Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Sebbin (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith, Connors (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Has Sensory Issues, Sexual Overstimulation, Oral Sex, Shane Hollander Has an Oral Fixation, Anal Sex, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, He's not very good at it though, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Shane Hollander is Traded, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Найти дорогу домой (Nayti dorogu domoy, or, find the way home)

Collections:

Pay Attention

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-28 Updated: 2026-08-22 Words: 14,890 Chapters: 4/?

Learning to Read (Your) Russian

Summary

Just before his 21st birthday, Shane Hollander left the team that drafted him and signed on with Boston Raiders, his one-time rival. He left his parents, his apartment, his routine, the rumors swirling around the Metros locker room, and the country he calls home. In their place he has a six foot Russian in his bed and a new team of strangers on the ice. Can he learn how to navigate their expectations while hiding his relationship with their star center before the secrets he's been hiding from Ilya bleed into their future together? And if he can manage that, can he also help bring the Raiders their next Stanley Cup before his team learns the truth?

Notes

This is the direct sequel to Mr. Answer Man. If you haven't already, please read that first. (You can find it here.)

Chapter 1: Introduction to (One Specific) Russian (Hockey Player)

The feeling came back into his left hand first. His fingers twitched, loosened, let go of the fabric that had been locked, clutched, in his hand. The fabric slid across the tips of his fingers. Cotton, because it had a texture he could feel, the individual strands creating tiny bumps that brushed against his skin, but a high thread count, because the fabric wasn’t distractingly rough. Pillowcase, he thought, the first new thought in a brain that had gone white and empty some time before. Ilya’s pillowcase. Ilya’s pillowcase is dark blue.

Ilya’s pillowcase is on a pillow on his bed, he thought next, as the feeling came back into his left wrist, then his left arm, as his eyes struggled against their own weight to flutter open. The light was too bright, his right leg was trapped under a heavy weight, something pulled tight across the skin of his ribs – oh right the bruises from his last game as a Metro, two goals and one assist, Barrett called him a faggot and Kent laughed, one of his goals was a long drive through traffic, solid but unremarkable, the other was a flip trick, bounce the puck up and over Kent’s stick then drop to right skate, knock to left skate, short spike up into the net over the backup goalie’s left glove, slammed into the post by Kent after the buzzer but the refs didn’t call it – and he swallowed, realizing his throat was dry.

He tried to speak but all that came out was a low mumble. Why was his skin sticky? He tried to blink again, but the light was still too bright, and there was something soft tickling his inner thigh.

“Give me a minute, my lyubov,” a voice said. The voice was low and warm and reassuring and Ilya.

He said moya lyubov, Shane thought, but moya means my, it’s gendered so it’s not moy because love is said with moya oh he loves me lyubov is love it means my love. He swallowed again. “I love you,” he croaked out.

“Oh good because after four orgasms I am ruined, Shane Hollander,” Ilya teased from where he had his head resting on Shane’s hip. His breath was warm on the skin of Shane’s thigh. He could feel the small hairs there shifting slightly with each of Ilya’s breaths. Noticing that sensation was the price of having Ilya Rozanov lying on his body, the cost of being tangled up in Ilya Rozanov’s sheets, and the price was not too high to pay. It was just accounting. Just the spreadsheet in Shane’s head where everything was observed and categorized. Ilya moved one of his large hands up to grip Shane’s other hip tightly. He was between Shane’s legs, Shane was starfished in the center of the bed, and Ilya was a tall man, so his legs must be -

“Fuck,” Shane sputtered, realizing. He forced his eyes open and looked down to see Ilya’s legs were in fact hanging off the end of the bed. Shane pushed his hands into the mattress, propping himself up, scooting back toward the headboard so fast Ilya’s head fell from Shane’s hip and onto the bed with a little thump. “I’m so sorry,” Shane managed to get out. “I wasn’t thinking, your knee is bruised from that hit in your game against Buffalo and I -”

“Shane, Shane,” Ilya said as he propped himself up on his elbows, “this is too many words. Was better when your brain was quiet, yes? Give me minute, I can go again.”

Ilya’s hair was a mess, his curls broken and frizzy from Shane’s hands in his hair while Ilya had Shane’s cock in his mouth until Shane’s brain went white and empty. From the before that, when Ilya had put Shane on his back and fucked him slowly until they both came, foreheads pressed together, Ilya’s hands wrapped under Shane’s shoulders and Shane’s fingers twisted in Ilya’s hair. It caught the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window like a halo, like a lion’s mane. Moy lev, Shane thought but didn’t say. My lion.

