talk to him much at all? Maybe that’s a dumb question.” 

The mask he wears cracks. Shane twitches, all too aware of his phone where it sits in his pocket. “Um. No. Not. Not really.” He cringes at the menu in front of him, face going hot in the way it does when he blushes, and he can feel the way Rose’s gaze slices right through him, down to the bone. 

“Maybe you should reach out,” she says carefully. “I’m sure it’s not easy, being the first gay hockey player. Or. Well. First out gay player, anyway.” 

“He’s not gay. Not all the way, anyway. He likes both.” 

The words spring free all on their own, their implication echoing in the ensuing silence that follows. Shane goes impossibly stiffer, gaze shooting up to catch sight of Rose’s raised brows and pursed lips, and his heart drops down into his gut. “I—I mean, I. I think. Probably.” Panic crawls across his skin like a thousand tiny, biting ants, bringing with it some wild, hysterical desire to crawl beneath the table and curl up into a tight little ball. To hide away from Rose’s too-knowing stare currently eviscerating him over the basket of dinner rolls the waitress dropped off not long after they sat down. He forcibly latches his hands onto the table’s edge, knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself fixed to his seat, mind churning to grasp for some tangible excuse, some reason he could possibly know that aside from the glaringly obvious—

“Hey, guys, are we ready to order?” A smiling waitress materializes at their table, notepad out and ready. Shane blanches, gaze flicking to the menu. Oh. Shit. He hasn’t even looked—not beyond the first cursory glance. Rose leans forward, a polite smile painting across her glossy lips. 

“Sorry, could you give us a minute?” she asks. “We got a little distracted.” 

The waitress tucks away her little notepad with a matching smile. “Of course! Sorry! I’ll swing on back.” She ducks to the next table over, and Shane lets out a breath. 

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Sorry.” 

Rose hums. She’s got her elbows on the table, chin in her hands as she eyes Shane. “I think I’m gonna get the Chicken curry. What about you?” 

He looks at the menu. It’s not a huge menu, but all of a sudden, the choices crowd the flimsy, glossy cardstock, making his head spin. Letters and pictures blur together, and Shane bites his lip, blinking. It takes a minute, but he manages to focus enough to read through some descriptions. There’s a grilled chicken salad that seems fine enough. A safe, easy choice. “The chicken salad, probably,” he says, scooting the menu aside. It looks good, the chicken salad. Reasonable. He pretends to be excited about it, taking care to smile at the waitress when he puts in the order. 

“So…” Rose toys with the straw of her glass, ice clinking as she swirls it slowly. “Do you know any other gay players? Or not straight, at least? I mean. Obviously there’s none out, but, there’s probably more, right?” 

An alarm blares in his head. Shane fidgets in his seat, gaze flicking around the restaurant. It’s slow—they’re out for an early lunch, because Rose wants time to actually hangout with him today, and she has an evening shoot for the project she’s working on. So there’s not many patrons around. The only other people remotely near them are several tables over. 

Still. Shane’s skin prickles as if they’re looking right at him, as if they can see the thought glowing inside his head like a neon sign in the night: me. I’m the only gay player I know. 

He swallows, throat tight. Fiddles with the edge of the napkin still rolled around his silverware. “No. I mean, no one. No one talks about it. So I guess I wouldn’t really know.” Shane’s mind supplies the echo of the conversation his teammates had just yesterday about Ilya, all shock and disgust in equal measures. He doesn’t have to guess how they’d react if they knew he liked sucking dick, too. 

The thought sits heavy in the center of his chest. 

“Hmm.” Rose makes a face. There’s something in her expression, something Shane can’t quite grasp. “That’s sad. I mean, I get it, I think—some of the stuff I’ve seen people saying about Ilya Rozanov have been just. Awful. Makes sense not many players would wanna come out if that’s the sort of reaction it gets.” 

It is awful. Shane’s all too familiar—he tripped down into the boiling cesspool of hate after Hayden left, staying up late into the night scrolling and scrolling and scrolling until he couldn’t stomach reading any more. 

“Definitely different than acting,” Rose says. “Half my costars and most of my work friends are all gay. I mean, you’ve met Miles.” 

Oh. Yeah, he has. He’s accompanied Rose to more than one night out. A nice enough guy. Always seems way more invested in Shane’s games than he expects him to be. But he’s good friends with Rose, Shane knows. They text all the time, and hang out frequently. Shane bites his lip, gaze darting across the restaurant again. 

The couple several tables over are getting up to leave. Their side of the restaurant is otherwise empty. 

He looks at Rose. She’s smiling at him, gaze warm in the kind of way that reminds Shane of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s morning, and the guilt throbs through him, sharp and sudden. She’s pretty, Rose. Pretty in a way Shane wishes so damn badly he could fall for. 

She deserves someone who can. 

“Actually, I lied,” he says, voice low. “I…I do know someone that’s…gay.” 

“Oh?” 

Shane’s gaze dips back to the table. He’s hunched forward, shoulders curling inward, heart thundering wildly in his chest. There’s a divot in the table. It’s the lone imperfection on the otherwise smooth surface, and Shane stares at it as if it’s got the secrets of the universe. He sucks in a breath. Lets it out. 

“Yeah. Uh. Me. I’m…I’m gay.” 

Fuck. He risks a glance at Rose because he has to, he has to know. 

She’s looking right back at him, lips painted in a sad, knowing smile. “Thank you for telling me,” she murmurs. For some reason, Shane’s eyes burn, vision smearing into a blur of colors, and he has to blink to clear it. Words fail him, then, and all he can do is nod. And then Rose slides her hand across the table, palm up—an offering. Shane takes it, tension unspooling from him the second she squeezes his fingers. 

“I’m serious. It makes me really, really happy that you trust me enough to tell me. And I’m not—I’m not mad, okay? Not at all.” 

Some part of Shane wonders if she should be. He led her on, in a way, after all. Pretended to be something he’s not if only because he so desperately wants—wanted?—to fit into the mold cast for him by the industry surrounding him, if only because it’s easier. But he can’t. No matter how hard he tries to squeeze and bend and force himself to fit, it doesn’t work. He’s a puzzle piece being shoved into the wrong spot, and it hurts. 

Maybe it’s time to stop trying. Maybe he should let himself slot into the space he belongs in, for once. 

Starting now. Here. 

The smile he wills is wobbly. He clings to Rose like a lifeline, the gentle squeeze of his hand a balm soothing his jagged edges. Still, he can’t help the apology that tumbles free from his lips. “Sorry.” Sorry I couldn’t be what you needed. Sorry I can’t love you the way you deserve. But Rose shakes her head, squeezing his hand impossibly tighter. 

“No, don’t be. This isn’t your fault. Okay?” 

There’s a lump stuck in his throat. Shane nods, even though it feels wrong to. (How is it not his fault? He’s the one who didn’t try hard enough. He’s the one who led her on. He’s the one who lied.) But Rose is still smiling, still holding his hand. 

“I’m serious. Okay? Shane Hollander, you are one of the sweetest, funniest guys I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I have immensely enjoyed getting to know you. And if you think for one single second that you’re getting rid of me, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Shane’s heart twists in his chest, and he ducks his head as if he can hide the tears leaking from his eyes. He has to hastily wipe them away when the waitress materializes with their food, trying desperately to plaster his usual, media-safe smile onto his face. He’s not sure if it works. 

The salad is good. Maybe not as good as the curry Rose has—Shane eyes it from across the table, mouth watering a little. He stuffs a bite of salad into his mouth, the aftertaste of regret lingering on his tongue when he swallows. Next time he’ll do curry, he thinks. Next time. 

Conversation drifts to safer topics while they eat. Rose tells Shane about the project she’s working right now—another action thriller movie with exceptionally corny dialogue, according to her. “Seriously, Shane, just imagine for a second having to bat your eyelashes and say, ‘but the dog isn’t there anymore’. And then have to wait for the guy to look at the camera and say his stupid line and pretend it’s the smartest thing you’ve ever heard in your life.” She rolls her eyes, and Shane laughs, and it’s. It’s easy. Why is this so easy? Shane can’t help but wonder. The small handful of relationships he’s been in ended in little fanfare, usually a mostly mutual break-up where they didn’t talk after, ever. So this—Rose insisting on staying, on being his friend—this is new territory. And, usually new things freak him out, especially when he doesn’t have a chance to think it through, but Shane likes Rose. So much. She’s funny and smart, and he likes just sitting here and talking to her. 

It’s only when the dishes are cleared and Rose excuses herself to the bathroom that Shane realizes how light he feels. 

He dares to flip over his phone. Several notifs fill the screen—texts from his mom and his agent in their shared chat about some sponsorship they’re working on for him, texts from Hayden, mostly about his kids. Shane swipes through his messages, fires off some answers. And then he lingers, thumb sliding down to scroll down, down, down until he finds Lily’s contact.

Shane bites his lip. He clicks on it.

It’s been a little over a month since they’ve texted, the last text being Shane texting a short, Here. Ilya hadn’t even responded—no, he’d just opened the front door and let Shane inside. 

Something twists sharply in his chest. Shane chews on his lip, thumbs hovering over the keypad. He shouldn’t. Ilya wouldn’t want to hear from him. Not after Shane ran away like he did, tail tucked between his legs and heart bleeding out of his chest. No, he should just. Put the phone down. 

He doesn’t put the phone down. 

Lily (November 03) 

📌open maps

Me (November 03)

Here. 

Me (1:04PM)

Saw the news. Hope you’re okay. 

“Whew. I need to walk off this lunch. Wanna head over to the park?” 

Shane startles, dropping his phone as if it’s burned him. It bounces off the table and clatters onto the floor, and he jerkily fumbles to pick it up, face blazing hot. “Sorry. Um. Yeah, sure, that’s—that sounds fine.” 

Rose’s brows raise, lips pressing into a line and gaze flickering from Shane to his thankfully undamaged phone. “Everything okay?” 

He bobbles his head. “Yeah, yep. I just didn’t hear you come back.” 

She gives Shane a look, but doesn’t press. No, instead, she swipes the check (“Nope, I’m paying for our last date!) and grabs onto his arm as they leave, leaning into him with familiarity as she slips right back into their earlier conversation. 

They walk around the park for hours. Shane’s aware of people taking pictures the way he’s always aware—the back of his neck prickles, and he catches sight of a phone held just so. And, usually, he’d be standing stiffer, too aware of whatever his face is doing, stomach all twisted up as he wonders if he’s looking at Rose the right way, holding her hand the right way. But none of that matters, anymore, and for once, he manages to forget for a little while. 

He doesn’t get home until after 5. 

His entire day is shot, and Shane’s so dizzy with relief, it smothers the itchy irritation that’d usually gouge at his skin. No, instead it leaves him drained and tired enough to slump against his door when it thumps shut behind him, head tipping back and eyes closing. He’s not sure how long he stands there. Long enough for the room to be darker when he finally pushes upright and stoops to untie his shoes. 

Keys go on their hook, shoes go onto the little shoe rack. Shane pads through the apartment to the kitchen, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he reaches for the fridge. And, wow, his phone’s cluttered with notifications. More than usual. 

An ESPN alert catches his attention. His brow knits. Body stills. He reads it once. Twice. Three times over, the words not making sense in his head because surely, he’s mis-reading.

Except, they don’t change. No, they stay stubbornly the same, leaving Shane breathless and spinning out into the ether of space, everything he’sd ever known unravelling all at once. 

BREAKING NEWS: ILYA ROSANOV TRADED TO OTTAWA CENTAURS.

Chapter End Notes

Uh, surprise :) I'm sure y'all weren't quite expecting us to have Shane's POV quite like this,,, >:) Alas. These two have insisted on sharing the story in equal parts, so here we are. We'll get to that phone call eventually... ;)

Enjoy!

Chapter 3: Hope Grows Like Weeds in the Sidewalk

Chapter Notes

WARNING: This chapter contains depictions of homophobic slurs. (Ilya refering to himself). Readers, please be advised.

“Boston traded you?! What the hell, why would they trade you mid-season? You’re their star center, for fuck’s sake.” 

Ilya grips his phone to his ear, throat tight. He’s standing in the kitchen, staring at the mountain of half-packed boxes surrounding him and hating himself for the bought of weakness that’s brought him to accept the call to begin with because he’s hearing Shane’s voice for the first time in weeks and it feels as if he’s been stabbed right in the gut. His eyes squeeze shut. He has no idea why Shane’s calling him. Why does he care that Ilya’s been traded? He has no reason to. 

“Yes, well. They did not seem very impressed with this fact when they decided to get rid of me.” 

“How? You literally got them a cup!” Shane says it as if Ilya isn’t horrifically, painfully aware of his own accomplishment, like it can smooth over the vile derision the owners and general managers looked at Ilya with mere hours ago. A scoff tears from him, then, jagged around the edges. 

“Does not matter. They do not want a player with gay sex scandal on their roster.” It doesn’t matter how many trophies Ilya’s won. It wouldn’t matter if he had three more cups under his belt, either. He knows this like he knows the hitch in Shane’s breath across the line. No, the Boston Raiders want nothing to do with Ilya because Ilya is a cocksucking fag, and that’s not the image they want for their brand. 

“That’s. They—they can’t do that. I mean, you have a contract, your agent could have—” 

“Ah,” Ilya interrupts, “I do not have an agent anymore. He dropped me when the news dropped.” Ilya leans back against the counter, the edge digging into his back hard enough to give an edge of hurt. He stares at the tile backsplash of his kitchen, backsplash Shane had grilled him about while sitting at one of the bar stools because he wanted to know if it was actual tile or something else. Ilya hadn’t known, at the time. Still doesn’t. Maybe he could contact the builder and ask, but what good would that do? He’s not staying here past the end of the week. And besides, Shane probably doesn’t care to know anymore. 

There’s a pause. One long enough, Ilya almost fears Shane’s gone and hung up on him. 

“Your agent dropped you?” Shane’s voice waivers in a way that’s got an arrow lodging deep in Ilya’s chest. His jaw works. He grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white. 

“Yes. He is Russian.” A choice Ilya regrets now. But he’d needed someone he could understand when he’d first started, because English was still too new-fangled and unwieldy for him to even hope to navigate his way through the early years of the NHL and sponsorships otherwise. 

In the other room, Marlow’s voice cuts above the low murmur of the TV, punctuated by Svetlana’s sharp tone. Ilya’s throat works. He’s suddenly so fucking tired. A sigh drags itself out of his throat, and he tips his head back, staring up at the shadows criss-crossing his ceiling. “Why are you calling me, Hollander?” he asks, the question coming dull and flat and a little mean. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you. I just. I just needed to, I guess.”  

Needed to? What for? Ilya frowns. He is naught but a casualty in Shane’s wake, left behind with this bleeding heart while Shane fled to greener pastures caressed by sunlight. He means to tell him as much. What he says instead is, “Is no bother. I am just confused why you care.” 

And then Shane draws the bow and hits him square in the chest again. 

“Of course I care. Fuck, Ilya, I’ve always cared.” 

Fuck. Ilya bows forward under the weight of those words, mind a maelstrom of confliction. Shane worries about him, but probably not for him. But he called him Ilya and not Rozanov. But he called him Ilya right before running away and dating Rose, so what does that matter? 

“Your secret is still safe. I have not told anyone.” 

There’s a beat. “I—okay. I know. I trust you, Ilya but that’s not. That’s not really what I—why I’m calling. I mean. Fuck, I probably should have called sooner, maybe, but I needed to talk to Rose and—and figure that out, first, but, Ilya, you got outed. In like, the worst way possible. And I know how I would be feeling if that happened, so I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

A dozen arrows riddle Ilya’s entire torso. He blinks, the shadows of his kitchen blearing into a smudge of ink, eyes burning. Some wild part of Ilya leans harder into the edge of the counter, just to feel the ache and confirm this is real and happening. It radiates up his spine, and still, Ilya’s here in the kitchen, phone clutched in his hand and Shane’s breath echoing in his ear. 

He swallows, throat impossibly tight. It takes a minute to force words loose. “I am okay. You do not need to worry about me.” 

“I can’t help it,” Shane says. “I worry. I’m always worried. Especially—especially about people I care about. So.” 

It sounds like a confession. Like they’re in one of those corny romcoms Svetlana loves to make him watch. (Ilya likes watching them too, though he’ll never admit as much. Men don’t watch romcoms. This is one of the many facts his father drilled into his head as a boy, one Ilya’s certain is not a fact at all.) The notion is absurd in the sort of way that feels like someone trying to pry open his ribcage and rip his heart out. Because obviously Shane Hollander is not confessing anything to him, he can’t be. They can’t be. But Ilya’s breath still hitches all the same, heart desperately fluttering despite his best efforts to tamp it down. 

“Look. I’m sorry if this is a lot, but it’s true. I…I’m probably not gonna stop worrying either, so don’t ask me to.” 

What is happening, right now? Ilya pushes away from the counter, paces the two steps between stacks of boxes, his tattered heart fluttering harder. Hope blooms between the cracks of his ribs like the stubborn weed it is, and Ilya reaches up to toy with the cross around his neck. “Okay. If you say so.” 

“Okay.” 

There’s a pause. Ilya stares out the windows of the kitchen. It’s dark, now, the sun having disappeared and leaving the world an endless inky abyss beyond the low lights of Ilya’s house. If he stares hard enough, he can make out the general shapes of trees and bushes, but otherwise it’s as if the world outside has vanished, and all that’s left is the quiet skeleton of his kitchen and Shane breathing on the other end of the line. 

“When do you need to be in Ottawa?” 

Somehow, the question catches Ilya by surprise. He blinks, stare jumping to the scattered mountains of boxes surrounding him. “Next week. They want me playing against Toronto.” 

“Okay. Do you have somewhere to live yet? I can send you some real estate listings—I grew up there, so I know the area pretty well. If, uh, if that’s okay.”

And, oh. “No. I was probably just going to stay in hotel for awhile.” In actuality, Ilya hasn’t really put much thought to where he’s staying. Which, probably is bad, because he does actually need to know this, but there’s already so much. He’s not even sure he can get over the border—where he’s going to stay is a secondary concern. He also doesn’t have it in him to say no to Shane, not now. “A house would be preferable,” he says. 

“What’s a price range you’re comfortable with? I’m assuming you want to be close to the stadium—there’s not going to be a whole lot of the super modern aesthetic you’ve got there in Boston, but I can still probably get you stuff in a similar style. I won’t be able to walk any properties for you—we’re leaving tomorrow on a roadie—but I can. I can send Farrah? If you want? My agent, I mean. She’s great and would totally be down to help, and besides, it might be nice for you to have her number anyway, if you want—she can hook you up with other agents if you don’t want to work with her specifically.” 

It’s probably the most words Ilya has ever heard Shane say to him in one night. His head spins a little, mind working overtime to digest the nervous rambling spilling from the phone clutched to his ear. “You…want me to share your agent?” 

“Um. I mean. If you want to, I guess? I’m mostly just trying to help you get contacts, and the only agent I know is Farrah.” There’s a beat. Then, “You didn’t answer my questions.” 

A laugh startles out of Ilya. The first time he’s laughed in days, he thinks, and of course it’s because of Shane. “Yes, close to the stadium is perfect. And budget is whatever.” 

“That is extremely unhelpful. Budget can’t be whatever, Ilya. Give me a number.” 

And, probably, Shane is right. But thinking about numbers is hard, especially when faced with hearing Shane use his name again and again. So Ilya shrugs despite the fact that Shane cannot see him, and says, “I do not know. Whatever is reasonable. You are mister real estate, you know numbers better than me.” 

He’s treated to a long-suffering sigh, a sound he’s not heard in far too long. Ilya shouldn’t be as delighted by it as he is. He tamps back the thrill rising inside him, tries to remind himself that Shane isn’t his anymore. 

“Fine. I’ll send you some links. Do you…want Farrah’s number?” 

Ilya should say no. Should tell Shane he’s exploring his options, that Svetlana is effectively his agent right now because she loves him enough to be. He’s already done too much as it is, entertaining this entire phone call—those weeds of hope are growing at a rapid rate, and he fears how much it’ll hurt when he’s got to rip them out. 

“Yes. Send me the number.” 

When he inevitably drifts back into the living room, he’s met with three pairs of eyes regarding him with blatant curiosity. Ilya drops down onto the couch, phone dangling from his fingers, and stares at the remains of the pizza on the coffee table. 

“So…who was that?” Marlow asks. Conners scoffs. Nudges him in the side with his foot. 

“Dude, seriously?” 

“What?” Marlow gestures with his mostly empty beer. “He’s been in the kitchen for, like, an hour!” 

A quick glance at his phone shows it has indeed been nearly an hour. A smile flickers at Ilya’s lips, and he scratches at his cheek. “Ah, sorry. It was…Jane.” 

The admission seems to suck the air right out of the room. Because the thing is, no one in this room knows the truth of Jane, but they know an echo of that truth. Or. No, maybe that’s not entirely the truth, because Svetlana stares right at him and Ilya can feel that stare pierce right through the curtains right to the tattered, arrow-ridden heart of his. He frowns. Looks at the TV instead. They’ve got ESPN on, though it’s not a hockey game on the screen. 

“So, what did she want, exactly?” 

“Or…he?” Connors winces when Ilya’s gaze jerks to him. “Sorry, just—I mean, I guess you wouldn’t really be dating a woman.” 

Oh. Ilya wrinkles his nose. “I could be. I am not full gay, only half.” He pauses, grasping for the English word. “Bisexual, I think, is what you say.” He shrugs and fiddles with his phone, thumbing at the corner of his case. “But, ah. Jane saw the trade news. Wanted to see if I was okay.” 

He pointedly does not confirm or deny Jane’s pronouns. If Connors and Marlow notice, they don’t say. Instead, they hmm and ahh to themselves, bobbing their heads like a pair of idiots that Ilya’s so glad are on his side. 

“So you’re an equal opportunity man-whore,” Marlow says, grinning. “Nice.” 

For the second time that night, Ilya laughs. 

🚬

Jane (12:26AM) 

www.zillow.com/homedetails/Ottawa-525piccolost 

www.zillow.com/homedetails/Ottawa-722JohnsonAve 

www.zillow.com/homedetails/Ottawa-821LakeviewDr

www.zillow.com/homedetails/Ottawa-743JonhnsonAve 

These are probably the best ones I’ve seen on the market right now. Let me know if there’s anything you like or don’t like and I can comb through again.

Me (6:23AM)

jesus hollander

Did you start looking at these right after we hung up???

Jane (6:24AM) 

Yeah. Sorry. I should have waited to send those.

Me (6:25AM) 

No no its okay

I was just surprised

Thank you

Jane (6:45AM) 

♥️

🚬

Ilya sits at the kitchen counter, Svetlana perched on the stool next to him, when he gets the call from Shane’s agent. Ilya tried to insist he could take the call alone, but Svetlana simply raised her brows and pinned him with the sort of look she likes to throw at him when he’s spouting nonsense. A look he’s forced to endure often. She then tells him, “I am your acting manager, remember? I am the one who knows the status of all your paperwork. I will be on that call.” And so she’s here, chin resting on a hand and nails rapping against the granite countertop. 

Farah Jalali is a punctual woman who calls exactly when she says she will—at exactly 10:00AM on the dot. Ilya can tell the minute he accepts the call and hears her say, “Hello, Ilya Rozanov? This is Farah Jalali,” why Shane seems to like her so much. Her voice carries this no-nonsense authority, like she speaks and expects to be heard and respected. Ilya likes that. She’s also quick to the point, too, wasting no time on pleasantries or platitudes. 

“Shane tells me you’re shopping for representation. Can you tell me what you’re looking for?” 

“Yes. I ah, I need someone…” Ilya pauses. Frowns. What is he looking for in an agent? His previous agent was someone he spoke to sparingly who was fluent in Russian, who did what needed without Ilya needing to do much more than show up wherever prompted. He looks at Svetlana, sheepish when she rolls her eyes and snatches the phone from his hand. 

“Hello. This is Svetlana Vetrova. Ilyusha is a high profile client for sports, and is looking for someone who is capable of handling the level of scrutiny he receives. A, how you say, queer-friendly agent who can help him navigate his newly out status and his transition across the border to Canada is ideal. He does not have much brand deals, I think, and would probably be open to more within reason.” 

“I see. Well, I can forward you the information for a couple of agents that might be a good fit. Though, I am also open to taking new clients as well, if you are interested in pursuing a working relationship with me. As you know, I am very familiar with the level of scrutiny you’re under, given other my current client.” 

Relief and something buzzy and warm swells inside him. “Yes. I would be very interested.” 

Svetlana elbows him. Shoots another raised-brow look. Ilya can only shrug. Sure, settling for the first agent to talk to him is probably not smart, but Ilya doesn’t want to shop around. And, besides, some twisted part of him can’t help but seek the strange intimacy of sharing an agent with Shane, even if it’ll end up hurting later. 

“Alright. I will draw up a basic contract. Have your friend Svetlana look it over. If the terms are to your liking, we can go ahead and set up another conference call as soon as possible. Since I’m aware of your situation, I can work on drafting a statement for you in regards to the recent scandal, if you’d like. It would be late, of course, but given everything that’s happened, I would still recommend putting something out.” 

Quick and efficient. Ilya’s already nodding along, because a statement is probably a good idea. Maybe. He’s not really had an idea of what to say beyond, yes, I like fucking men, please stop tweeting at me. Ilya’s never been known for being polished when it comes to his public image, but even he knows that’d be a bad idea. So he’s simply said nothing at all. 

“Yes, please. Thank you.” 

Farah disconnects after, and immediately sends a contract. It’s a very basic contract, just as she said it’d be, and Svetlana pushed the open laptop towards him with a sniff. “This is acceptable,” she quips, sliding back into Russian like a well-worn glove. “I will not kill you for signing it.” She slides off the stool, then, winding around the taped and sloppily labelled boxes to the fridge. “Though I am not sure why you insist on signing with Shane Hollander’s agent.” 

Ilya goes stiff. “What?” 

Svetlana pulls two cokes out of the fridge, knocking the door shut with her elbow. She eyes him as she picks her way back to the stool, setting a coke down in front of him. “I am not an idiot, Ilyusha. There is no one else in hockey as high profile as you. Unless her other client works in a different sport, which I doubt, given how little you asked this woman, there is only one other person her singular client could be.” 

“What about Scott Hunter? He is high profile.” 

The look Svetlana skewers Ilya with is razor sharp. He grabs the coke, busies himself with cracking the tab and taking a swig and doing anything at all but confirming his best friend’s accusations. Which, probably does exactly that. Whatever. He’s not going to try and put words to this messy knot of feeling tangling in his chest, not when she’ll tell him exactly what he already knows: that going down this road is gonna skewer him alive. 

He signs the contract digitally and fires it off. Farrah responds immediately with a draft of a statement for his socials. 

Earlier this week, intimate pictures were released of myself and another man in a compromising situation. I acknowledge the public nature of these photos, as well as the indecency surrounding them. I take full responsibility for my actions in that regard, the same as I would if I were photographed this way with a woman. I do not acknowledge or accept the homophobic statements about myself from fans and colleagues alike. My sexuality has never affected my performance on the ice, and my accolades speak for themselves. 

The man in the photos is not a long term partner[Alternative: The man in the photos is my partner], and I ask everyone to respect his privacy at this time. I look forward to spending the rest of the season getting acquainted with my new team in Ottawa, and plan on playing great hockey in the seasons to come. 

It’s not a bad statement, is the thing. Actually, it’s a pretty damn good one. Very direct and to the point, and Ilya likes that, even if it very clearly will be something he didn’t write. But there’s still something…missing. 

He chews his lip. 

From: ilyarozanov81@gmail.com 

To: fjalali@outlook.com 

Subject: statement

Hi. The statement is very nice. Thank you for writing it. I would like to actually come out as bisexual, if that is okay. Not sure how to edit what you have already written. 

Ilya Rozanov

From: fjalali@outlook.com 

To: ilyarozanov81@gmail.com 

Subject: Re: statement

Hello Ilya; 

Yes, that is more than okay. This is your personal life, what you choose to share or keep private is up to you. I am just here to ensure whatever you want to communicate is communicated as effectively as possible. Let me tweak the statement some, and resend it. Please do not hesitate to let me know if you need any changes. 

Thanks, 

Farah Jalali 

(438) 612-8124

“You are sure about this?” Svetlana hooks her chin on his shoulder, brow knit as she stares at the laptop screen. Ilya shrugs, carelessly jostling her. 

“Why not? It is already known. Just perhaps not the way I wish—most people assume I am simply gay.” He clicks away from his email, pulling up zillow instead. “Maybe they always will. But it is not who I am.” 

The thing is, Ilya’s spent so long using his public persona as a shield. All he was to anyone who glanced his way was a womanizer, a party animal…a generational talent who was—is—cocky and shameless and not afraid to bite. He needed to be these things, needed to keep anyone from looking too close, lest they found his soft and vulnerable underbelly. 

He’s still got that vulnerable underbelly, but now, parts of him he’s hidden away for so long have been dragged out into the light. It feels…wrong, somehow, to have his colors be mistaken for something else. He is queer, yes. Very. But gay? No. No, he is very much into women. Likes fucking them, eating them out, fingering them. Likes their curves, their softness. Likes it when they’re not so soft, too. He also just. Likes doing those things with men, too. And yes, it’s different in the way that eating an apple is different than eating an orange. But the pleasure is the same. 

Svetlana hums, sliding away. “Well. I am glad to see you own who you are, Ilyusha. Now, give me the laptop. I need to check on your documents.” She grabs it, sliding it closer to herself without waiting for permission, and Ilya can only huff a laugh. His phone buzzes, then, and Ilya glances down at the screen, heart doing a strange swoop when he sees Jane’s contact emblazoned there. 

Jane (10:52AM) 

Hey. How are you? Did you get a chance to look at the houses I sent you?

Let me know if you want different options. I have a couple more bookmarked.

His heart does a full acrobatics flip, then, and Ilya can’t help the smile that curves onto his lips. He tries to  tamp it down, tries to remind himself that Shane’s not his. Can’t be his. Shane is taken by Rose Landry—sure, he says he cares about Ilya, and maybe that’s true, but there’s no world where Shane cares the way Ilya wants him to. And god, does he want. Ilya wants it so much it hurts. So he tries his damndest to tear this pathetic flower garden of hope out by the roots and fires off a response. 

Me (10:53AM) 

yes. they are all very good. I think I want the last one

will probably ask farah about it when she finishes statement

Jane (10:54AM)

Statement? What statement? About the trade?

Me (10:55AM)

about scandal. and trade a little but mostly scandal

Jane (10:56AM)

Oh. That’s good. I take it you’ve asked her to be your agent then?

“Who are you texting?” 

Ilya blinks. Svetlana eyes him over the edge of the laptop, brow arched, pinning him with an all too knowing look. He shrugs, nonchalant, and says, “Jane. She sent me some house listings earlier—she is very into real estate and knows the area.” 

Svetlana hums. “Is this the same ‘Jane’ that ghosted you a month ago?” 

And, Ilya doesn’t really know what to say to that. He stares at the corner of the counter, lips pressed into a line, shoulders going stiff—a damning thing, apparently, because Svetlana scoffs and snaps the laptop closed. 

“I am not an idiot, Ilyusha. I have known and loved you since we were five years old. I have seen nearly every iteration of you—you think I do not know how much you care for your Jane?” She leans forward, nails tapping at the counter. “Of course, I do not know what happened. You refuse to tell. But I know you were hurt, and I know you stopped texting him.” 

The pronoun spears Ilya like a javelin. He stares, wide-eyed, jaw working. And Svetlana stares right back, brows raised in a challenge. 

The thing is. The thing is, Ilya isn’t surprised she knows. Can’t be. Not when she’s one of the smartest people he’s ever met. Not when she’s been with him through the worst life’s had to offer. Svetlana knows Ilya in ways most people never will, has known him, all the colors of him, since he first learned what it means to taste the lips of another boy while young and stupid and riding the thrilling danger of discovery. That she’d see right through him now is the least surprising thing of all. It doesn’t do much to keep his hackles from rising at being confronted with her knowing so directly, and Ilya has to swallow around the lump suddenly stuck in his throat. 

“It was…a misunderstanding,” he says, though it’s not quite the truth. It’s not untrue, either. Because there was an understanding—their arrangement was casual. Unattached. They met up and fucked when in the same city and that was all there was to it. Until Ilya went and decided to try and push for more without asking, and then Shane ran away. 

Ilya drops his phone onto the counter and slides off the stool. “It does not matter. We have moved past it, and he wants to help. So he is helping.” He maneuvers around the many boxes, going for the sparse cabinets to root around for something to eat. Svetlana’s gaze skewers him from behind, digging down to his bones. He ignores it in favor of pulling down a bag of chips. Is it too early for chips? Probably. But he's low on food—he’s already cancelled his food delivery service since he’ll be leaving soon. Days, if he’s able to lock down something quickly. 

“If you say so,” Svetlana allows. She doesn’t say anything else, though she looks like she wants to. Ilya doesn’t prod her to, either, not ready to hear whatever it is burning there in her thoughts. 

He is more than aware of the precarious cliff he’s teetering at the edge of. It’s the same cliff he’s been standing over for years, since Shane Hollander first walked up to him and told him he shouldn’t be smoking there against the wall of that building, cheeks rosy from the cold and freckles glowing against his skin. He doesn’t need Svetlana to point out the dangers associated with falling off of it. Ilya knows. God, does he know. 

He throws back a handful of chips and swipes his phone on the counter on his way to the safety of the living room. And if he checks his texts, well. That’s his own business. 

@ilyarozanov81:

Earlier this week, intimate pictures were released of myself and another man in a compromising situation. I acknowledge the public nature of these photos, as well as the indecency surrounding them. I take full responsibility for my actions in that regard, the same as I would if I were photographed this way with a woman. I do not acknowledge or accept the homophobic statements about myself from fans and colleagues alike. My sexuality has never affected my performance on the ice, and my accolades speak for themselves. I am bisexual. This has been true my whole life. And while this is not how I wished to share this part of myself, I am not ashamed of who I am. 

The man in the photos is not a long term partner, and I ask everyone to respect his privacy at this time. I look forward to spending the rest of the season getting acquainted with my new team in Ottawa, and plan on playing great hockey in the seasons to come.

Ilya stands in a bar surrounded by people and watches them as if inside of a fish bowl. Music bleeds out of tinny speakers, playing some song Ilya’s heard blasting on the radio everyday in the locker room. There’s laughter from one table over, people throwing their heads back in unbridled joy. In his hand, a beer sweats, dew dripping between his fingers. He hovers close to the bartop, his free hand shoved into a pocket, and watches his teammates—former teammates, officially—move through the space. A couple of guys lurk near a group of girls sitting perched on the cluster of stools at the end of the bar, posturing so overtly it’s frankly embarrassing. A bunch of guys have overtaken a booth across the way, shouting at each other over this ratty board game they’ve pulled out, beer and fries flowing freely. And on a normal night, Ilya would be flitting from group to group, up in the thick of it all, laughing, joking, drinking, until the time comes to find someone to take home so he doesn’t have to sit with the permeating quiet of his house. 

Tonight isn’t a normal night. 

“The rest of the guys send their well wishes,” Marlow says, but it comes out half-hearted. And untrue, judging by the look he shoots Conners. Ilya pretends, though, humming as he sips at his beer. 

“Yes, well. Tell them they better play the best they’ve ever played or I will beat all of their asses into the boards for embarrassing me.” Maybe it’s a deflection, chirping like this, but what else can he say? Ask why they aren’t here? Ilya can already hear the excuses. It’s a game night, it’s too last minute. Their wives don’t want them out late, or they’ve already been out drinking once this week already and are trying to be good for the season. A hilarious lie, because Ilya always manages to cajole the entire team out on a regular basis, games or no. They have a reputation, the Raiders, and for good fucking reason. They party. Often. For damn near anything. Win a game? They go out. One of the guys has a birthday? They’re going out. Someone wants to get laid? They. Go. Out. 

So getting a text from Marlow telling him to show up to this dive bar they often frequent for their more lowkey nights wasn’t a surprise. Of course Marlow would try and rally the guys for another party before Ilya leaves. 

It’s equally unsurprising to see only half his team here. It gouges at something inside Ilya all the same. 

(There’s something awkward and unwieldy hovering over his every interaction with the few that are here, too. None of his jokes land, and several of the guys won’t look him in the eye. But they’re here. 

Ilya isn’t sure it’s better or worse.) 

“Do you have somewhere to live yet, or are you still looking?” Conners asks. 

“I have found something, I think. Am just working on making an offer.” Svetlana thinks he’s lost his mind, shooting out a blind offer on a house he’s not set his own eyes on, and has loudly told him as much all day long since she discovered this was his plan of attack. He doesn’t know how to tell her he trusts Shane’s opinion on this, because Shane doesn’t do anything halfway ever. Ilya’s not sure it’s possible for him to. He panics, he worries, he thinks through every catastrophic scenario. He plans. And then he locks in and does. It’s one of the things Ilya likes the most about him, probably, and it means Ilya trusts him to deliver something Ilya will like. 

The issue, he’s finding, is that real estate moves slower than desired. Ilya will likely have to stay at a hotel at least for a few weeks while he settles paperwork and closes the deal on the house. But Farah tells him his ability to pay the down payment in full will likely make things move incrementally quicker than if he were to use a loan. 

Marlow claps him on the shoulder. “Well hey, at least you have a place lined up. I know guys who’ve gotten traded and, like, don’t find something until they’re two seasons deep.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Conners says. “There’s one guy I played with in Juniors I still talk to who gets bounced around every few years and he’s lived in hotels almost more than he’s lived in his own place.” 

Ilya wrinkles his nose at that. He knows, logically, that trades aren’t uncommon in hockey. He’s had plenty of decent and terrible teammates leave his team’s roster over the course of his tenure as a Raider. The one who’s been traded the most as far as he knows is Ryan Price, who Ilya liked well enough during his short stint with them. He’d felt bad seeing the guy go. 

It’s. Strange, standing here on the other side, now. Ilya can’t really say he’s ever put much thought to being traded before now, and maybe that’s his own hubris rearing up to bite him in the ass. The height of his career, the best player on the roster, and still, somehow it’s not enough. 

He downs a gulp of beer, gaze sweeping across the bar. 

A handful of TVs hang on the walls, most of them playing various sports. American football takes up most of them, garnering the rapt attention of several of the bar patrons. But the one directly across from them has a hockey game on. Montreal versus Colorado. Ilya’s surprised it’s on, honestly—Boston and Montreal’s rivalry goes further and deeper than him and Shane. Still. Someone turned it on, and Ilya gets to see Shane bent at center ice, facing off with the stony determination he carries, and Ilya’s bruised heart thuds harder against the inside of his ribs. 

“So…” Marlow looks at him with raised brows. “Have you talked more with Jane, or…?” 

Heat stings at Ilya’s face. He sips more beer. Shrugs. “A little.” 

“You think you guys are gonna see each other, again…?” 

Something twists in Ilya’s chest. Will he? He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to. 

He wants to so fucking much. 