He knew a few Russian words now. Not all of them, not even that many of them, but a start: moy and moya, please, some colors and vegetables and animals and numbers. He had a book hidden in his backpack. There was a note on his phone with links to three different YouTube channels that taught Russian pronunciation. He was, by any metric, remarkably bad at speaking Russian, so much so that he was nowhere near ready to let Ilya hear him butchering the language of his homeland, but Shane was starting to understand it, when he heard it spoken slowly and clearly.

There were times when Ilya whispered Russian into Shane’s skin, Ilya’s lips pressed against Shane’s throat or shoulder or stomach, and those times Shane couldn’t understand what his boyfriend was trying to say. There were other times, when Ilya moaned or shouted or begged in that other language, thrusting hard between Shane’s legs, or gripping tightly as he held Shane’s head and fucked gently into his mouth, where Shane was sure he could make out some of the words. Yes yes yes, he heard and understood. My god, he got most of the time. Do not, he knew, it was не, so easy to recognize he could even understand it written in Cyrillic, a complicated letter system he was still getting the hang of. But Ilya often said it with another word that was much longer. It might be do not stop but it could also be do not order the chicken pasta for all Shane knew (though that didn’t really make sense in the context of Shane’s swallowing Ilya’s dick so probably it wasn’t that one).

Shane didn’t mention that he’d been teaching himself Russian, and Ilya didn’t translate the things he said when they were fucking, and Shane tried not to worry about that too much.

He did, of course. Worry, that is. Worrying about Ilya Rozanov was a program that ran in the background of Shane’s brain the same way breathing was a thing that happened when he didn’t think about it too hard.

Ilya tilted his head to the side. “You are thinking very loud,” he said, but his voice was gentle so it probably wasn’t a criticism. Shane wasn’t sure how he did it, but Ilya didn’t feel like a complaint. He said things, often things Shane wished he didn’t say in that moment or where a camera could record it, but the words he used didn’t hurt Shane the way so many other people’s words did. Ilya said was what true for him. Other people said what they wanted Shane to think was true for everyone.

“Is your knee okay?” he asked.

“My knee is fine, Shane,” Ilya said with a smile, but he walked himself further up the bed on his elbows, until he could flop at Shane’s side with both legs comfortably on the mattress. “Better?” he asked.

One of Ilya’s hands drifted up the side of Shane’s arm. “Better,” Shane said, looking down at Ilya’s beautiful face. “Always better when you’re here.”

Ilya kissed Shane’s arm, leaving his face pressed against Shane’s skin for a moment, the way he did when he wanted to hide his reaction to whatever Shane had just said. He didn’t know why Ilya did that but he’d seen it enough to log it. This is a thing Ilya does, Shane thought. Let him do it.

Eventually Ilya groaned theatrically, slapped Shane’s stomach, and loudly proclaimed they need food and a shower, though maybe not in that order. Shane let himself be peeled off the top of the bed and shoved – gently, carefully, no matter the words Ilya used while he was doing it – into the shower, where a six foot tall Russian scrubbed the sweat from Shane’s body, rubbing blood back into Shane’s overworked muscles.

The shower was the right kind of warm and the shampoo Ilya massaged into Shane’s hair smelled like the same seaweed and cucumber as the bottle in the apartment he’d left in Montreal. One more thing that could have been wrong but was instead right so Shane didn’t have to think about it. One more way that Ilya was safe.

It was Tuesday afternoon and Shane Hollander was sitting on a stool at Ilya Rozanov’s wide kitchen island, watching the man himself cook scrambled eggs because all he had in his fridge was half a dozen eggs, several jars of pickled vegetables, half a bottle of green Mexican salsa, two brands of soda, three bottles of Marly’s favorite beer, and a container of yogurt that had expired a week ago. Shane raised an eyebrow at the one, which brought a tinge of pink to Ilya’s cheeks before he hastily threw it away.

“Do you want to go to store or make list for delivery?” Ilya asked once the eggs were done, chewing around a mouthful. He stood next to Shane, leaning over the corner of the island to stab his fork into his portion of the eggs that were sharing the same plate. Less dishes, Ilya had said once, the first time he tried to coax Shane into eating half of the food he’d bought for himself, which made Shane reply fewer not less but he took the fork Ilya offered him anyway. From then on they shared if it made sense to Shane, which meant if they weren’t eating anything that would drip, if they could have two portions that didn’t touch, if Ilya’s food didn’t have syrup or sauce or anything melted that might drift into Shane’s half of the plate and touch the edge of the food Shane was supposed to be eating.

“List,” Shane said as he dribbled a little of the green sauce on top of his eggs. The label on the bottle showed there were only six ingredients: tomatillos, which he knew now was green fruit (sort of a tomato), jalapenos, onion, cilantro, lime, and salt, not too much salt, but enough that he was drinking a glass of water with it to be safe. Only ten calories per serving, which was two tablespoons carefully eyeballed, easy enough after a lifetime of practice.