“I don’t know,” he says, gaze flickering back to the TV. Shane’s pounding across the ice, flying out past Colorado’s defense as if they’re not even there. Pike slaps the puck towards him and Shane drills it into the net without even looking, and Ilya’s skin prickles with heat. He can’t bring himself to look away. Not when Shane grins, wide and gleeful, swooping around the ice like he belongs there. 

Ilya can feel Marlow’s stare burning a hole in the side of his head. He keeps his stare fixed right on the TV, right on Shane, watching the way he tears across the ice with that singe-minded determination of his, insides twisting up with this aching sort of longing he feels down to his very fucking bones. 

“I hope you do,” Marlow says, voice low and measured. “You deserve a happy ending, you know.” 

Does he? Ilya isn’t so sure. He hums, non-committal, clutching his glass tightly if only for something to hold onto, and wonders what a happy ending even looks like. Circling Shane Hollander in this fateful dance forever? What else even is there? 

A wild thought flickers through his head—him and Shane, holding hands out in the open and walking down the street together—and Ilya bites back the scoff. He shoves the thought away and downs the rest of his drink, turning away from the TV. 

There’s no use wishing for impossible things.

Chapter End Notes

Hello again! I am once again here with another update akdjdl. Hopefully it's an enjoyable one! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: A Dichotomous Key for Flowering Plants

Chapter Notes

Shane stares blearily across the locker room, half-empty coffee clutched in his hand. Around him, the guys start filtering in, voices a low murmur. Shane is aware of them the same way he’s aware of the lights being on—all of it buzzing in the background in tune to the thoughts on loop in his head. 

He’s sent Ilya some house options. What if those aren’t good enough? Or worse, what if they’re not available? He’s got backup options, of course, but is it too presumptuous to send those, too? Shit, maybe he should’ve just. Sent all of it at once. It felt like too much this morning, but, well. Now Shane’s wondering if maybe it wasn’t enough. He’s pretty sure he picked within Ilya’s style—he’s seen the guy’s current house, after all. But, maybe it’s not actually Ilya’s style? Or maybe it is but he wants to try something different? More lowkey? Granted, the houses Shane picked are all lowkey compared to the wildly modern architecture of Ilya’s current house, but still, he did lean into the more modern aesthetic as much as he could for what’s on the market right now in Ottawa. Which. Admittedly isn’t a lot. But, maybe he shouldn’t have? Or, maybe—

“Well, you look like shit this morning.” Hayden thumps down onto the bench next to Shane, startling him out of his spiral. He shoots Hayden a flat look. 

“Gee. Thanks.” 

Hayden shrugs, drops his bag at his feet. “Sorry.” He sips at his thermos, gaze bouncing around the locker room before landing back on Shane. Hayden leans closer and mutters, “So, uh. How did yesterday go?” 

Shane tenses. Oh. Right. Yesterday. Knots tangle in his stomach, and he ducks his head, hoping the heat of his face isn’t so visible. So much has happened, Shane almost forgot that Hayden…knows, now. About the gay thing, anyway. “Fine. Good, actually.” Somehow, it feels like the understatement of the century, because it had gone better than good with Rose—she told him she wants to be friends and hung out with him for hours after. And, Shane knows he’s not exactly great at navigating people, but. He’s almost certain you don’t hang out with someone for hours after agreeing to be just friends if you don’t mean it. 

(And, on top of it all, he talked to Ilya again for the first time since...since. And it was. It was good. Better than it had any right to be, and Shane’s insides flutter and twist whenever he thinks about it.) 

But that’s too much to say in the locker room while the team’s filing in, so he doesn’t, opting instead to shrug and stare at his own thermos. 

‘Course, it’s then that he focuses on the murmuring around him. 

“Dude, did you see the news? Boston traded Rozanov.” 

“Good fucking riddance. Now we’ll really be able to kick their asses and take the cup for sure.”

Shane’s gaze darts across the locker room. Drapeau stands near his cubby, Couillard next to him. Drapeau’s got an iced coffee in hand. Second Cup. Shane stares at the creamer swirling in contrast to the darker coffee, ears buzzing. 

“Honestly I kind of can’t believe it. Like, what are they thinking, mid-season like that?” 

“Uh, probably that they don’t want a cocksucker in the locker room? Duh.” 

He can’t stop the flinch. It burrows into his skin, the words, cutting like a knife. Some hysterical part of Shane thinks it shouldn’t hurt—he should be used to hearing these insults. He’s heard them for the better part of a decade—among other, more racially charged ones—and it hadn’t bothered him until now. 

Except, maybe that’s not true. Maybe there’s always been a sting and he’s just. Never put it together. 

“Okay, assholes,” Hayden chirps. “Maybe shut up about Rozanov for once.” He’s tense beside Shane, face twisted strangely. “Seriously, it’s kind of concerning how much you give a shit about who the guy fucks.” 

Comeau scoffs. “What, you saying you’d be okay with a cocksucker like him staring at your dick?” 

Hayden shrugs. “At least I’ve got something to look at.” He raises his brows, pointed, and barks of laughter ring out from their teammates. J.J. even catcalls from across the locker room, brows dancing. 

“Yeah, you do, Pike!” he calls out. “Rozanov would probably be waggin’ his tongue to get a look.” He winks, cackling, and Shane kind of wants to die, a little, thinking about that. 

“Can we all just shut up and get on with hockey?” he grouses. “You know, the thing we’re here to do?” 

“I couldn’t agree more, Hollander.” Theriault steps into the room, clipboard in hand and assistant coaches on his heels. “No more distractions for the day—let’s run these tapes. Comeau, Boiziau, I want you two especially paying attention because we’re gonna need our top line defense on its best feet for the next run of games.” 

Grumbles echo from the team as everyone settles down. Shane hunches his shoulders, elbows propped on his knees. He keeps his gaze fixed on the projector screen. His skin prickles with the pinpricks of dozens of men looking right at him. Shane clasps his hands and tries to be normal. Tries so fucking hard to keep his face fixed in its usual mask of professional focus. He’s not sure he’s doing it right. 

Fuck. 

He squeezes his hands together, focuses on breathing. 

For some reason, it’s louder than normal. 

He can feel Hayden looking at him, but Shane doesn’t dare look back. No, he’s just his regular, normal, very not-gay self. Except, Theriault’s words fade into a meaningless babble, Shane’s brain stuck in a loop he can’t manage to shake. He breathes. He stares straight ahead. He tries to look every bit like the impenetrable captain of the Montreal Metros and not at all like his entire world’s crumpled beneath him. 

And still, Shane finds his gaze drifting to Drapeau, those words playing over and over in his head, stomach twisting, churning. They don’t want a cocksucker in the locker room. His jaw twitches. Fingers flex. His skin burns from the knife wound those words have carved into him, and Shane sits on this bench feeling…wrong. As if he’s an alien from another planet, wrong. 

It’s not the first time he’s ever felt like this. No, Shane’s all too familiar with this feeling—like his skin doesn’t quite fit, like he’s watching the world from behind a wall of one-way glass. It was especially bad when he was younger, a rising star prodigy, a generational talent amidst regular kids, the only Asian kid on the team to boot. Add to it all his strict rituals and his constant inability to talk about anything but hockey, and Shane found himself feeling like this a whole lot. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat, sparks of something like anger flickering deep in his gut. Shane doesn’t let them catch. Can’t afford to. No, he sucks in another breath and forces himself to tune in. 

“—see how Russell favors his left side, over here? We can exploit that by taking the puck this way—” 

Hockey, at least, is something easy and familiar Shane can grasp onto, and he does so with both hands, forcing himself to shut everything else out. 

Because right now, none of it matters. He’s here to play hockey. It’s enough. It has to be. 

🏒

Me (7:22PM)

Did you ask Farah about the house? I can still send more if you want.

Sorry. I know it’s late.

Lily (7:24PM)

late? Hollander it is 7PM that is not late

but yes i did. submitted an offer and everything

not sure when i will know if i get it though

Me (7:25PM)

Assuming the sellers like your offer you should know pretty soon. The part that’ll take forever is closing.

“Uh oh, Captaine’s texting Lily again.” 

Shane jerks, face going hot. J.J. grins at him from the adjoining bed, waggling his brows suggestively. He’s got a soda dangling from his fingers, an open bag of chips at his elbow that Shane’s been trying his best to ignore. Gunshots echo from the movie playing on the TV, some action thriller Hayden picked out. 

They’re sequestered in the hotel room, Hayden and J.J. insisting on hanging out tonight. Or, well. Hayden insisted. J.J. was all too eager to join in, lamenting at Shane’s reluctance to go out to a bar. “How else are you gonna get yourself back out there?” he’d said, shaking Shane by the shoulders. “You can’t be all wallowing and heart broken forever!” 

Guilt rattles around inside Shane when he thinks about it. He’d told J.J. about breaking up with Rose, insisting he very much didn’t want to go out and get laid again. “I kinda just want to chill and focus on the game tomorrow,” he’d said. Which is mostly true. But J.J. had been determined to cheer Shane up, so here he is, sitting next to Hayden and spilling crumbs all over the bed, a sight that’s got Shane’s eye twitching the longer he sits and watches. 

(His bed is spared, if only because Hayden took pity on him and insisted they let Shane have a bed to himself. “He’s sad and heartbroken, J.J., let him have some wiggle room.” A lie, but one Shane’s grateful for if it means being spared of the dreaded crumbs.) 

“Guess you’re getting back on the horse after all,” J.J. laughs. Hayden frowns. 

“He’s definitely not texting Lily.” A pause. A look. “Right?” 

Shane feels his face burn. He chews his lip, gaze darting to the TV. A car explodes. The music goes haywire in a way that makes Shane wince, the air buzzing with the intensity of it. 

“Oh my god, are you texting Lily? Seriously, dude?” Hayden sits up, looking way too alarmed. “Shane, buddy, my guy. I thought we talked about this.” 

J.J. laughs again. “What do you mean? It’s good he’s chatting up a new girl, no?” 

Alarm bells start blaring. Shane stares wide-eyed at Hayden, throat so impossibly tight as he watches his best friend scoff and shake his head. 

“No, it’s really not, because that’s, like, leading girls on. Not to mention really fucking depressing!” 

Panic crawls across Shane’s skin with the sensation of a thousand stinging ants. His hands curl into the overly fluffy comforter, twisting at it over and over, heart rattling against the inside of his ribs. “Hayden,” he croaks, pleading. J.J. looks between them, lips pursed and brow knit. 

“What?!” Hayden says. “It’s true! You deserve better than doing this to yourself—” 

“Hayden.” 

“Doing what to yourself?” 

Hayden snaps his jaw shut, eyes going wide. J.J.’s head is on a swivel, looking at them with increasing bafflement, and oh, fuck, Shane thinks he might just die a little. He twists and twists at the bedsheets, vision smearing around the edges. Fuck. Breathing is hard, all of a sudden, and Shane so desperately hates himself for crumpling to pieces so damn easy. 

This shouldn’t be so hard. It shouldn’t. 

“Um. Heh, you know. Sleeping around—like, yeah, sure, getting back on the horse is great and all, but, like, we’re not getting any younger, right? I just think Shane deserves a relationship, is all, and we all know Lily’s just a quick fuck—” 

A distressed noise cracks free from Shane, stalling Hayden’s desperate rambles. He scrunches his eyes shut, tipping forward to press his forehead onto the bed. It’s not just a quick fuck, this thing with Lily. Ilya. And, god, isn’t that the problem? Isn’t that what’s gotten him into this stupid, tangled mess to begin with? But he can’t even say as much because it’s a secret, because no one knows, because everyone thinks Lily is a girl—

“I’m. I’m gay,” he tells the comforter. “And Lily’s not a girl.” 

Gunshots ring out from the TV. Shane can feel both his friends’ stares. His body trembles, a wild desire to claw his way inside the hotel mattress and hiding there almost overwhelming him. He doesn’t. He just. Breathes and wills his heart to stop trying to bang its way free of his ribs. 

“Shit. Are you for real?” 

Shane isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or scream. “Yeah.” 

Hayden sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I, uh. Yeah that was stupid of me. Sorry, dude.” 

“Wait, you knew?!” J.J. asked, scandalized. “What the hell, how come you already knew?” 

Maybe crying is the best option, actually. “It just kinda came out,” Shane says, still speaking into the comforter. Even attempting eye contact sounds like hell, and clawing into the mattress isn’t a real option. So. This is the best of both worlds right about now. 

“Uh, yeah. He kinda was having, like, a major panic attack.” 

Shane grimaces. Somehow, calling it a panic attack feels like an understatement. But how else could he describe the horrifying sensation of his lungs collapsing and the earth spinning out of control beneath him, sending Shane careening into the abyss gasping for air? 

The pause is seconds longer than it probably should be. But, before Shane’s fried nerves can melt down into another bout of panic, J.J. clears his throat. “Uh. Well. I’m cool—seriously, bro, I don’t care if you like dudes. I have gay cousins and shit. Ally.” 

“Ally,” Hayden echoes, clearly baffled. Shane dares to peek from his makeshift sanctuary. J.J.’s leaning with his elbows on his knees, lips pursed and brow notched, as if worried. Hayden hovers behind him, expression twisting into something Shane recognizes as apologetic—it’s the same look he’s seen whenever Hayden misses a pass. Maybe it’s the exhaustion of staying up past his allotted bed time one too many nights in a row, maybe it’s the empty tank of his emotional reserves, maybe it’s Shane being too forgiving. But he offers up his best smile and pushes himself upright, one hand reaching up to rake through his hair. 

“Thanks, J.J.” 

J.J. reaches across the space between them, offering a fist. “‘Course, dude.” He beams when Shane rolls his eyes and bumps back. But despite the goofiness, Shane can’t help but feel warm inside, the buzzing anxiety beginning to settle because both of his friends are here, both of his friends don’t care that he’s gay. 

And maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. Maybe Shane can be his whole self instead of compartmentalizing the bits of who he is. Maybe…maybe he can stop hiding. 

“Okay, wait, back it up.” Hayden’s face is all scrunched again, and he peers at Shane from across the room, head tilted. “So, like, is this thing with Lily actually serious, then?” His eyes go wide, a look of horror shadowing his face. “You haven’t been hitting her—him—up while with Rose, right?” 

Shane’s shoulders hike up, and he makes a face. “No, of course not. I’m not—I’d never do that, Jesus, Hayd.” 

Hayden has the decency to look abashed, scratching at his cheek. “Right, yeah. Of course. Just…you’ve been texting he—him since, like, forever.” 

Heat stains Shane’s face. He ducks his head, heart thudding a little in his chest. Yeah, he really has been texting Ilya since forever. Though, most of it’s been cheesy, shitty pick up lines and overt innuendos, and Shane shooting back a middle finger. Or one of them texting a room number and getting ignored. 

The actual conversations are…new. Tentative. Shane tries to not think about it beyond their simplicity—Ilya’s been uprooted, and Shane’s offered what little assistance he can. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Well?” J.J. prompts. “Is it serious? And who the hell is he? I mean, we know you’re gay, now, right? No reason to be so secretive anymore, Captaine.” 

Whatever relief Shane has gutters right out of him. His fingers curl back into the comforter, chest going tight all over again. “Uh. Sorry, I—I can’t. He’s not—” Out, Shane wants to say, except no, that’s not true, is it? Ilya is out. He’s the only one out. The words die in his throat, and Shane swallows, ducks his head. Still. It doesn’t matter who’s out—they’re rivals. There’s no way in hell he can tell his friends who Lily is and come out unscathed. So Shane shrugs and deflects like he always tries to. “It doesn’t matter. It’s…it’s not anything right now.” 

J.J. scoffs. “Aw, come on! It can’t be nothing if you’re texting, like, right now.” 

Shane shakes his head, turning to stuff his phone beneath a pillow. “It really is. Sorry.” 

And that might be the end of it, except Hayden gets this look on his face. He stares in the direction of the TV, lips pursed, and Shane feels a stone of dread plunk down into his gut. 

“You always hooked up with Boston Lily whenever we played Boston…” Hayden’s gaze darts to Shane, eyes going impossibly wide. “Don’t tell me Lily is Rozanov.” 

J.J. whips around, incredulous. “Are you insane? Of course Lily’s not Rozanov. Captaine hates that asshole! Right?” 

Except, Shane can’t fucking answer, because whatever denial he’s got sits lodged in his throat. No, he stares back at Hayden with wide eyes, body all rigid lines. There’s a ringing in his ears. His stomach twists sharply, his lungs burn, and Shane knows he’s doomed the second J.J. turns back to look at him. 

“...no. No, this is—this is a joke.” 

Shane bites his lip. His eyes burn, insides twisting and tangling into endless knots. Some part of Shane—the messy, tangled bit of him that yearns so fucking bad to be normal—wishes it could be a joke. That he could bark out a laugh and roll his eyes at the very notion of being…whatever he is with Ilya. But it’s not a joke. And Shane can’t even pull himself together enough to pretend. No, he simply watches, mouth refusing to string together words, as J.J.’s face goes dark and angry. He jerks to his feet and storms out of the room, the hotel door slamming shut behind him. Shane flinches. 

Fuck. 

“Holy fucking shit. Seriously, Shane? Rozanov!?” Hayden gawks at him from the opposite bed. “What the hell, man? Were there not any nice guys in Montreal?” 

Ha. Shane scrubs a hand over his face, sucking in a shaky, wheezy breath. If there’s any sort of joke to be found here, it’s the notion of nice boys in Montreal, because yeah, sure, there probably were plenty. But in what world would Shane be able to find them from stuck inside this godawful closet?

“I dunno, maybe? It’s not like I could just. Go find out.” He swallows, peers at the hotel door as if J.J. will yank it open and storm back inside. But he doesn’t, and Shane’s left to spiral. 

Does J.J. hate him now? Is he gonna go tell everyone? Expose Shane? What would happen, if he did? Would the league think—god, would they think they were cheating? Conspiring, somehow? Shane feels sick. He trembles, clutching the comforter for dear life because if he doesn’t he’s not sure what’ll happen. 

“Okay, sure,” Hayden cries, “but that doesn’t mean going and sleeping with the enemy!” 

“Yeah, well, I slept with him before he was the enemy, so.” 

Hayden’s eyes boggled. “Holy shit, are you serious?” 

Shane’s face heats. He ducks his head. “Yeah. Kind of. I mean—I. We’ve been…hooking up, or whatever, since, like, rookie year.”

“Jesus Christ." Hayden buries his head in his hands, and Shane thinks this is it. This is going to be the thing that really ruins everything. Forget being gay—he’s been gay the wrong way this whole time, and it’s too much and he’s just ruined his whole life for nothing, because Ilya’s not even—Ilya’s not—they’re not a thing. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, if only because he feels like he has to. Hayden peeks at him then, frowning. 

“You like him. Like, like-like him. Don’t you.” 

Heat scalds at Shane’s face. He frowns at the comforter, light from the TV flashing across the white fabric, coloring it in the reds and oranges of whatever's burning there on the screen. “We’re not in fucking primary school,” he grumbles in lieu of answering. Which. Seems to answer Hayden anyway, because he hisses a swear and scrubs at his face. 

“Shit. Okay, okay.” Hayden straightens, expression serious. “This is kind of insane to wrap my head around, and I—I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll go talk to J.J. when he cools off, and stuff. Just. Fuck.” 

Yeah. Fuck. 

Shane picks at the comforter. He doesn’t know what to say. What to do. Is there anything to do? Shane’s fingers twist into the fabric in a rhythm, over and over, heart slamming into his ribs like a jackhammer. He hates this. Not knowing. It’s got him feeling as if he’s got no solid ground beneath his feet. There’s nothing to grab onto, to hold. Everything is unspooling around him faster than he can fix it, and Shane hates it so goddamn much. 

“So are you gonna…like. Date him?” 

He blinks. “What?” 

Hayden shrugs. Makes a face. His hands flop in the air in a loose gesture, and Hayden huffs. “Look, you just said you like him, and you’re texting him—I dunno! I feel like it’s not a stupid question, okay?” 

Maybe he’s right, but Shane still can’t help the way his shoulders hike to his ears. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I’m…not sure he’d want to.” 

“What the hell? Why not?” Hayden looks so damn offended—if Shane weren’t so emotionally wrung out, he’d maybe chuckle. But all he can manage is a grimace. 

The music from the TV slows into something softer. 

“I messed up. Last time we were together, I…I ran away. After.” God, that day’s burned into his memories in vivid technicolor. Shane sees it when he closes his eyes. Sees the afternoon sunlight glowing through the house, sees the shine of Ilya’s cross where it hangs on his neck. He can nearly taste the melting cheese on the sandwich, can still feel the lingering kiss on his lips. His heart twists, sharp and sudden, and Shane shrugs. His throat goes tight. “So. Probably not gonna happen.” 

There’s a beat. Then, “Okay. Well, one, you’re a fucking catch and, like, so far out of Rozanov’s league you’re in the fucking stratosphere, and no, I won’t hear otherwise. And, two—god I can’t believe I’m saying this, ew—you miss all the shots you don’t take. So like. Maybe take the shot first.” 

He leaves, then, muttering about going to find J.J. and leaving Shane to stare into the shadows of the hotel room, mind spinning and spinning. 

🏒

The Colorado Rocksliders play hard, but not harder than they do. 

Shane charges across the ice, legs pumping. He dodges and weaves through the defense—they’re too wide apart, trying too hard to cover both him and Hayden at the same time. And, Shane doesn’t have to look to know where Hayden is. He knows the way he knows where the puck will be, the way he knows the goalie’s favoring his left side and the defense man is closing in from the corner of his eye. 

The puck appears. Shane drills it into the net. He swoops around, one arm flying up into the air and face splitting into a grin. Hayden and Wilson skid up to him, offering fistbumps and shoulder pats. Shane glances up the ice. 

J.J.’s lips are twisted into an angry frown, and he looks away. 

The smile slips from his face, and a stone settles heavy in his gut. 

He glides to the face off circle, skin prickling. His grip on his stick is tight, hands trembling minutely. The chilled air of the rink burns when it fills his lungs, and he bends at the ready, gaze flitting from his opponent—Gary Hemmswidth, first line center, average shooting percentage, only at 25 points this season—to the dot on the ice. He chews his mouthguard, body poised and ready. 

His mind jump skips to J.J. jerking to his feet and storming from the hotel room. 

Shane loses the face off. 

MONDAY

        Metros @ Rocksliders - MON 4, COL 3

Centaurs @ Raiders - OTT 0, BOS 6

Hammerheads @ Queens - ANA 2, LA 1

Admirals @ Drillers - NYC 5, HOU 2

Nomads @ Boilers - MIN 3, EDM 2

Tigers @ Puffins - NAS 0, PIT 4

Racers @ Thunders - DET 1, TAM 3

Too many too bright flashes burn Shane’s eyes when he steps into the media room. He’s sweaty, not even given the chance to shower before being ushered to the wolves by the Metro’s harried PR rep, Casey. Adrenaline’s still thumping through him after the close win, and Shane feels itchy and irritated. 

He molds his expression into his usual camera ready face and straightens. 

“That was a narrow win! Any comments on the Metro’s strategy for the next game?” 

Shane looks in the vague direction of the reporter, resisting the urge to squint. There’s a thumping ache behind his right eye. “You know, some games are just tougher than we expect. We’ll be sitting down and reviewing tapes after and running strategies to tighten our defense and make sure the next one isn’t so close.” 

“Have you heard the news about Ilya Rozanov?” a woman’s voice calls. Ice fills Shane’s stomach. He blinks, feels his mask crack in real time. 

“What?” 

“Ilya Rozanov—now that he’s with the Centaurs, does Montreal have a different outlook for their cup prospects?” 

Shane blinks again, head spinning like a top. “Um, I—we’re always focused on adapting our strategy for each game. Teams play different, and yeah, players can affect a team’s plays, but our strategy will always be looking at how to take advantage of a team’s weak points. Trades don’t change that.” 

“What are your thoughts on locker room culture? Do players like Rozanov change how much focus is put on the game?” 

What the fuck. Shane can only stare, ears ringing. Anger strikes across his insides, sending a spray of sparks burning through him. He straightens, jaw tight, and says, “I don’t see why that matters. We’re here to play hockey. Whatever happens off the ice isn’t a concern.” 

Casey shoos him towards freedom after that, face pinched. Whether it’s because she feels the same anger he feels over the line of questioning, Shane isn’t sure. Still. Either way, he walks back to the locker room with his insides twisted in knots and hands shaking, angry with nowhere for that anger to go. 

🏒

The airport is quiet when they shuffle their way through security. Most of the guys are especially quiet—Shane can see the bleary eyes and droopy countenance that often accompanies a win. (Usually they go out and celebrate. Shane knows they do because they often try to cajole him into joining. But he’s strict with his own routines, and he hates breaking curfew. Besides, sleep is important, and he’s not big on alcohol, especially during the season. So he’s spared from the ache of a hangover, which, he’ll take as a victory.) He stands stiffly, one hand on his carry-on, the other clutching his phone. 

The only notifications he has are from ESPN. He bites his lip, ignores the twist in his gut. He stares a beat too long at the Ottawa-Boston game stats, thumb hovering over the screen. It’s the second game Ilya’s missed of the season, and Shane feels suddenly so wrong-footed, knowing he won’t see Ilya on the highlight reel. Worse, still, are the headlines popping up from his post-game interview. Shane locks his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket with a frown. 

Hayden yawns, jaw cracking with the force of it. “Ugh. Why is our flight so damn early?” 

“Swear jar,” Shane mutters. Hayden scoffs, rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up. It’s before six in the morning, I can swear all I want. That’s, like, a rule.” 

“It’s really not.” 

“Well. It should be. Fuck.” 

Shane raises his brows, lips twitching into a bemused grin when Hayden flips him off. 

Security is a familiar song and dance—passing across passports, loading carry-ons onto the bag check belt, filing through metal detectors with empty pockets. It’s painless if inconvenient, and Shane finds himself standing at the other end of the bag check, hands in his sweats’ pockets as he waits for his carry-on to roll through the assembly. 

Someone bumps into him. Shane jerks, head swivelling to find J.J. blinking at him. “Oh. Hey.” He smiles. J.J.’s face pinches, and he turns away, side-stepping to the left towards Comeau and Gangon, who’re snickering at something on Gangon’s phone. 

The smile crumples into a grimace, and Shane averts his gaze back to the belt. His bag rolls free. He grabs it, stomach knotted and aching. 

Supposedly, Hayden talked J.J. down, after. “It’ll be fine,” he told Shane when he’d crept back into the room hours too late, “he just needs time to, like, process and shit. It’ll be okay, promise.” 

So Shane’s left it be. Mostly because he doesn’t know how else to make it better, and there’s not been time to pull J.J. aside and ask without drawing attention, something Shane’s loathe to do. 

The last thing he needs is anyone else stumbling into this ugly secret of his. 

Hayden knocks their shoulders together, offering a smile. Shane ducks his head. He follows the team as they meander their way to the gate. 

Their flight boards at 6:50AM. They’re heading out to Toronto to play the Guardians tomorrow, and then flying to Vancouver to play the Vipers. And then a day off, and a home game. 

Shane’s so fucking excited to sleep in his own bed, for once. 

Hotels are. Fine. The sheets are usually the wrong texture, and sometimes the rooms smell funny. Once, Shane found a pair of plastic handcuffs clipped onto the railing of the bed. Hayden nearly threw up from laughing too hard, the asshole. And, look, Shane doesn’t hate hotels. He’s been playing hockey for as long as he can remember, and travelling for it, too. He’s used to sleeping in hotels. There’s just…a certain comfort to his own space, is all. It’s quiet. Private. Somewhere he can unclench and breathe. 

And, god, does Shane want to breathe, again. 

He slumps into one of many stiff, plastic chairs in full view of their gate, gaze flicking from his crisp boarding pass to the screen behind the gate agents’ counter. Toronto 7:20AM, it says. He pushes the handle of his carry-on until it clicks in place, settles it at his feet. The guys scatter around him—some of them wander off in search of food or coffee, others settle into the surrounding chairs. Hayden dumps his bag next to Shane and stretches, groaning. 

“I’m gonna go piss. Don’t let anyone steal that.” He leaves before Shane can even blink, beelining towards one of the signs for the bathroom. 

Shane wrinkles his nose. The notion of someone wanting to steal Hayden’s bag is almost funny—the clothes are almost definitely haphazardly stuffed inside it, and there’s a high chance there’s something like baby wipes or a loose, unused diaper floating around. 

J.J. chooses then to drop into the chair to his left like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and Shane goes stiffer than a board, eyes wide. He swallows, once, twice, willing his lips to work. 

“Uh. Hey.” 

J.J. eyes him a moment. “Hey.” He purses his lips, brows knitting, and for a minute, Shane thinks he might say something. But then J.J.’s face smoothes out, and he shifts, leaning to fish his phone out of his pockets instead. He slouches in the chair, scrolling through what looks to be Twitter, and Shane’s left to sit and stare, body stiff and head spinning with uncertainty. Is. Is J.J. not mad, anymore? Is he just pretending? Or is he still mad but wants to be friends? Shane hates guessing at what people are thinking. It’s a game he never wins at. 

His own phone buzzes in his hands, tearing through his spiral. Shane’s gaze snaps down. 

Lily (6:02AM)

house people accepted my offer

am no longer homeless 💪

A smile blooms onto his lips. Shane bites his lip, stifling a soft snicker, thumbs flying over the keyboard. 

Me (6:03AM)

Good. I’m glad. Hopefully you can close quickly!

Maybe I can help you unpack. 

If you want. 

Or not. I know you’re probably gonna be super busy and stuff.

Embarrassment prickles hot against the back of his neck, and Shane fiddles with the string of his hoodie as he stares at the frankly embarrassing barrage of messages he’s just sent. Fuck. He’s being weird. He forces himself to lock his phone and shoves it into his hoodie’s pocket, before he can panic and send more, throat going weirdly tight, again. 

Beside him, J.J. huffs a laugh. He nudges Shane, angling his phone. “Look at this, dude.” 

It’s some meme—a cartoon character’s fist Shane vaguely recognizes from a show he watched as a kid—with the words, when your team loses to the Metros because of Shane Fucking Hollander. Shane huffs a laugh, shakes his head. J.J. just grins at him. 

“It’s the truth, Captaine, you’re a fucking beast on the ice.” He nudges Shane’s arm, nose crinkling, and, the easiness between them smoothes at the rigid lines in Shane’s shoulders. Another laugh tumbles loose, and Shane shrugs, leaning back in his seat. 

“Yeah, well, I like winning.” 

“Obviously,” Hayden snarks, flopping down next to him. “Winning is the best.” He tips his head back, eyes closing. “Maybe not better than sleeping in, though.” 

J.J. looks at Shane with raised brows, snickering, and Shane grins, almost dizzy with relief. 

Maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay after all.

Chapter End Notes

Hello again! It is me, back with more. :3 Haha listen it's important to know that I love Hayden and J.J. dearly---they're a mess but they're trying their best. Their best is just. Messy X,D Poor Shane. Anyway, hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading! <33

Chapter 5: To Transplant a Lily

Chapter Notes

The first thing Ilya feels when he steps out of the car onto Canadian soil: relief. 

He breathes in the crisp winter air and leans against the car door, legs wobbly beneath him. They’ve been on the road for about eight hours—it would have been closer to seven, but customs took nearly an hour with all the complicated paperwork involved. (The details of it all are blurry, hours later. Ilya remembers snatches—his hands shaking as he passed over his passport and stack of asylum papers, walking down bland hallways to talk to immigration lawyers, the squeak of an office chair’s wheels. He doesn’t remember what he said. He doesn’t remember getting back into the car. He remembers only fumbling for a cigarette, windows down Svetlana holding for him because his hands just wouldn’t stop shaking.) But they made it, and now Ilya is officially in Canada. 

It’s just as boring as he figured it’d be. 

They’re parked in the lot for a hotel, surrounded by little but trees and an expanse of highway. Across the road is a boxy glass building Ilya thinks might be for offices of some sort, but otherwise, there’s a whole lot of nothing here. 

The passenger door slams shut, and Svetlana burrows into the furred collar of her coat. “Come on,” she says, sharp and clipped, “we can gawk at Canada after we are inside.” She starts for the door, calling, “Grab the bags, would you, Ilyusha?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. He nudges his own door shut and stalks around the car to the trunk, where they’ve stuffed their suitcases. There’s not a lot of room in the trunk—Ilya’s cars are all built for speed rather than practicality. What can he say? He likes going fast. ‘Course, it means his options for moving cross-country are…limited in a way. His corvette at least has a trunk, but it means Ilya had to pack a little light. Which is fine, really—he’s spent years of his life living out of a tiny carry-on bag. Living out of one for a few days to a few weeks while he closes on his house and moves all his boxes from storage to said house is nothing at all, really. 

Besides. Maybe he’ll get lucky and get the keys to the house sooner. 

He hauls their bags out, rolls them into the hotel lobby, where he finds Svetlana at the front counter getting their room keys. 

His room is being funded by the Centaurs. Ilya didn’t ask it to be. They simply offered. He’s not sure if it’s something they offer all their trades and drafts—Ilya hopes so. He can certainly afford a hotel stay on his own dime, but his contract is one of the larger ones in the NHL. Not everyone is as lucky as he. Or, unlucky, in this particular instance, seeing as this trade is one Ilya didn’t ask for or want. 

He’s paying for Svetlana’s room. She insists on having separate rooms so he can have his own space, a notion that grates against Ilya more than it should. They’re not together, and he’s a grown adult. Of course they should have separate rooms. Still, his face twitches with the threat of a grimace when she passes him his keycard. 

“I will drop my things and then we can get dinner?” Svetlana says, brows raised. Ilya can feel the wide-eyed stare from the employee behind the front desk. Though, whether it’s because they recognize him or because of the Russian flowing freely is hard to say. He shrugs, one shouldered, and pushes Svetlana’s bag towards her. 

“Da.” 

The hotel room is the same as every other hotel room Ilya’s ever stayed in his life—a singular queen sized bed crammed with a hundred fluffy pillows and crisp white sheets dominates the space, and a polished, wooden dresser with a TV perched atop sits across from the bed. There’s curtains along the far wall, almost certainly hiding a window overlooking the parking lot, and a tiny mini fridge beneath the desk by the aforementioned window. If he pretends hard enough, it’ll feel as if he’s here for a game against Ottawa. 

Ilya dumps his small suitcase on the floor next to the bed and flops down onto it with a huff. And, oh, fuck—maybe it’s the eight hour car ride talking, but Ilya could sink right into this mattress with how damn comfortable it is. He lays like that, staring up at the ceiling with hooded eyes, for what feels like an eternity. What if he just stayed here, like this? No one would miss him, probably. Except maybe Svetlana. And the Centaurs, he supposes, considering how much money they’re burning to get him in their arena. 

Part of him wonders if he’s worth the effort. 

A sigh escapes him. Ilya rolls over, pushes himself upright. He pulls out his phone. There’s a handful of texts—a couple from Marlow and Conners, asking for updates. Plus a text from Farah about meeting her at the new house tomorrow.

And four unread texts from Shane. 

Ilya’s thumb hovers over the messages, heart thudding in his chest. His lips press into a line. He swipes away to twitter instead, where he scrolls endlessly through memes and pictures of cats in an effort to stop thinking about anything at all beyond the useless clutter filling his phone’s screen. It’s nice. Easy. Ilya scrolls and scrolls until his phone starts vibrating in his hand, a banner notification blinking to life at the top of his phone with his father’s contact burning Ilya’s eyes with its sudden appearance. The phone drops from his hand, bouncing on the bed. Ilya stares, frozen, throat tight. 

Why would father be calling him? 

The call drops. Ilya stares, uncomprehending, as another comes. And another. He grabs the phone, hand shaking, and stuffs it beneath one of the many hotel pillows, breaths shallow and whole body trembling. 

He knows Svetlana blocked his asshole of a brother for him. He thought, maybe, she’d blocked his father, too. Apparently, she hasn’t.

Ilya shoves himself off the bed and stumbles for his bag, rooting around until he finds his half-empty box of cigarettes. He goes to the window, cracking it open and shivering at the chill of winter as he lights one up, sighing into the relief that comes with the burn in his lungs. He stays there for a while. How long, Ilya isn’t sure, but long enough that the sun dips noticeably lower. A knock at his door draws him away from the window, and Ilya slams the window shut, snubbing the cigarette out on a visibly unused ash tray sitting there on the hotel desk. He crosses the room. Throws open the door. 

Svetlana’s there on the other side, pushing her way into his room with a practiced ease, hardly even sparing him a glance when she flops down onto his bed. 

“I’m starving. What are we eating?” 

Ilya shrugs. Flops onto the bed next to her. “Whatever can be delivered. I am not driving any more today.” 

She hums. “Probably pizza, then.” 

Pizza sounds fine to him. Must sound fine to Svetlana, too, because she’s googling the closest pizza joint next to him with pursed lips, thumbing over to her phone’s keypad to tap it in and hit call. “Hello, yes, I would like to place an order. Delivery, please.” 

Ilya looks at the pillow hiding his own phone. He chews his lip, hesitating, heart thumping in his chest. He shoves his hand beneath it, pulls the phone free, gaze dropping to the screen. Several missed calls clutter his notifications. Ilya swallows around the lump sticking in his throat and clears them away, thumbing through his passcode to unlock the damn thing. 

The red dot on his messages glows like a beacon on his home screen. 

He stares at it. It’s a dangerous game, staring at his notifications. He should probably stop. Especially if he’s to continue avoiding the complicated feelings tangled inside his chest. 

In the end, he caves because he always seems to cave when it comes to Shane Hollander. 

Jane (yesterday)

Good. I’m glad. Hopefully you can close quickly!

Maybe I can help you unpack. 

If you want. 

Or not. I know you’re probably gonna be super busy and stuff.

It’s true, him being busy. Ilya hadn’t managed to breathe between all the packing and shutting down his Boston house—trying to figure out how to answer Shane’s texts has been a landmine Ilya hasn’t had the strength to disarm. So he’s dodged the texts like often does, until now. (Though, now, there’s a bigger landmine on his phone. Maybe it makes Shane’s texts easier, less scary. Ilya doesn’t know.) 

Ilya can only stare. 

Shane wants to see him. There’s a garden of hope vying for the sun in his ribs, and Ilya sucks in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, unsure if what he’s seeing is real. But the texts don’t change. No, they’re there, the latin letters of English suddenly more beautiful than he’s ever seen before in the decade and change he’s been texting in the language. Ilya’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. His heart thump-thumps with wild abandon, skin buzzing. 

Me (4:00PM)

hopefully

we are walking property tomorrow and i am signing official papers

He doesn’t know how to answer the rest of it all. Does Ilya want Shane to help him unpack his many haphazardly packed boxes? He shouldn’t. But now he’s imagining it, Shane in his house, organizing his things, and the wild, aching want grips him by the heart in an iron-clad grip, squeezing hard enough to damn near tear loose a gasp.