The Russian word for tomato was pomidor. Shane wondered if there was a separate word for tomatillos, if Ilya would simply call them tomatoes, or if they used it as a loaner word the same way fantasy in English was fantastika in Russian.

While he wondered, another part of his brain had already opened his iPhone to his notes app and started the list. He nudged his phone a little to the right so Ilya could see it more easily.

“Okay,” Ilya said as he read. “Hmm, I have laundry soap, you do not like?”

“I don’t hate it,” Shane said, even though he kind of did. “It smells very… a lot of chemicals? I use the same brand, just the scent free kind.”

Ilya shrugged. “Okay, we get your kind.”

“I don’t want to make you change how you do laundry,” Shane said, although that wasn’t completely true either. His boyfriend took his suits and some of his shirts to the dry cleaners at least, but anything else got thrown into a washer all at once. It took Shane three visits to get Ilya to wash his clothes on cold. He remembered that day, remembered laughing so hard because Ilya wouldn’t stop ticking him while Shane tried to get out of the other man’s strong arms long enough to show him how to change the water temperature selection on his washing machine, but as far as he could tell Ilya did it that way every time since. “I can get my own detergent and do my clothes separately.”

“No, is fine Shane, I do not have soap opinions. You want new soap, we get new soap.”

“You really don’t care?” Shane asked, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face.

“Not about this, my stiral'naya machine.” He kissed Shane’s forehead, then went back to reading the list.

Shane didn’t know the word in the middle but from the context, moya stiral'naya mashina probably only had one meaning. “Did you call me a washing machine?”

Ilya grinned, clearly surprised. “Oh so you know Russian now?”

“No asshole, but machine and mashina sound the same, plus we were literally just talking about laundry.”

Ilya chuckled as he shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth. “All other cleaning products okay? You need new soap for dishes, the uh… lemon liquids for counter?”

“Like an all-purpose cleaner?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded, but he shrugged a little at the same time. He’s not sure, Shane thought. The word must be different in English. “You have Lysol in the yellow bottle, the spray for cleaning the kitchen,” Shane said. “I’ve seen it under your sink. That kills 99.9% of viruses and bacteria.”

“So, is good?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Shane said, smiling at the way Ilya’s shoulders relaxed. “I use the same thing at home. Well, I did, I guess. I mean, I used it in Montreal.” He sighed. “I guess I don’t have a home anymore.”

Ilya wiped his mouth on the back of his hand (gross, Ilya) then lifted Shane’s chin with one of his long fingers, looking Shane in the eyes. “Our home,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Shane said. Ilya kissed him, that perfect mouth sweetly his for one moment. “I’ll look for an apartment to buy while you’re in Russia this summer,” Shane added when Ilya stepped back. “I think the team will understand I’m staying with you for a few weeks, so if I have my own place by the time you get back, that should be fine.”

Ilya’s face sharpened. He looked older when he did that, not the soft young boy he was when they first woke up in the morning. “You will not live here then,” he said, not really a question.

“Well not officially,” Shane said with a shrug. “People would for sure talk about that. But if we’re careful we can still spend most of our nights together. I’ll be here sometimes, you’ll be at mine sometimes.”

“Right,” Ilya said coldly. “Sometimes.”

“Ilya, you know I can’t live with you for real,” Shane said. He put a hand on Ilya’s arm but the other man waved it off. “It’s bad enough the team knows I’m here for now. If we’re not careful they’re gonna figure us out.”

“I know,” Ilya said. “Is fine. You ordering food for Mama and Papa Hollander or can they not know you are here too?”

“That’s not fair,” Shane snapped, but maybe it was. Was Ilya angry about the grocery list? Was Shane doing too much, changing Ilya’s laundry detergent and staying in his apartment and letting his parents drive Shane’s Range Rover down from Montreal tomorrow? “I’m sorry,” he tried, making his voice quieter. He was a guest in Ilya’s space after all. “If you don’t want them to eat lunch here we can go out to a restaurant instead.”

Ilya snorted. “You do not eat in public with me.”

Shane frowned, thinking of the dinner they’d had with his parents, and the times they’d gone out together with Ilya’s team, Shane’s team, or the Admirals. When had they not eaten in public together? He couldn’t remember. Maybe Ilya was worried about them being seen together? That seemed reasonable, Ilya had more to lose if their relationship was exposed, especially so close to when he was flying back to Moscow for the last time.