Marlow’s words come back to haunt him, then, replaying in his head like a broken record: You deserve a happy ending, you know. And, Ilya hates his idiot friend for cursing him with such notions, because now he’s laying on a hotel bed imagining Shane Hollander making himself at home in Ilya’s house, and those are dangerous thoughts he can’t afford to have. Not when he’s…not when he’s messy like this. A man made of broken pieces, carrying with him heavy weights shackled to him by his own family. 

Svetlana saves him from his thoughts by hanging up and dropping her phone onto the mattress between them. “Pizza is coming. Twenty minutes.” Her curls spill across the comforter from their messy bun, and Ilya registers the shirt she’s wearing as one of his own. One of his Raiders’ t-shirts. He hadn’t realized she’d snatched it. 

For some reason, his throat goes tight the longer he stares at the fading yellow logo. 

He looks away. 

The pizza takes the full twenty minutes. Svetlana springs off the bed to go get it the second her phone starts ringing. They eat together on his bed, and he definitely drips sauce on the comforter, which has Svetlana laughing at him. And then they linger, curled close together while Svetlana outlines the itinerary for tomorrow: official onboarding with the Centaurs and tour of facility, meeting Farah and touring his new house, signing closing paperwork. Maybe get the keys, if he’s lucky. (He isn’t.) Dinner with the Centaur owners and management team. 

She leaves after the sun sets, claiming to be exhausted. Ilya stays sprawled on the bed, unmoving. He stares at the shadows spanning across the ceiling and wonders how last night’s game went. Wonders what the state of the locker room is without him there. Are things awkward? Frigid, even? They (ironically) played Ottawa, he knows. He hasn’t looked at the score. Can’t quite bring himself to. Did they win, like Ilya suspects? 

He’s not sure how to feel about that prospect. 

His phone buzzes next to him on the bed. 

Jane (8:24PM)

Hopefully you get the keys too. 🙂

....

....

....

Let me know if you want me to come help out at some point. 

Ilya’s arrow-riddled heart flutters a little in his chest, and he presses his lips together, smothering the blooming smile. 

Me (8:25PM) 

okay

He closes his eyes, smile lingering despite his best efforts. 

🚬

It’s late, when Farah calls him with the news. Ilya can’t exactly say he expects it, but he can’t say he’s surprised, either.

“I’m sorry, Ilya,” she says through the phone. “Unfortunately, since you’ve been traded, Boston is well within their rights to drop you for the event. I’ve tried to argue you should still attend the game as a fan favorite, but the Commission seems unwilling to budge.” 

“Is fine,” he lies. A lot of guys don’t care about the All Star games. Ilya thought he was one of them. He never minded going—showing off is fun, and getting to compete with Shane for the many skills competitions is even more fun. But Ilya never really thought of himself as someone who needed to be there. So the hollowness he feels now is strange. 

“Well. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.” 

He swallows. Stares at the dark shadows of the hotel room, fingers curled tightly into the blankets of the bed. “Thank you, Farah.” The line goes dead, and he lets his phone drop. 

Ilya doesn’t sleep for a long time, after. 

🚬

The Canada Tire Center is big, like most stadiums are. Ilya’s been several times over the course of his career. It’s not an unfamiliar sight—he eyes the goofy looking logo hanging boldly on the side of the building as he cruises to the allocated parking sent ahead by Centaurs Hockey Club management. This part is new, parking himself. He parks alongside what are likely his new teammates’ cars, shifting the car into park. He tosses the print-out Svetlana thrust into his hands before he left in the morning onto the dashboard, telling him, “You’ll get the real one after.” 

There’s a single man waiting for him inside. He’s dressed smartly in a simple button down and tie, a lanyard decorated in the Centaur’s logo hanging around his neck. “Ilya Rozanov,” he greets, one hand extending. “Hello, welcome to the Tire Center. I’m Brady Thomas, Assistant Manager to the Centaurs. We’re stoked to have you here.” 

Ilya shakes his hand, jaw tight and body stiff, and follows along down a hallway of offices to the waiting conference room where more people sit around a shiny, polished table. A giant mural of the ugly mascot covers one wall. Ilya wrinkles his nose at it, insides twisting sharply. 

“Rozanov, hello.” One of the men stands, grinning widely. “Clyde Young, General Manager of the Ottawa Centaurs.” He extends a hand, too, which Ilya shakes. The handshake is solid, firm. “I know these aren’t exactly the most pleasant circumstances for you, all things considered, but we’re really excited you’re here.” He chuckles, then, seemingly bashful, and gestures to the room. “As you maybe can notice. We don’t usually all show up to receive a trade mid-season.” 

There are a lot more people here than he expected. Ilya’s gaze bounces across too many smiling faces, jaw twitching. His skin prickles beneath the heady scrutiny. He manages a smile. “Ah. I am flattered.” 

“It’s not everyday you get the trade of a lifetime,” Clyde says with a laugh. He gestures. “This here is Randall, he’s the General Events manager for the Tire Center, and this is Ethan, the General Equipment manager. He’ll take care of whatever you need as far as equipment goes.” 

Ilya shakes more hands. Tries to smile. 

“Real stoked to see what you bring to the team,” the equipment manager tells him. “Seriously, you’re an incredible player.” 

A lot of kind words. True ones, too—Ilya is an incredible player. It’s not a cocky statement, he’s got the trophies to back it. Still, the shiny-eyed hope these people look at him with feels so goddamn heavy, and Ilya struggles to shoulder it beneath polite smiles. 

“Yes, we’re all very excited.” Clyde’s smiling as much as the rest of them. He claps Ilya on the shoulder. “Just maybe do us all a favor and keep the sex in the bedroom, yeah?” 

Ilya bites back a grimace. Shame sears at his skin, as if pressed by an iron rod over and over. It takes willpower to laugh through it. Like it’s one silly blunder and not the thing that’s torn his career into ribbons of tattered confetti. (The worst part of it all is knowing it could have been simply that—a silly blunder. Something saucy for the tabloids to exploit and for the boys to laugh about in the locker room, if only it were a woman sucking his dick and not a man.) 

The men in suits laugh along, and Ilya’s biggest shame is swept under the rug as little more than a joke. 

“Alright, we’ll leave you to get all onboarded. Our social media-slash-PR team here will take care of you first.” Clyde claps his shoulder again, says, “I’ll see you tonight for dinner with the owners?” 

Ilya bobs his head. “Yes, tonight.” 6:00PM sharp, at one of the nicer restaurants in the city. Svetlana’s coming, too, as his ‘manager’. 

“I’ll swing back in a bit for a tour of the place,” Brady says, smiling. He files out of the room with the rest of the men in suits, leaving Ilya with the presumed social media people. There’s two of them—a stocky young man with a bright smile and an Ottawa Centaurs lanyard covered in pride pins (Ilya’s brows raise a little when he spies them, breath catching) and a woman with silver hair and a large, fancy looking camera in her hands. 

“Hey, I’m Harris.” Harris extends a hand. “Technically, I’m the intern, but the bossman’s out today, so you’re stuck with me.” He winks, and Ilya can’t help but grin. It’s the easiest handshake he’s given all morning. 

The woman introduces herself as Gen. She doesn’t offer a handshake, barely even offers a smile. Ilya likes her immediately. 

“Okay, Ilya,” Harris says, “we’re gonna go ahead and take some photos of you with the mural background, and then a couple of shots with you in a jersey. That sound okay?” 

It sounds fine enough. Ilya stands in front of the mural with the NHL’s ugliest logo and mascot and poses like he’s a model. The camera flashes, and he’s back to the draft in 2009, holding up his Raiders jersey and grinning like he’s flown up to the seventh heaven, bumping elbows with Shane Hollander and his goddamn, irritatingly addictive freckles. 

He blinks, and he’s in a conference room holding the wrong jersey. 

Putting the jersey on is…something. Ilya throws it on over the t-shirt he’s already wearing, nose wrinkling at the new jersey smell. He makes the mistake of looking down at it. He knows he won’t find gold and black when he does, and still, the red is so jarring—an ache radiates through him, starting from right in the center of his chest and expanding outwards. He still poses and smiles through it, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. 

“Coolio!” Harris beams. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to do a quick q and a with you.” 

Ilya shrugs. He doesn’t really think he has much of a choice, but he doesn’t say as much. No, instead he slides into a seat opposite of Harris, hands folding together in front of him. Harris sets a phone on the table, screen open to some kind of recording app. 

“Okay—introduce yourself! What’s your name?” 

“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.” 

“Awesome. What are you looking forward to, playing with Ottawa?” 

What a bold question. Is Ilya looking forward to anything? What is there even, here in Ottawa, Canada, besides hockey and trees? “Um. Winning.” 

Harris grins. “Y’know, I’m looking forward to that, too.” 

Yeah, Ilya’s sure he is. Ottawa’s known for their perpetual losing streak. 

“What is your best hockey memory?” 

The first answer—and the right one—is an older memory, and only a hockey memory by circumstance. It’s the first practice during the prospect cup tournament, when Ilya was swooping down the ice. He remembers glancing up at the stands and seeing none other than Shane Hollander staring down at him, watching, all too easy to recognize with his awkward stance and intense gaze. 

He sunk several pucks in the net, that practice. 

Ilya says instead, “Winning the cup.” It’s a lie, but it’s one he knows is expected. Everyone thinks his favorite hockey memory is winning the cup, because why would it not be? And it’s not as if Ilya doesn’t love being a cup winning hockey player. He does. God, he does. 

But winning the cup was something he needed. Craved, even. So the memory is a highpoint, but it’s not his favorite. He can’t explain that to Harris, though, so he plays along with the pre-approved narrative. Maybe if he plays this safe, things will go differently. Maybe if he plays things safe for long enough, he’ll keep himself from fucking up again. 

“Yeah, I bet that was quite a feeling, huh?” Harris leans forward, conspiratorily, and asks, “Is the cup as heavy as it looks?” 

Ilya grins. “Yes. I did not notice, though. Was full of, what is the word, adrenaline—felt like lifting a paperweight.” 

Harris laughs. “God, yeah, I bet you were. Must’ve been a heck of a rush!” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. Next question: if you could be an animal, what animal would you be and why?” 

Ilya blinks. What…animal? He’s. He’s never been asked a question quite like this before. He almost thinks he’s misheard, but Harris has this twinkle in his eyes, his grin colored with mischief, and Ilya’s left wondering just what he’s gotten himself into. His lips purse, brow knitting. What animal would he be? 

“A dog,” he says. “I would get free belly rubs and ear scratches.” 

The answer must be good, because it gets a giggle from Harris. Ilya grins, leaning back in his chair and preening. Gen snorts from her chair across the table. “You would like that answer,” she says, fiddling with one of her cameras. Harris shrugs. 

“What can I say? Dogs are the best.” 

(They are the best. Cute and loyal and always there, no matter what. Ilya’s always wanted a dog. Sasha had one, growing up. It was one of the highlights of going to his house after practices—he was a scrappy little thing, the dog, always so excited to chase after sticks. Ilya loved spending hours tossing sticks across the tiny little yard. 

He only floated the idea of getting a dog once. His father had raised his nose and scoffed as if it was the worst idea he’d heard all day, and then berated Ilya for his grades. He never asked again.) 

The rest of the questions are just as off the wall. What holiday is the worst and why? What color of sky is the prettiest? What song does he like to sing in the shower? Ilya does his best to answer them, puzzled but delighted to get something beyond the same basic twelve questions he answers in every post-game press. But all too soon Harris is finished, and Ilya is foisted back onto the assistant manager Brady for a tour. 

Which means Ilya gets dragged around up and down the administrative hallways, where several people stick their heads out of their offices to gawk at him, down to the VIP boxes (Brady tells him team members have the capability of renting them out for cheap, but their family seats are in a lower section of the stands), down to the locker rooms. Ilya spies an empty cubby near the center, likely for him. There’s no name plate yet, but there’s a stack of freshly folded jerseys, including one hanging on a hanger with his name emblazoned on it—ROZANOV 81. A lump sticks in his throat. He looks away, swallowing harshly. 

Practice is in full swing when Brady takes Ilya to the rink. 

“Coach Barry’s a good guy,” Brady tells him. “He’s done a lot for us over the years. ‘Course, it’s an open secret that he’s looking to retire here, soon. Our assistant coaches are great of course, too, so hopefully you get on with them. But, well. We are searching for some fresh blood.” 

Great. A losing team with an old coach. Ilya nods along like his insides aren’t twisting into knots. He watches the players scrimmage on the ice. One of the wingers tries to make a pass. The puck misses the center by several meters, and the defense knocks it across the rink with too much ease. Ilya frowns. The puck ping-pongs back and forth, with no one seemingly able to keep it in a scoring zone. The defense is unorganized on either end of the scrimmage, and both forward lines seem to misclick. 

Ilya isn’t surprised. His nose still wrinkles as he watches, gaze tracking the plays as his mind whirs, gears spinning wildly with a dozen half-formed thoughts and ideas. His jaw clenches. Shoulders tense. Brady is watching him with the same sparkle Boston’s management once looked at Ilya with, and the weight of it sits heavy across Ilya’s shoulders. 

He thinks about sitting on the floor of his Boston house, about the wrecking ball of devastation that crashed through him at the realization of where he’s slated to be. And the immediate anger that followed at the implication—Boston thinks Ilya can’t pull this off again. They think he’s worthless, somehow tainted by being so visibly queer. They think he can’t make this team into something great. And, maybe he can’t. He doesn’t know. But like hell is he not going to do everything he can to prove them wrong. 

Ilya’s coming for the cup. He’ll win it by himself if that’s what it takes.

🚬

When Ilya bought his house in Boston, he’d picked a real estate agent by recommendation from Marlow and told the woman he wanted something private and interesting. She showed him several listings, and he picked the most abstract, unusual house he laid his eyes on because he had money and he could. He’s got next to no opinions on interior layouts beyond is there a spot to put a bed and a space to keep some home gym equipment so he doesn’t have to drag himself out of the house just to lift weights in the off-season. 

Still, he can’t help the snort that escapes him when he pulls into the drive of the house he’s buying. He shifts the car into park, ignores the way Svetlana peers at him with raised brows. 

It’s different, this house. Instead of being isolated, it’s situated in a small, gated neighborhood a short drive from the stadium. There’s some level of privacy—a carefully trimmed hedge surrounding the property and separating it from the neighboring houses—but the houses are all clustered much closer together than Ilya’s used to. The house itself has Shane Hollander written all over it, too, all classic architecture and warm-toned brick instead of the harsh, industrial exterior of Ilya’s Boston home. 

He loves it. 

Farah waits for them on the front steps. She looks exactly how Ilya expects her to—smartly dressed in a matching pantsuit, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and a polite smile painted on her lips. They shake hands when he approaches, and her grip is firm and steady. “Ilya,” she says, “lovely meeting you in person. Excited to see the house?” 

“Yes.” It’s the truest yes he’s given all day. 

Inside is…cozy, almost. The floors are polished wood—real wood, according to Farah—and everything is open and airy. It reminds Ilya of what he saw of Shane’s cottage on that stupid TV special that aired last year. He wanders from the living room with its large windows overlooking the trees in the backyard to the kitchen with all its sleek, dark-stained cabinets, Svetlana trailing behind him and eyeing him as if he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has. 

“It’s a four bed, three and a half bath house,” Farah tells him. “There’s a finished basement that can be used as a home gym or office or flex space, as well as a double garage.” Practical. Ilya hums, tugging on the door to the fridge to peer inside. It’s a large refrigerator, clean and empty with several shelves and deep produce bins. 

“The inspection came back clean, as well—everything looks to be in working order and to code. Sound roof, solid foundation…I have the final paperwork with me, if you’re ready to close. You can take the keys today.” 

Ilya perks up. “I can take keys today?” 

“Yes, if you’d like.” 

“Are you sure, Ilyusha?” Svetlana asks quietly. And, it’s strange, almost, hearing the echo of his mother tongue in this empty Canadian suburban house. Stranger still is how unfazed his agent is, watching Svetlana speak to him with words she cannot comprehend. “We can look at more houses, if you like.” 

“No, I am sure.” He looks at Farah, then, says in English, “Where do I sign?” 

Several minutes and a stack of legal papers later, and Farah drops a shiny, freshly cut key into his open palm. And just like that, Ilya has a house to call his own. He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo, sending it off to Shane before he can think twice about it. 

His phone buzzes almost immediately. 

Jane (2:34PM)

Did you get the keys today???????

Me (2:35PM) 

yes)))

i am homeowner now

very responsible

Jane (2:36PM)

That’s awesome!

When are you going to start moving in? I guess right away? 

I can send you a list of movers in the area to help with furniture. Or at least the ones my parents like. 

I also get back on Friday so I can come help unpack. If you want. 

Ilya stares at his phone, heart kicking in his chest. There’s that offer again. There’s the olive branch Ilya’s too damn scared to reach for. He sucks in a breath, lips pressing into a line. Ilya knows he needs to say no. Needs to maintain this tenuous space, if only for the preservation of what little remains of his shredded heart. But still, when he tries to type the word out, he types instead, only if you can. A coward’s play, because at the end of the day, that’s what Ilya is. It’s all he’s ever been. The coward too afraid of this thing growing in the center of his chest, terrified of what it means, but also too afraid to be the one to stop it from growing there at all. 

Jane (2:36PM)

That’s awesome!

When are you going to start moving in? I guess right away? 

I can send you a list of movers in the area to help with furniture. Or at least the ones my parents like. 

I also get back on Friday so I can come help unpack. If you want. 

Me (2:37PM)

only if you can

Jane (2:38PM) 

Of course.

Here’s the movers my parents usually use [Moosebrothermovers.com] 

Fuck. Ilya stuffs his phone back into his pocket as if he can hide from the earnestness bleeding through Shane’s texts. But it’s impossible to do when he looks around and sees Shane’s fingerprints on every wall, every cabinet, all across these warm, wooden floors. 

He’s certain if he looks inward, he’ll find those same fingerprints all across the shredded bits of his heart. 

Ilya slips out onto the back porch. There’s a wooden deck out here, freshly stained to match the warm tones of the rest of the house. Wooden boards creak when he crosses them to lean against the railing and stare out at the slice of property he has to call his own. It’s not a large yard. Large enough to host, according to Farah. Ilya rifles through his pockets and pulls out his  nearly empty pack of cigarettes, plucking one free with deft fingers. He brings it to his lips, the hint of tobacco on his tongue soothing at something raw inside him. His hand returns to his pocket. Fishes free his lighter. He flicks it with his thumb, watches the flame flicker to life and waver in the chill of the afternoon. 

The door behind him slides open. Svetlana’s heels click against the wood underfoot. She stops beside him, arms wound tight around herself, breath steaming in the air from her lips. Her shoulder bumps against his own. She reaches out, plucking the lighter from his fingers and flicking it with a familiar ease, lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips for him. 

Ilya sucks in a greedy breath. Smoke burns inside his lungs, and he breathes easier at the comfort of it. 

Svetlana plucks the lit cigarette from his lips, taking a drag. There’s an imprint of her dark lipstick left behind on the white paper when she passes it back. Ilya puts it to his lips and sucks another drag, tension easing from his shoulders. 

Once, maybe, he would feel a tug of heat watching her leave lipstick stains all over his cigarette. He’d have tossed the cigarette aside, pressed her against the railing and licked at the tobacco taste lingering there on her lips. They’d both giggle and have some fun, and Ilya’d get to shrug away this crushing weight pressing against his sternum for a little while. 

Now, Ilya feels nothing when he passes the cigarette back. No curl of heat, no flicker of want. Nothing at all beyond the warm companionship he always feels whenever he’s with Svetlana. It’s strange. There’s almost definitely something wrong with him, he thinks. 

“Did you tell your Jane you got the house he suggested?” Svetlana asks. Ilya hums. 

“Sent him a picture of the key.” 

She arches a brow. “And, what did he say?” 

Ilya shrugs. Looks at the trees. They sway in the breeze, leaves rustling gently. “He offered to come help me unpack.” 

“You told him no?” 

He shakes his head. His fingers tap at the cigarette, sending ashes down into the clump of grass below. Svetlana tilts her head, studying him. 

“When is he coming?” 

Ilya shrugs again. “Weekend, maybe. I do not know. He might not come.” He probably won’t. Or, if he does, he’ll bring along his pretty little girlfriend to help. Extra hands, and all that. 

Svetlana plucks his cigarette from him, leaning her elbows on the railing. “I will stay and meet him,” she says, decisive and firm. Ilya scoffs at her. 

“I just said he may not come—he is just coming off a roadie.” 

His best friend huffs a puff of smoke directly into his face because she’s cruel, waving a hand when she passes back the cigarette. “He will come.” She says it with such conviction, Ilya feels he must believe her, even when hoping for such an outcome feels like wishing on an ill-fated star. 

So he nods once, stubbing out the cigarette against the railing without caring about the mark it’s sure to leave. The house is his, now, after all. May as well break it in. 

Svetlana pushes away from the railing and offers an arm. “Come, let us make ourselves pretty for your new team owners.” 

A smile quirks its way onto his lips. He takes her arm and lets Svetlana lead him back into his new house, doing his best to push Shane Hollander and all the many what-ifs that come with him from their endless swirl inside Ilya’s head.

Chapter End Notes

Hello again :) Here I am with yet another installment! Hopefully it's an enjoyable one :3 Thanks for reading! <33

Chapter 6: Making the Slapshot

Chapter Notes

“Dude. Are you, like, good?” 

Heat stings Shane’s face, and he wills his leg to stop bouncing. “Yeah,” he croaks. He flushes harder, ducking his head, and clears his throat. “Sorry.” His fingers find the strings of his hoodie to fiddle with instead, gaze flitting to the too-bright window. Peeks of green show through the haze of clouds. Shane tugs his hoodie string to his lips, chewing absently on it. His leg starts bouncing again despite his efforts, and he grimaces, muttering another, “Sorry.” 

Hayden simply raises his brows and shrugs. “You don’t gotta apologize, man, I’m just making sure you’re good. You’re usually not this jittery on the plane.” 

Shane chews harder on the hoodie string. No, he isn’t. Usually, Shane hunkers down and watches tape the whole flight, taking notes on what the team needs to focus on for improving. Sometimes he’ll be lured into watching a movie by J.J. or Mitty, or will listen to one of his audiobooks. 

But today. Today, there’s an itch beneath Shane’s skin, one he can’t rid himself of no matter how hard he tries. Because the second he gets off this plane, he’s climbing into his car and driving straight to Ottawa to see Ilya for the first time since he ran away. A plan Shane’s been catastrophizing over since the second Ilya didn’t outright tell him no. (He should go. Needs to go, actually, but will Ilya actually be happy to see him? What if he doesn’t actually want to see Shane but is too nice to tell him as much? What if Shane goes and Ilya shoots him down? What if what if what if.) 

So yeah. He kind of feels very much like crawling out of his own skin right now. Which is not super ideal for sitting quietly on a plane. 

Thank god Hayden’s his seatmate. 

“Do you maybe want to come over for dinner, tonight?” Hayden asks. “I can get Jackie to make your favorite chicken and rice combo.” 

Shane twitches in his seat. “Oh. Um. Sorry, I have plans tonight.” He looks out the window, again. The ground’s much more visible, trees and fields growing incrementally closer as they slip down in altitude. His leg bounces harder, anticipation churning in his gut. He can practically feel Hayden’s stare skewer him with how intensely he’s staring. His shoulders creep up, and he risks meeting that stare only to find open bafflement.

“Plans? What plans? You literally never have plans.” 

And, owch. “Gee, thanks, Hayd.” 

Hayden winces. “Sorry. You know what I mean, though. Since when do you have plans?” 

His face burns all over again, and Shane shrugs. Hayden seems to get it then, because he makes an exaggerated face. “Oh. God. Plans.” 

It takes a beat for Shane to recognize the mild horror there. He flinches, embarrassment slapping him with heat, and scowls. “No, not—not like that, oh my god.” Not that Shane would be opposed. But, no, there’s, like, zero chance Ilya will want to fuck him, all things considered. “I’m just—” His gaze flicks to the Schnieder on the other side of Hayden, whose head is tipped back, mouth ajar while he snores noisily. “—just. Going over to talk, maybe, and help out. That’s it.” 

“Uh huh. Sure.” 

Shane drops his hoodie string and resists the urge to jab Hayden with his elbow. “I’m serious,” he insists. He is serious. He’s so serious. This thing with Ilya is nothing. Ilya’s made that so fucking clear with every interaction they’ve ever had—the sex was just sex, nothing more, nothing less. It’s not Ilya’s fault Shane went and caught feelings and freaked out. He’s not going to make everything worse by having expectations, not when Ilya’s having the worst time right now and just. Needs support. And maybe it’s overstepping for Shane to try and be the one to give it, but fuck, Shane can’t help but be selfish just this once. 

Overhead, the seatbelt sign dings, the light coming on. Shane’s hands go to the buckle reflexively, checking. Sure enough, he’s still buckled in. He looks out the window again. The ground is even closer, now. They’ll be landing soon. 

“Okay, if you say so,” Hayden mutters. He lets it go, though, which, thank god. Shane thinks he might combust if he has to try and convince his best friend that he is not, in fact, running from the airport for a damn booty call or whatever the hell people call hookups nowadays. And combusting on a very public plane surrounded by his teammates who have no idea how utterly, horribly gay Shane is for Ilya Rozanov sounds like a hell he doesn’t want to experience. So he leans against the window and lets out a breath, watching the cityscape of Montreal and its outer suburbs draw closer and closer and closer. 

Landing takes about twenty minutes. Shane holds out until the wheels hit the tarmac before he fumbles for his phone, swapping it off of airplane mode. Immediately, he’s inundated with a plethora of notifications—mostly texts and news alerts. Though, one news alert in particular nearly has Shane dropping his phone. 

ESPN Alerts: Ilya Rozanov scratched from All Stars. 

He stares, stomach twisting and bile burning at the back of his throat. Fuck. Fuck. Shane taps his way to Ilya’s contact. There’s no new messages there. Shane isn’t sure if that’s better or worse. He swallows, gaze flicking helplessly back to Hayden, who frowns, brow pinched. 

“Shit. You guys seeing this?” Schneider rubs the heel of a hand into his eye, jaw cracking in a yawn. “Kind of insane they’re actually scratching the asshole.” He grins, then, smile cartoonish with his missing front tooth. “Guess this means you won’t have anyone trying to break your records this year, Hollzy.” 

Shane swallows, harsh, fingers twisting around the seatbelt.

Schnieder’s ugly laughter grates at Shane’s ears. He squeezes his eyes shut and bounces his leg and tries to not cry or scream or throw up. 

Hayden nudges at him. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low. “This is, like, super fucked up.” 

An understatement. Shane’s fingers itch with a want to grab his phone and text Farah, see if she knows, see if she can do anything. (Surely, this breaks some kind of rule, excluding Ilya like this. Surely, they could contest this.) Except, he’s got no reason to do that—he’s not Ilya and not anything to Ilya. Shane has no reason to be meddling in his personal affairs. 

So he’s left sitting on this stupid plane, waiting to be taxied to a gate, tapping to Ilya’s messages and staring, mind filled with a thousand things to say and no idea which is the right option. And so the loop goes, leaving Shane stuck saying nothing at all. 

🏒

Ottawa is a two hour drive from Montreal, barring weather or traffic. 

Shane makes it in an hour and a half. 

It’s not a drive he does super often. He comes to visit his parents a couple of times during the season, but more often than not, they come to Montreal to visit him. Even in the off season, Shane doesn’t really find himself in Ottawa—his new cottage is up in Lanaudiere, almost an hour outside of Montreal, and he retreated there for most of last summer. (His parents have a cottage up near his, too, just a short drive down the road. They’ve spent summers there for years.) 

So. Needless to say, it’s been awhile since he’s been…home. 

The house Ilya bought is sequestered within this nice, private neighborhood only a short drive from the stadium. Shane likes the neighborhood because despite its urban location, there’s space between houses. Not a lot, but enough for a decent yard and some tree cover. The houses are beautiful, too. Lots of brick and wood tones, something Shane’s partial to. 

God. He hopes Ilya likes the house Shane suggested. 

It’s not a hard house to find, if only because of the flashy sports car sitting in the drive. Shane slows, parking on the street one house down. His hands shake when he fumbles for his keys, twisting them to shut off the ignition. Shane stares out the windshield, heart thundering with wild abandon in his chest. There’s a lump in his throat. He swallows. It doesn’t go away. 

His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror and the reflection of the sleek car in the drive. Shane’s seen it splashed across tabloids with Ilya’s rendezvous that make the mainstream news every so often. Ironically, it’s probably one of Ilya’s most inconspicuous cars—Shane’s seen photos of several that are brightly colored. This one, at least, is all dark and neutral, the dying sun glinting off the glossy paint. But it’s still so very Ilya, and Shane’s breath stutters in his chest, reality catching up with him with a sudden ferocity. 

He’s. He’s here. In Ottawa. He’s going to see Ilya. 

Oh, fuck. 

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, head hitting the steering wheel as he tries to just breathe. God, what if Ilya doesn’t want to see him? What if this is all one big stupid mistake? 

Hayden’s words float through his head—you miss every shot you don’t take. Shane swallows, breathes. Fuck. Hayden’s right, and Shane kind of hates it because he’s just gotta try. So he gives himself a minute to try and quell the racing of his heart before fumbling his way out of the car. 

His hand shakes when he jabs the doorbell. Shane stuffs it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, shivering against the chill of the evening. There’s a beat, and then footsteps. The door swings open to reveal a woman, and Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. 

She’s beautiful, the woman. Beautiful in the way that’s got a twist of something sharp and jealous gouging at Shane’s insides. She leans against the doorframe, plush lips pursed and perfectly manicured brow arched as she looks Shane up and down, her thick curls pulled up into a bun. “Shane Hollander,” she says, accent thick. “You are early.” 

And, that makes little sense. Shane blinks at her, body going tense. The woman moves, gesturing him inside. He shuffles into the entryway, toeing his shoes off next to the two pairs side-by-side in the entryway. 

“Where, um. Where’s Ilya?” Shane cringes beneath the sharp look tossed his way. He forces his shoulders back, gaze sticking somewhere on the woman’s dark cheekbone. (Eye contact is a weakness Shane’s never managed to overcome. He just. Can’t manage it. And he’s tried—his mom was on him so damn much as a kid, insisting he look people in the eye when talking to them. “It’s polite, Shane,” she’d say. “You can’t be looking at the floor like that.” He’s not entirely sure when he cracked the cheat code of looking at a spot on a person’s face, but sometime as a kid he figured out when he did that, people didn’t notice he wasn’t making eye contact. So that’s what he does. And god, he’s grateful for that cheat code now—it gets him out of actually looking this woman in the eye, a notion that makes him vaguely nauseous.) 

The woman hums. “Kitchen.” She inclines her head, leading Shane further into the house. Which means he gets to stare at the large shirt hanging off her lithe frame, chest tight when the Adidas stripes on the sleeves register in his head. 

Ilya’s shirt. Fuck. 

It’s immediately apparent that Ilya’s just moved in the moment they step out of the main entryway—boxes fill the house. There’s boxes stacked in the living room around the haphazardly placed furniture, boxes piled into the kitchen. Ilya sits in the middle of them all, some small wire rack in pieces in front of him. His head jerks up when they draw close, and Shane watches in real time as Ilya’s eyes go wide the moment their gazes clash, heart swooping wildly in his chest. Shane stops short, breath catching. A miasm of feeling slams right into his sternum, and all he can do is stare. 

God, he’s beautiful. Has Shane always noticed how beautiful he is?

“You are here,” Ilya says quietly. Shane shrugs, helpless, gaze flitting from Ilya to the woman and back again. 

“Yeah…I uh. You. You said I could…? Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. I can. I can go—” 

“No, no! Sveta is not—we are not—no.” Ilya shakes his head, curls bouncing with the motion, lips pursing. He looks at the piece of wire wrack clutched in his hands, jaw working. “I want you here,” he says, then, so quiet Shane almost doesn’t hear him. But he does, and his throat goes impossibly tight, heart squeezing tightly. 

The woman—Svetlana, Shane’s brain supplies, pulling the name from a fleeting, offhand mention many hotel rooms ago—claps her hands together. “It is late. I will order us food. Shane Hollander, you will eat take away, yes?” 

Shane shakes his head, jerking his hands free of his pockets to wave her off. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine.” 

Svetlana squints at him. “You have eaten, already?” 

“Oh, uh. Well, no, but you don’t have to—” 

The look she pins him with has the refute dying a swift death in his throat. Svetlana tisks, arms crossing over her chest. Shane stares at the Adidas logo. It’s absolutely Ilya’s shirt, and he’s so fucking confused. 

“You have not eaten, and you think we will not feed you?” She huffs, shakes her head. “Stupid boys. I order food.” And then she stalks off, phone in hand, leaving Shane and Ilya alone together. 

Heat scorches his insides. He jerks his gaze to the stacks and stacks of boxes. Most of them appear to be labelled, but the way they’re labelled is wildly inconsistent. Several of them have words written in cyrillic, others had one or two words written across them in the sloppiest English Shane’s ever had the displeasure of looking at. He grimaces, looks back at a wide-eyed Ilya. “Where, uh. Where should I start?” 

Ilya shrugs. “Boxes are not packed well. Marlow and Conners helped, and they are dumb.” He says it the same way he calls Shane boring—with a layer of warmth that makes Shane think he maybe doesn’t mean it. Still. Shane turns, surveying the boxes with a frown. 

“Well…this wouldn’t be ideal, but maybe we can just work one box at a time? Figure out what’s in them and where you want it—anything staying in the kitchen can just be put away, stuff for somewhere else we put on the island in sections until it’s full?” 

There’s a look in Ilya’s eyes, a look Shane can’t quite parse. His lips quirk into a smile. “This is a good plan, yes. I will finish this and help. Start wherever.” He resumes fiddling around with the rack, nimble fingers plucking a tiny screw from a pile by his knee. 

Silence lapses between them. Shane starts on the closest stack of boxes, using his keys to tear through the sloppy duct tape holding it together. And, yeah, it becomes very apparent very quickly just how utterly disorganized the packing is. 

He pulls out a roll of toilet paper, and then a frying pan. 

He presses his lips together and swallows down the grimace. His skin prickles at the wrongness of it all, and Shane throws himself into fixing it by pulling it all out. Which means he gets an odd assortment of kitchen things—pans, pots, a bowl—toiletries, and knick-knacks. The toiletries and knick-knacks go on the island, the pots and pans go in cabinets. Shane picks the bottom cabinets near the stove, moving some dishware to an upper cabinet. 

“You are here sooner than I thought,” Ilya says, breaking the quiet. “You did not stop and visit with your girlfriend?” 

Shane almost drops a pan. Oh. Shit. Right. He grimaces, scratches at his cheek. “We uh, we broke up, actually.” I realized I’m gay, he doesn’t say. He could say it. Probably should, actually, but Shane can’t seem to make the words spill free from his lips. Instead, he manages, “We were…incompatible. So. It, um. It’s for the best.” He pauses. “We’re friends, now, but yeah. Not dating anymore.” 

Ilya’s brows scrunch, and he mouths incompatible as if testing the word out, and it really shouldn’t be as endearing to see as it is. Shane bites his lip and ducks his head, cheeks warm. He stoops to tuck the pan into the cabinet of choice, fingers brushing along the glossy doors. They’re nice enough cabinets. The finish on them is a good choice, gives the kitchen a more modern look without taking away from the warmth. Still, it’s definitely basic cabinetry, probably the same as most of the houses here, since a lot of contractors use the same or similar models across houses. Shane wonders if his interior designer has any contacts for custom cabinetry. Maybe he could shoot her an email. 

A shrill ringtone cuts through the quiet. Shane jolts, head whipping around. It’s Ilya’s phone—there’s a deep crease cut into his brow as he peers down at the screen, lips twisted in a way that looks almost…angry. 

He rises stiffly. “Sorry. I must take this.” Ilya turns and stalks towards the living room, phone going to his ear. He says something in Russian, voice sharp and angry. There’s a click, and the sliding door scrapes open, Ilya disappearing outside. It slams shut seconds later. 

Shane stares after him a moment, a knot of worry tangling in his gut. He wonders who it is. Or. He has some guesses, he supposes—this wouldn’t be the first time Ilya’s gotten phone calls from someone on the other side of the world. A sudden memory of Ilya jerking up off the couch and stalking out of the room, angry Russian streaming from his lips, plays in Shane’s head like a tape. He frowns, focus dipping back to the many boxes surrounding him. 

Well. Maybe he can at least…help with this. Lighten one burden or whatever. 

He’s several boxes deep when Svetlana wanders back into the kitchen. 

“Where is Ilyusha?” 

Shane jerks, startled, and blinks. He’s got balls of newspapers scattered around him, a page of it crumpling in his hand, one of Ilya’s plates in the other. “Oh, hey. He um. He had a phone call…I think he’s out on the deck.” 

Svetlana glances that way, lips pursed. “Hmm. Food will be here soon.” She surveys the kitchen, then, brows raising. “This is…very messy.” 

Somehow, messy feels almost like an inadequate description. Shane makes a face, gaze sweeping from the newspapers and stack of plates to the mess of an island, and huffs a sigh. “Yeah, nothing is very organized, like, at all.” He winces, then, stammering out, “Not—not that it’s a bad thing obviously, I mean, you guys did kind of have to throw everything together. But, I mean. Um.” 

“It is okay, organization was last thing Ilyusha cared about.” Svetlana picks her way around the boxes, dropping down next to Shane. She reaches in, pulls out another newspaper-wrapped plate. Her nimble fingers make quick work of unwrapping it, and the plate clicks against the others when Svetlana sets it on the growing stack. “I am glad you are here, Shane Hollander,” she says, then. “I have wanted to meet Jane for a long time.” 

Oh. Shane freezes, eyes going wide. Svetlana smiles, and warning bells blare through Shane’s head. 

“Ilyusha is family. I love him. I would kill for him.” She leans, pulls out a bowl. Paper rustles, and Svetlana pulls the bowl free of its newspaper wrappings. “He is very important to me. I want him to be happy.” The bowl goes next to the plates. Svetlana pulls out another. “He seems to care a lot about you. More than anyone, I think. But he is not good at admitting these things.” 

Well. That makes two of them, Shane thinks. He bites his lip, gaze flicking to the glass doors. Ilya paces past the window, shoulders hunched. He’s not wearing a jacket. Something pangs in Shane’s chest, and he frowns. Shit, it’s cold as hell outside. Should he go grab one for Ilya? Or should he wait? He doesn’t want to interrupt the phone call. It seemed important. 

The doorbell echoes through the house. Svetlana sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “Food is here. Go get Ilyusha.” She doesn’t give Shane a chance to respond, standing and making for the door without so much as a backwards glance. 

He looks back at the door. Ilya’s out of view, now. Shane stands, pads around the boxes towards the living room. 

It’s spacious, the living room. The wood floor blends the kitchen and living room together, making the transitions feel seamless. Shane eyes the familiar, plush couch. The movers left it in the middle of the room, crooked and facing the wall the TV is already mounted on. He frowns at it, stomach twisting a little remembering the last time he sat on it, and tries to tell himself it’s how crooked it is that’s bothering him and not—well. Better to not think about it. 

Shane tugs open the sliding door and steps out onto the deck, shivering at the biting chill hanging in the air. 

Ilya leans against the railing, no longer on the phone. He glances Shane’s way. 

“Food’s here,” Shane says lamely, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Svetlana’s getting it from the delivery guy now.” 

Slowly, Ilya turns until his back is to the railing. He’s only wearing a t-shirt and must be fucking freezing, but he stands with arms crossed and phone dangling from his fingers like it’s nothing, eyeing Shane from across the deck in the way that’s got something warm curling in Shane’s gut. 

“Compatible,” he says. “I looked it up.” 

Shane blinks. “Oh. Yeah?” 

“Yes. You and Rose were not compatible.” 

A smile curls onto Shane’s lips. “No. No, we weren’t.” 

Ilya hums. His breath fogs in the darkening evening air. Shane shivers, jams his hands in his armpits. “C’mon, it’s cold as fuck.” 

That gets a wide, brilliant grin. Shane’s stomach swoops, and he grins right back. 

Stepping inside feels like curling up in a heated blanket. A breath eases from Shane when the door thumps shut. He can see goosebumps on Ilya’s arms, but he seems unbothered as he pads past Shane to where Svetlana’s spread dinner over the large, glass coffee table. Shane has no idea where she’s gotten it from, but he sees a bowl of quinoa with diced peppers, red onions, corn, and other vegetables, and a bag of corn chips. He sits, takes it gratefully. 

Dinner is a quiet affair. Svetlana gently ribs Ilya, tells Shane about some of the shit they got up to as kids. “Have you told Shane Hollander about the time you were chased by a, what is word…bee?” 

Ilya scowls into his own bowl. He’s sitting with his back against the couch, knees drawn to his chest, bowl balancing precariously on them. “I do not know what you speak of. There was no bee.” 

“There was! You screamed like little girl and ran several meters.” 

“I did no such thing!” 

“Yes, you did! Do not lie, Ilyusha.” 

“It is not lying, is truth. I would never run from a stupid bee.” Ilya sniffs, jabbing his fork into his bowl. “I was only trying to move away so the bee would not sting me.” 

Shane can’t help but laugh. And, maybe it’s the lighting, but he thinks he can see the flickers of a smile through the exaggerated scowling Ilya’s doing, too. It’s nice. Really nice. The food is good and the company is better, and it hits Shane that this is the longest time he and Ilya have simply sat in a room together and just. Talked. He finds that he likes it a lot. Thinks that maybe he wants to do this all the time. 

Or, well. Maybe not all the time—he wants to do other things, too. But. Sitting and watching Ilya bicker with Svetlana has Shane feeling warm and tingly inside, something he never would have imagined feeling in a thousand years. Like. Ever. He’s almost tempted to pinch himself, just to make sure this is all real. Did he really get off the plane and drive all the way out to Ottawa, or is this some wild, insane dream? Shane settles for pressing his hands flat on the floor, feeling the cold bite of the polished wood against his skin, and it’s such a vivid, grounding sort of sensation, Shane thinks he must be awake. 

Svetlana sighs. “Well. It is very late. I think I will go to bed now. ” She smiles, gaze glittering strangely as she looks at them both. “I have early day tomorrow.” 

Ilya frowns. “Early? What do you mean?” 

She stands, stooping to clear the take away containers. “I have flight to Boston, tomorrow.” 

This is apparently news to Ilya, who practically gawks at Svetlana, the surprise written plainly on his face. “You are leaving tomorrow? Since when?”

Svetlana shrugs, eyes rolling. “I need to be back at work. And, you do not need me here.” She looks at Shane pointedly, brows raised, and, oh. Shane’s face blazes, and he ducks his head and wonders about the merits of crawling beneath the floorboards, heart flip-flopping wildly in his chest. He wants to insist Svetlana doesn’t need to leave on his account—he’s just here to help, not. Not that. But his face is burning so much he’s almost dizzy, and the words stick uncomfortably in his throat. And, anyway, Ilya starts speaking in clipped Russian, the unfamiliar words rattling like loose change in Shane’s head. Svetlana seems entirely unphased, spitting something right back with a grin Shane thinks looks almost sly. She looks at Shane, then, smile softening around the edges. 

“It was nice to finally meet you, Shane Hollander,” she tells him. Shane blinks, flushing. 

“Um. You too.” 

And then she’s gone, strolling further into the house, leaving Shane alone with Ilya. 

All at once, the room feels heavy. Shane swallows, throat tight, and presses his palms flat against the floor again. He’s all too aware of the way his shirt collar rubs at the back of his neck, of where his back presses into the couch, the feeling of his socks rubbing against his toes. 

Ilya looks at him, and Shane’s breath catches. His skin feels as if someone’s holding a lit match to it, blistering beneath the scrutiny. Ilya’s lips curve into a smile that feels almost predatory. He leans further against the couch, head tipping back just a little. “So. You and Rose Landry are…not compatible?” 

Shane huffs a laugh. Shakes his head. “No. No, uh, turns out you kind of have to like women to date them.” 

Ilya’s brows raise. “You do not like women?” 

And, oh, the tight feeling in his throat is back. Shane shakes his head. His shirt collar brushes against the back of his neck and Shane has the hysterical thought of tearing the offending piece of clothing off. He doesn’t. Just. Thinks about it. “No. I—I mean, I like women as, like, people, or whatever, but not…um. Not the I-want-to-have-sex-with-them, way.” He cringes. Wow, eloquence has really escaped him now, hasn’t it? Shane sucks in a breath. Blurts out, “I’m gay. Like. Fully gay.” 

There’s a beat. A horrible, terrible beat where Shane feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff too steep to jump off of safely, and he’s afraid he might’ve just slipped right off it. And then Ilya’s face cracks into a smile, a quiet chuckle spilling from his lips. “Ah. Yes, of course. Shane Hollander, too gay for women. Makes sense.” 

Shane sputters, opting to flip him off. “Shut up. You know what I mean.” 

Ilya just laughs again. He shifts, pushing onto his hands and knees, and crawls the short distance to crowd Shane up against the couch, one hand finding a home on his side, fingers brushing dangerously beneath the hem of Shane’s t-shirt. The flame burning his skin flares into a blazing fire, and Shane gasps, head thumping back against the couch cushion. Ilya’s lips ghost across Shane’s neck, brush against his cheek. 

“Hmm. Maybe you show me, just to be sure,” he says, teasing, teeth nipping at Shane’s cheek. Heat blooms in Shane’s gut, a haze draping over him like a curtain. It’d be so easy to sink into it, to let Ilya kiss him until his brain melts out of his ears and he’s a puddle on the hardwood floor. Part of him aches for it. Yearns for it, even, because it’s been so goddamn long. But some thread of awareness snags at the edges of Shane’s thoughts, and he slides a hand up, pressing on Ilya’s chest to push him back just enough to catch his gaze. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, “hold on.” 

Ilya raises his brows. “What, you have more important things to discuss than getting your dick sucked?” 

Fuck. Shane’s gaze flicks to those damning lips, mouth suddenly dry. He swallows. Forces himself to look Ilya in the eye. “Kind of. I mean. I just—” He sucks in a breath. Another. “I’m sorry. For running away.” 

Immediately, any and all levity leaves Ilya in a rush. He draws back, slumping heavily against the couch next to Shane. “It does not matter,” he says, which is a stupid thing to say for something that sure as hell seems to matter a lot. 

“Well I am,” Shane says, pressing square on the obvious, metaphorical bruise. “It’s just…it was different. You know?” 

Ilya scoffs, arms curling tightly around himself. “No, I do not know. What we do is simple, Hollander. We get together, we fuck, easy.” 

“Bullshit.” Shane turns, drawn in by everything that is Ilya. He’s always been drawn in by Ilya. He’s always shied away from acknowledging it, too, until now. Now…now, all he can do is acknowledge it. So he says the words that’ve been playing on a loop inside his head: “I like you, Ilya.” 

Shane doesn’t really know what he expects, exactly. He knows what he wants—a smile, a kiss, maybe a matching declaration. What he gets instead is Ilya shaking his head, jaw tense. “You do not like me, Hollander.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Shane’s hands curl into fists, knuckles pressing into the floor. “I like you too much, probably. And I think you like me too.” 

“No,” Ilya insists, “no. You do not. You cannot.” 

Which. What the fuck does he mean, Shane can’t like him? That makes no sense. “Fuck you,” he snaps, “you can’t just decide how I feel. That’s not how this works.” 

Ilya just shrugs, careless like he tends to be whenever they’re together. “Is true. We get together, we fuck, we go our seperate ways. Simple.” 

“Bullshit.” Shane’s voice comes out sharp, louder than he intended. It echoes a little in the half-furnished house. He sucks in a breath. Another. Swallows harshly, jaw working. “Nothing about this is simple. It hasn’t been simple for awhile. Probably…probably never was.” 

Maybe it’s too much to say, but it’s the truth. Shane’s been hopelessly entangled since the first moment he laid eyes on Ilya leaning up against the brick building outside of Saskatchewan. Ilya’s expression twists, and he ducks his head, huffing a breath. 

“We cannot be anything, Hollander.” 

Shane’s heart twists, throat going tight. Because that’s just the fucking kicker, isn’t it? They can’t be. Not really. Not in the way everyone else can be. They’re rivals. Pitted against each other by the NHL. Their clubs make—or did make, in Ilya’s case—so much money off of their rivalry. So much is invested in it—air time, headlines, thousands of articles, fan events, even. Their own careers are built off of it, for fuck’s sake. Trying to be anything else risks bursting the precarious bubble of this godforsaken rivalry and sending everything toppling down on top of them both. So he gets it. He does. But, still, Shane finds himself asking, “Would you want to be? If we could?” 

“It does not matter, Shane.” Ilya looks at Shane with visible agony, as if Shane’s flayed him with his quiet, stubborn, selfish question. “I cannot let this happen to you, too. I won’t. Not for me, not when I am…” Ilya’s throat works, and he looks away, eyes shining. “I am no good.” His voice fractures, and Shane’s heart fractures with it. “Am too…messy.” Ilya shakes his head, one hand lifting to press against his lips, body curling in on itself as if bending beneath the weight of all the pain he’s carrying. 

It’s impossible to not reach for him. Shane grasps at Ilya’s shoulder, tugging him close. They slot together with a practiced ease, Ilya clutching at Shane tightly, as if afraid Shane will disappear if he doesn’t. So he curls his arms around Ilya as tight as he can, fingers twisting into the fabric of his t-shirt, and holds him. A hundred words ping-pong inside Shane’s  head, words of gentle reassurance, words to refute Ilya’s insistence that he’s no good, something to soothe the tremble he feels from the strong body in his arms. But which words are the right ones? Which words will be the correct salve for these gaping wounds? Shane doesn’t know (he never seems to know, most of the time, and it gouges at him now, sharp and painful), and the many words he has get trapped in his throat. He kisses Ilya’s forehead instead, trying to say all the right things with this singular, wordless gesture instead. 

Ilya shudders in his grasp, grip on Shane going tighter. He buries his face in Shane’s shoulder, curling impossibly smaller, whole body shaking with soundless sobs. Shane nuzzles him, clutches him as if he’s something precious, heart split open and bleeding in his chest. 

“Sorry,” Ilya mumbles. Shane shakes his head. Strokes a hand up the planes of Ilya’s back. 

I’m the one who’s sorry, he wants to say. I’m sorry you got outed. I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I wish I could make it stop. But he can’t manage to say any of those things, either, so he kisses Ilya’s head again and rocks him, gentle and slow, and doesn’t say a word when he feels his t-shirt grow damp on his shoulder.

Chapter End Notes

It is I, once again here with yet another update XD Hopefully it's an enjoyable one! Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter 7: Cry My Eyes Violet

Chapter Notes

WARNING: This chapter contains sexual content. Readers, please be advised.

One of Ilya’s youngest memories was the day he tripped and fell in the street. He doesn’t remember why he was running. That part’s escaped him, eroded away over the years. What he does remember is skinning his knee so badly, several layers of skin hung in an awkward, bloody flap, and how the hurt radiated down to his bones. Ilya sobbed, clutching at his leg with his little hands as if that would stop it from hurting. 

It was Alexei who pulled him to his feet, then. “Stop crying, Ilyushka,” he said, eyes rolling dramatically. “You’re being a wuss.” 

Ilya had not stopped crying. Not the whole way home. His father was the one who pulled open the front door, home for once, and took one look at him, severe face creasing into a deeper frown, and said, “Men don’t cry, Ilya. You want to be a man, don’t you?” 

He did. Of course he did. Father pursed his lips, inclining his head. “Your mother is in there. Get cleaned up and stop crying.” 

So he did. He scrubbed at his face and limped into the kitchen, where his mother dropped what she was doing at the very sight of him, dropping to her knees and cradling his red, blotchy face in her gentle, lithe hands, cooing, “Oh, Ilyushenka, what happened?” 

His lip wobbled, but he swallowed down the tears, his brother and father’s words echoing in his head. Men don’t cry. Don’t be a wuss. Keep your chin up, don’t be weak. Don’t be a wuss. 

Ilya didn’t cry much, after. Not even when his mother died. 

(That’s a lie. He cried once, after the wake, when he was alone and curled beneath his covers, stifling his sobs in his pillow.) 

He hates crying. Hates the weak feeling that comes with it. Like he’s been cracked wide open for all the messy, scarred over bits of him to be seen by anyone looking his way. There’s a bite of humiliation sawing into his skin when he comes back to himself, bit by bit, all too aware of the tight grip of Shane’s strong arms encircling him, a warm hand trailing a path up and down his spine. Ilya stiffens, throat working, and pushes himself free of the safety in the hollow of Shane’s neck. 

“Sorry,” he croaks again. He scrubs his face with the heel of his hand, sniffing as if that’ll hide away the evidence of his own weakness. It doesn’t, and he’s met with the unwavering worry of Shane Hollander, complete with a notched brow and pretty lips pulled into a frown. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Shane says softly. He reaches up, cradling Ilya’s cheek with an achingly gentle touch, thumb sliding along his cheekbone in a soft caress. And, gods, is it too easy to melt in Shane Hollander’s hands as if he were an ice cube in the summer. Ilya lets out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering shut. 

He can’t help being sorry. Shane’s here being so damn open, so earnest, giving Ilya all his secret longings on a silver platter, and all he’s given back is a load of bullshit.

You deserve a happy ending, Marlow told him. Thing is, Ilya isn’t so sure he does. Shane is good. Kind. He’s here with Ilya, sure, but he’s not sure Shane would be if Ilya hadn’t gone and fucked up so spectacularly that he blew his entire career into a thousand tiny pieces. Maybe he would be. Shane insists he likes Ilya enough to be. But, would he like Ilya as much as he says if he knew the bitterness lodged in his chest? The gaping, yawning grief there where his heart should be? Would he like Ilya if he knew that Ilya was a coward who ran away from home the second he could, and pretended for the longest time that his father wasn’t as sick as he is? 

Ilya knows one thing: he doesn’t deserve Shane Hollander. Even letting Shane hold him so gently is a devastatingly selfish act. He can’t make himself stop being selfish, though. No, Ilya is plagued by this damned yearning, wishing desperately for things he has no business wishing for. Sex, at least, is an easy distraction, a means to pretend he needs for nothing else. Why waste time aching for Shane to hold him like he’s worth something when he can revel instead in the blazing trails Shane rakes down his back as he pistons into him? 

It’s why this is so dangerous. Letting Shane cradle his face. 

He watches, entranced, as Shane stares, lips pursed and eyes searching, something uncertain glittering in those pretty doe eyes of his. Whatever he’s searching for, he must find, because it melts away, leaving behind a softness that’s got Ilya’s chest splitting open anew. And then Shane’s dipping forward and kissing Ilya so damn sweetly, it makes him dizzy. A sound tears from him. He clings to Shane with everything he’s got, kisses him back with a feverish desperation. It’s the tamest kiss they’ve ever had, he thinks, and still somehow it leaves Ilya damn near gasping for air when Shane draws back. He doesn’t go far, keeping their foreheads pressed together, breath tickling Ilya’s lips. 

“I like you,” Shane repeats, soft and low. “So fucking much. I don’t want to pretend I don’t, anymore.” 

Fear twists sharply at Ilya’s insides. He swallows, fingers twitching where they cling to Shane’s t-shirt. Shane soothes at the sharp edges of the fear with another careful swipe of his thumbs—it makes Ilya feel…held. A feeling he’s not had in a long, long time. 

“I know we can’t be anything. Not. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I’m not asking for that. I just. I just don’t want to pretend that this is nothing. I can’t do that. Not anymore.” 

God. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. He feels as if Shane’s stuck his hand inside his chest and is squeezing his heart. Except, no, Shane isn’t squeezing, is he? He’s sitting here on Ilya’s lap holding Ilya’s heart so fucking gentle it’s got Ilya’s breath shaky. Distantly, Ilya thinks he should push back, tell Shane no. He can’t stop pretending because the moment he does, this insatiable want will consume him whole. 

What he says instead is, “Okay,” because when faced with Shane nuzzling him like this, gazing at Ilya with such open earnestness, any resolve to protect the flayed bits of his heart crumple to dust. 

Shane kisses him again. A soft press of lips, firm, warm, familiar. Heat blooms inside Ilya when those lips part, letting the kiss deepen. He tastes Shane and it tastes like home. There’s a hint of dinner, of the ginger ale Shane’s been nursing because Ilya insisted on stocking some just in case he actually came, of something entirely unique to Shane. Ilya chases the taste, licking into Shane’s mouth with an easy familiarity, tongue curling around Shane’s in a way that’s got Shane groaning so pretty into the kiss. His hands slide down, down, fingers brushing just beneath the t-shirt hem. 

It’s a familiar song and dance, this thing between them. Heat blooms inside Ilya’s gut, burns at his skin with a need to press his hands to bare skin, to chase Shane’s lips, dizzy and addicted to the taste of that damned ginger ale. Shane’s hands slip from his face to tangle in his hair, the pinprick tugging of his curls making Ilya’s toes curl. 

Except, this time, it’s Shane who presses Ilya back down onto the floor. It’s Shane who trails a hand down his side, his hip, hitches Ilya’s leg up. And, oh, fuck—he arches up, grinding against Shane, arousal licking up his spine at the press of a hard dick against his own. His own hands find a home on Shane’s hips, gripping tightly, encouraging the sensual roll of hips. Again and again, slow, deliberate. It burns, a little, the trappings of his underwear and pants rubbing against his dick almost abrasively, and still, somehow it feels so fucking good. Their kisses grow sloppy, wet. No words pass between them. None need to. No, they say everything they need with every touch, every slide of their lips. I need you. I missed you. Keep going, don’t leave. Don’t ever leave. Heat builds and builds until it boils over, and Ilya gasps into Shane’s mouth, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he comes. 

Shane follows right after, shuddering apart atop Ilya so beautifully, it’s got Ilya’s breath catching in his throat. He melts, heavy as he slumps against Ilya, face burying itself in the crook of his neck. A huff of a laugh escapes him. He curls an arm loosely around Shane, fingers trailing up and down his spine in a reflexive caress. 

Ilya could stay here like this forever, probably. 

Shane hums, kisses at the junction of Ilya’s jaw. And then he’s rolling off, grimacing down at his sweats with their very obvious wet patch. He grins down at Ilya, though, all bright and warm and sending Ilya’s heart kicking wildly in his chest. “C’mon,” he says, offering a hand. Ilya takes it, lets Shane haul him onto strangely wobbly legs. He expects, maybe, for Shane to let go, to wander off towards the bedroom or bathroom to clean up. Instead, Shane’s fingers entangle with his own, and he tugs Ilya along, leading him around the stacks of boxes containing the bits and pieces of Ilya’s life. “This way, right?” he asks. Ilya grunts a yes. Squeezes the fingers in his grasp tightly, because he can. 

Shane squeezes right back. 

🚬

Ilya feels a little like he’s living a dream. He wakes up to Shane Hollander in his bed, curled in his arms with his head tucked beneath Ilya's chin as if this is something they do all the time. Their legs are tangled together. Sheets are wrapped around them. He blinks, vision smearing and throat going tight, presses his nose into Shane’s sleep-mussed hair. 

Fuck. A vice grips Ilya, iron-tight. He breathes in, eyes squeezing shut, and tries to forget the last time he had this. 

Sunlight warms the rooms just enough to chase away the night’s shadows. Somewhere beyond the bedroom, he hears shuffling around—Svetlana, probably. Ilya doesn’t dare look for his phone. Hardly dares to breathe, even. 

Shane wakes anyway. A huff of a breath tickles Ilya’s collarbone, and Shane shifts, nuzzling impossibly closer. It’s impossible to not curl his arms tighter around him, to not kiss his head. 

“Wa’ time s’it?” Shane mumbles. Ilya hums. 

“Don’t know. Early.” 

Neither of them make a move to find out. No, they stay, lingering in this soft, hazy in-between. Ilya stares out into the mess of his bedroom, gaze tracing over the random boxes stacked by the dresser, the mirror propped there against the wall. He probably should have paid someone to hang it, for him. Could have, probably—the movers Shane directed him to had asked if he wanted them to do some of these little tasks. Ilya’d turned them down. He’s not really sure why he did. He just. Wanted them gone. 

What inevitably draws them out of their little cocoon of bliss is a sharp knock on the door. 

“Ilyusha,” Svetlana calls. “I am leaving. Come say goodbye.” 

They find themselves in the skeleton of the kitchen. Ilya doesn’t have much in the way of groceries—Shane sits on one of his barstools at the kitchen counter, a glass of tap water in hand while Ilya hugs Svetlana. 

“I am jealous,” she tells him in Russian, because she’s mean and likes to talk shit in front of people. “He is too beautiful for you. It is very important to me that you know this.” 

Ilya bites his lip, eyes rolling. “Yes, well, Shane is also very gay, so.” 

Svetlana grins. “Shame.” She looks at Shane, her grin softening to something gentler, easier. “It was very nice to meet you, Shane Hollander,” she says in English, swooping across the distance to kiss him square on the cheek. Which, of course, has Shane blushing bright red. 

“Um. You too,” he says awkwardly, shoulders to his ears. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. Ilya wants to squish him. How is it that a man can be so…so utterly squishable? He sways in place, some invisible string he can’t see tugging him to Shane with relentless abandon. It takes effort to keep his feet planted. Svetlana sees it, too, if her wicked grin is anything to go on. She kisses Ilya on the same cheek she kissed Shane on, leaving behind a sticky imprint of her lip gloss. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Ilyushenka.” 

And, oh. Ilya blinks, ducking his head and ignoring the way the kitchen goes a little blurry around the edges. 

She leaves, then, and the house feels a little emptier. 

(The boxes don’t help. Ilya knows this. But, also, Svetlana’s been a steady constant during some of the lowest points in his life. He feels steadier with her there. Always has. But then Shane’s arms wind around him, chin hooking over his shoulder, and Ilya feels steady again. A realization that’s got Ilya gripping at the edge of the countertop for dear life.) 

“So. What’re we doing for breakfast?” 

Ilya makes a face. “I need to go to store.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Shane says, huffing a laugh. “There’s a Loblaws not far from here, I’m pretty sure. And a Farmboy, which is better.” 

The store names are wholly unfamiliar. Ilya wrinkles his nose. It’s not his first time immigrating to a new country, but it still makes him dizzy, almost, realizing all the familiar stores and brands he’s used to aren’t here—like he’s misstepped walking down the stairs. “Okay. I will go to this ‘Farmboy’ place, then. They are open, yes?” 

“Yeah, should be.” Shane noses at Ilya’s neck, the casual affection sending sparks swooping through Ilya’s gut. He entangles his fingers with Shane’s, clinging to them tightly. Leans against Shane’s warm, firm body, because he can, because he’s allowed right now. He feels Shane press a smile into his neck. 

“I can keep working on unpacking stuff while you run to the store and get some food.” 

Which is how Ilya finds himself at the grocery store not even ten minutes later. He parks his car in the half-full lot, squinting at the weird logo over the fancy looking storefront. There’s not a ton of people here, yet—a small blessing, Ilya thinks. The less people around, the smaller the chances he’ll be recognized. Not that Ilya’s gotten stopped much before. Living in Boston afforded some level of anonymity in the sense that America isn’t as…intense…about hockey in general. Hockey fans are intense, but most people in Boston aren’t hockey fans. 

‘Course, comparatively, Ilya tends to be recognized more than most. Perks of being the best. 

He climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut. Ilya shoves his keys into his sweats’ pocket and makes his way inside. 

It’s probably one of the fancier groceries Ilya’s been to in awhile. He didn’t stop at the store much in Boston—he had a delivery service set up around his schedule. Easy and convenient. In Russia, he also didn’t do much of the shopping. But he knows they frequented higher end places. Father wouldn’t have them do otherwise. 

Ilya grabs a basket and wanders the aisles. He’s not planning on getting much—just some essentials, like bread, coffee, eggs. There’s a pack of donuts that he snatches up, hankering for something sweet. 

He’s not sure what to get for Shane.

Ilya stands in the middle of an aisle for minutes too long, frowning at the contents on the shelves, mind filled with TV static. He should probably pick up some protein powder and supplies for a smoothie. But…what kind? Should he just stick with the brand he usually gets? Do they even have it here? Shane probably has a preferred brand, but Ilya has no idea what it is. He doesn’t even know what Shane usually eats for breakfast, actually. They’ve only spent one meal together, and it ended in Ilya imploding their entire arrangement with one simple, stupid mistake. 

He bites his lip, considers grabbing his phone. Stares harder at the shelves in front of him, hand dangling uselessly next to him because texting Shane to ask what he wants Ilya to pick up feels like too much. 

“Excuse me.” 

Ilya stiffens, turns around. There’s a kid behind him, all wide-eyed and gawking, wearing a hoodie with the Centaurs’ logo splashed onto the front. 

“Are you Ilya Rozanov?” 

A smile warms his lips. “You are hockey fan?” 

He’s granted with a gap-toothed grin. “I play hockey! I wanna be just like Shane Hollander!” The kid flushes, squirming in place. “A—and you! You’re super cool! It’s really awesome you’re playing on the Centaurs now!” 

And, oh. Ilya’s smile threatens to split his face. He slides his basket up onto his arm. “You want an autograph?” he asks. 

The kid damn near cracks his own neck, he nods his head so hard. “Yeah, yes, oh my god! My mom has a pen—!” He whirls around, sprinting down the aisle to a woman squinting at the cereal boxes. Ilya watches him go, feeling strangely…warm. 

Maybe getting recognized isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

🚬

Ilya considers himself a tidy person. He knows how to clean up after himself, knows how to keep things organized. Sure, he never really did much of the actual cleaning back at Boston—perks of being paid millions of dollars to get hit with a hockey puck means he gets to pay for a cleaning service. But day-to-day maintenance of his space has always been on him. And he’s good at it! Always has been. Still. Staring into the cabinets now, Ilya’s discovering a whole new level of organization. 

Admittedly, he didn’t even realize he’d packed his spices away, but here they are, evenly spaced and organized by the latin alphabet. 

“Sorry if things aren’t where you want them,” Shane says. “I, uh, I just put things where I usually like them? Which. Maybe is a stupid move, you probably use your kitchen differently than I do, so—” 

Ilya turns and crosses the kitchen in two steps, pinning Shane against the island and kissing him. Desperation claws wildly at the inside of his chest—he presses against the firm line of Shane’s body, needing to feel the way he wreathes, the way his fingers latch onto the hem of Ilya’s shirt and cling as if Ilya is his only tether keeping him from becoming adrift. And, still, it’s not enough—Ilya is insatiable. There’s a yawning hunger inside him that can’t be quenched. No matter how hard he tries, he finds himself yearning for more and more, and now is no exception.

He detaches from the kiss and drops to his knees. The ache hardly registers. An afterthought in the burning, consuming need coursing through his veins. God, he needs this. Needs Shane. Needs to believe this is real, just for a minute. His hands find the waist of Shane’s sweats and underwear and tug down, exposing Ilya’s favorite glistening, half-hard cock. Fuck. He lurches forward and licks. 

“Oh, fuck, Ilya—” A strong hand latches onto Ilya’s curls, tugging. Heat twists in his gut, and Ilya laps messily at the head, the bitter taste of pre so damn addictive. He sucks down Shane’s dick the way he knows makes Shane go crazy, a feral glee igniting inside him at the guttural groan echoing through the kitchen. Shane tugs harder at Ilya’s hair, curling over at the waist, knees buckling with the effort of staying upright. And, fuck, the red of his cheeks, the white-knuckled grip he’s got on the countertop. Ilya thinks he’s never seen someone look so beautiful. 

Shane bucks, gasping, driving his dick down Ilya’s throat hard enough he chokes on it. His vision smears into a blur, and his grip on Shane’s hips goes tight. He sucks. Hard. Bobs his head just enough to feel Shane’s thighs tremble before the inevitable. There’s another pitched gasp, and then Shane goes tense, grip on Ilya’s curls bordering on painful. He shakes apart when he comes, swearing loudly. 

Ilya swallows every drop. 

“Fuck.” Shane drops, then, legs giving out. He collapses into a puddle in Ilya’s lap, head dropping down onto Ilya’s shoulder. “Guess I should wait to show you the closet,” he mumbles, warmth seeping out of his voice. Ilya huffs a laugh, unable to resist pressing his lips to Shane’s head. 

“Hmm, yes, maybe. Unless you want me to pin you to the floor and not let you up.” 

Shane laughs. Squirms. He pushes at Ilya, eyes glittering with mischief, and, god, the way Ilya’s heart swoops at the sight shouldn’t be allowed. 

“I think it’s my turn to pin you to the floor, actually.” 

He palms at the front of Ilya’s pants, then, and if Ilya goes down willingly, well. It’s his house. He’s more than allowed to let Shane Hollander suck him dry on his kitchen floor if he wants. 

Breakfast becomes something more like an early lunch as a direct result. Ilya doesn’t think Shane has any complaints. He knows he doesn’t. 

“You like eggs, yes?” Ilya eyes Shane over his shoulder, a curl of warmth searing across his insides at the sight of him squatting near the stove, pulling out a pan with an easy familiarity. (The yawning, insatiable hunger opens inside him like an endless pit. He wants. He wants so damn much it makes him dizzy. Ilya didn’t even know it was possible to want this much before meeting Shane Hollander. Now, all he does is want—something he fears will be the ultimate demise of him.) 

“Um. Yeah.” Shane straightens, sets the pan on the stove. He chews on his lip, gaze flickering between the stove and Ilya, brow knitting in a way Ilya can’t help but find adorable. “Though, um. I usually make my eggs into this, like. Omelet? I guess?” 

Ilya raises his brows. He looks at the contents of his fridge—still largely bare, with a half gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, some fruit. Cheese. And coffee creamer. Very much not all the ingredients needed to make the kind of omelets Ilya’s accustomed to making. “I do not have things for omelettes.” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says, nose wrinkled, “we don’t have any of the stuff for the kind of omelettes I like, anyway. Or the right pan.” 

A wild urge to go back to the store ensnares Ilya in a bruising grip, and he clutches at the fridge handle, sucking in a sharp breath. Stupid. He should have texted, should have bitten the bullet and asked Shane what he wanted. Maybe then he’d have all the things for these mystery, special omelettes. 

(He thinks about being ten years old and sitting at the kitchen table, fork and knife in hand while he demolishes the plate of fried eggs his mother put in front of him, Alexei elbowing him playfully from the chair next to his own, crumbs from his toast scattering on the floor.)

“It’s okay. I like scrambled eggs, too.” 

Scrambled eggs, Ilya can do. He shoos Shane to one of the barstools across the island and takes over, cracking eggs in a bowl and whisking them into a nice and smooth blend of yellow. The eggs sizzle the second Ilya pours them into the pan. He pulls out a spatula, lips twitching at the neatness of the silverware organizer, and sets to work. It takes almost no time at all to set down a steaming plate of eggs in front of Shane, sliding into the stool next to him with his own plate piled high. 

Normally, he’d have some slices of toast to accompany the eggs, but Ilya forgot to grab butter, and toast without butter seems hardly worth the effort. Shane doesn’t seem to notice or care about the lack of toast, tucking into his eggs with a fervor that’s got Ilya’s heart kicking against his ribs. He’s spoiled, now, he thinks, getting to sit and watch Shane eat eggs he’s made in a kitchen Shane’s spent the better part of the morning organizing. It’s almost unfair, knowing none of this is real in the way Ilya so desperately wants it to be. Knowing it can’t be. 

As if to prove his own point, Ilya’s phone starts ringing. He fumbles for it, pausing mid-chew when the contact on the screen registers. Father. 

The eggs go down like a lump of ash. 

“I must take this.” He pushes himself off the stool and stalks to the hall, thumb jabbing the button before he slaps the phone to his ear. 

“Ilya,” comes his father’s warbly voice, “where are you? Do you not know what time it is? You are keeping your mother waiting.” 

A lump sticks in Ilya’s throat. He leans against the wall, tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “Father, mother is dead.” The ceiling’s just like any other boring ceiling—there’s a single, inlaid circle light that’s not on halfway down the hall and a whole lot of white paint. 

“I…where am I? This. This isn’t my house.” Sounds of rustling and things falling echo from across the line. Ilya’s hand flexes, jaw working. All of a sudden, the distance between this half-furnished house and the soil he grew up on feels exponential. Regret sits bitter on the back of his tongue, there alongside the swelling nausea of guilt. 

“Where is Polina? Put Polina on the phone.” There is no world where Polina would want to talk to Ilya, but his father doesn’t know that. Not now. Not when he’s like this. Blyat. 

“Who?” Another clatter. “I do not know this Polina.” 

He’s a bad son. The worst. He’s left his father bumbling around a too-big house with no one to care for him in his ailing age, a father that would be horrified at the state of himself should he be aware enough to see it. “Father, please,” he begs, “get Polina, she is your wife.” 

“Ilyusha? Is that you? Why are you on the phone? Where are you?” 

The nickname hits Ilya like an axe to the chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, the heel of one hand pressing into his eye socket, and hisses a breath through his teeth. “Papa.” His voice cracks clean in half. “Papa, please, listen—I am not there. I am in America. You have a new wife, Polina. She should be there with you—” 

There’s another fumble, and the line goes dead. Ilya’s heart drops out of his ass. He fumbles to connect the call, only for it to go to voicemail. Tries again. And again. And every goddamn time, it goes right to voicemail, and Ilya’s drowning in this godawful helplessness and he hates it. He spits out a curse, fist slamming against the wall, and paces, back and forth across the short width of the hall, trying desperately to call a father who’s never liked him, who barely remembers him. 

“Ilya?” 

He pauses mid-step, head snapping up to see Shane hovering at the hall entrance, worry creased into his expression. Ilya’s jaw twitches. “Not now,” he snaps. “Just. Fuck.” His phone goes to voicemail. He slams a hand on the wall again, some horrible noise wrenching from him. Anger crackles to life inside him, then, quickly catching into a blazing inferno. It’s not fair. None of this is. Ilya shouldn’t be stuck here fielding calls from his ailing father—his brother should be. God only knows Ilya’s paid him too much of his Boston salaries to. 

But no. Alexei wanted to spend it all on blow. Or crack. Or whatever the hell the stupid drug is called. 

Ilya shouldn’t care. He should hate his father for the way he ruled their house with an unclenching, iron fist, icy and unfeeling at the best of times, cruel and unrelenting at the worst of them. Ilya has no good memories of his father. None. One of the reasons he wanted to play for the NHL was to get away, to crawl out from the thumb pinning him so tightly, it threatened to squash him like a pathetic little bug. 

Something wet drips down his face. Ilya scrubs at his cheeks, blinking at the blur of his phone screen. Blyat. Fuck. He grits his teeth, tries again. And again. And again and again and—

A familiar, strong hand snatches his phone away. Ilya snarls. “Give that back—!” He lunges, swiping for the phone. But Shane side-steps him easily, phone already tucked somewhere out of view. And it’s infuriating, somehow, that he’s been disarmed so easily. He lurches towards Shane, whole body bristling, only for those strong hands to find contact on his arms. 

He’s pinned to the wall before he can blink. Chest-to-chest, Shane’s breath tickling his lips, one hand squeezing his shoulder, the other his wrist. The breath that tears from him is ragged. Shane goes blurry, and Ilya chokes, slumping against the wall, the anger leaving him in a rush. 

“Hey,” Shane murmurs, voice soft and low, “c’mere.” He slides a hand to Ilya’s neck, his jaw, thumb sliding against his cheek in the gentlest of caresses and it’s all too much. Ilya crumples to bits like the pathetic mess he is, whole body shaking with it. 

“Sorry,” he croaks, because he shouldn’t be splintering apart like this. Not now. Not over his shitty, horrible father. Not to Shane, who has enough on his plate without Ilya offloading his bullshit, too. But Shane doesn’t seem to get the memo, shushing him and pulling Ilya into a crushing hug, fingers tangling in his hair, cradling Ilya as if he’s meant to be cradled so nicely. 

It makes him feel…held. When was the last time Ilya felt held, like this? (Beyond yesterday, Ilya doesn’t know. He thinks, maybe, Svetlana’s held him like this before, but he can’t remember. Can’t think of anything beyond Shane.) He wraps his arms around Shane, squeezing back fiercely, face finding a home in the hollow of Shane’s neck. They rock back and forth, soothing hands rubbing up and down Ilya’s back. And it’s nice. So nice. Ilya stifles his sobs and hates himself for the way his tears make another mess of Shane’s shirt. 

“It’s okay,” Shane murmurs, “it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Except, he isn’t. He’s the reason his father’s alone and scared. Ilya pulls away, scrubs at his face with a scowl. “I need to try again,” he croaks. “My father, he is…” Words stop working, then, and all Ilya can do is shake his head, body shaking with the effort of holding back these wasted tears. 

“He’s in Russia, right?” 

Ilya nods. Blinks harshly, glaring somewhere beyond Shane’s shoulder. A warm and gentle hand cups at his wet face, and Ilya flinches, breath stuttering. 

“Is there someone you can call to check on him?” 

The laugh that leaves Ilya is splintered and sharp. Distantly, some shred of logic understands the question—it’s a reasonable question to ask, especially from someone as practical as Shane. But the reality only tears this bitter laugh out of him, because there is nobody. No one back home wants to speak to Ilya ever again. He is a disgrace. A blight. He has brought shame to his family’s name simply by being himself.

“No. There is no one.” 

Shane’s expression twists, and he tugs Ilya back down, smooshes his face into the safety of his neck. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and, oh, god. A hysterical desire to burrow beneath Shane’s skin overwhelms him, and Ilya splinters to pieces all over again. 

Somehow, he knows Shane will be able to put him back together, again, after. 

Chapter End Notes

Hello again! Here's the next installment! Hopefully it's an enjoyable one! (someone needs to give poor Ilya a hug lolol) Thanks for reading! <33