He felt better, having guessed at the problem. If Ilya was concerned about the optics, they had a built in safety net: he was a new player on Ilya’s team, going out to eat with Shane’s parents, who included Ilya’s own brand manager (Shane’s mom). It made sense that they could have lunch together in Boston so soon after Shane moved there. If anyone asked, they could say Rozanov was just being a good teammate, showing the new guy’s family around town.

“We’ll be with my parents so I don’t think anyone will question it,” Shane said reassuringly. “It’s not like I’m going to sit in your lap in the restaurant,” he added, trying to make a joke out of it. “I think you’re safe.”

“Safe,” Ilya said. “Okay. I can place order now? I text list to myself,” he added before Shane could say anything else. Ilya tapped a few buttons on the screen then dropped Shane’s phone back onto the counter with a loud clatter. “I will change sheets.”

“Oh, do you want me to -” Shane started to say, but Ilya was already walking away. Okay, Shane thought, adding this to his list of ways Ilya said things without saying them. He wants to do this alone. He felt, briefly, bad about it, the need to be a good guest warring with the realization that probably Ilya had a method for making the bed Shane hadn’t learned correctly yet. That made sense. He made a mental note to look carefully when he was back in the bedroom, to memorize the finished product so he could do it himself in the future. It was important for Ilya to feel comfortable in his own bed. It’s where they slept. Sleep was vital for recovery, and Ilya was about to start their team on a playoff run, where they could possibly earn their sixth Cup, which would be the first one since they beat the Admirals in 1972. 4-2, that win, only two years after their amazing 1970 win 4-0 over St. Louis that included a flying overtime goal hockey commentators still brought up when discussing the team’s chances. Shane wasn’t going to mess that up for them by making the bed wrong.

He took a deep breath. He could do this. Ilya was always reminding him he was Shane fucking Hollander. Learning how to live with his boyfriend couldn’t be as hard as his last year with the Metros had been. He already had years of experience studying Ilya Rozanov like he was game tape. If protecting this man meant Shane had to buy a whole apartment to keep their secret safe, splitting their time between two homes, he would do that. If it meant they had to surround themselves with family and teammates to be out in public together, then (for now) Shane could do that too. He’d sit on his own hands if he needed to, to keep his hands to himself, to keep Ilya here.

To keep Ilya, he’d learn to do anything.

Shane thought of his gorgeous boyfriend in their bedroom, stripping the bed and putting on new sheets because Shane had said one time that didn’t like to get back into a messy bed after showering, so now Ilya did it every time. That kind of acceptance of his needs deserved a reward, and Shane knew which rewards were Ilya’s favorites. He put the plate in the sink, rinsing it carefully as he let the logistics of what he was about to do sort themselves out in his head. If he waited until the blankets were on the bed, if he sat Ilya down carefully, he could slide Ilya's loose grey sweatpants down past Ilya’s hips. He could settle himself between Ilya’s legs and take him into his mouth. Shane might need to give Ilya time to thicken, after all the sex they’d already had in the last 24 hours, but he didn’t mind. Ilya’s muscular thighs were excellent pillows, and he was learning that having Ilya’s cock in his mouth made his brain go quiet in a way he hadn’t expected. When Ilya’s body was ready, Shane could do all of the work, and as long as he swallowed every drop they wouldn’t need to change the sheets yet.

With a plan in place, Shane went to find his boyfriend.

Chapter 2: How to Stress Your Russian

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander makes a lot of plans. It occurs to him, finally, standing in Ilya's apartment while his boyfriend is quietly angry over another misunderstanding Shane didn't predict, that he might have to actually explain what those plans are. What follows is a coffee table full of paperwork (courtesy of a sports agent, a Canadian lawyer, and a financial advisor), one panic attack, and two overwhelmed hockey players.

Shane's brain is full of calculations. He's trying to make the math work for them both.

Chapter Notes

Sucking Ilya’s cock did not solve the problem.

In the moment, it seemed to work perfectly. Ilya was surprised but happy to let Shane sink onto his knees in the bedroom, and Shane was right that they didn’t need to change the sheets again afterward, though he still couldn’t tell what Ilya did when he made the bed that was different from how Shane would have done it. When Ilya’s sweatpants were around his ankles and his fingers in Shane’s hair, praise fell from his lips like a song written just for Shane. The thoughts faded – the way the hardwood floor put pressure on his knees that was nearly painful enough to distract from the mission at hand but not quite, the appointment he needed to remember to make with the new team nutritionist, the worry that something was happening to their relationship just outside of Shane’s comprehension – but Ilya’s voice kept going, telling Shane that he was perfect, that his mouth was made for this, that there was no one else in the world but him. Carrying Shane to that place in his brain where there was only him and Ilya and the soft white feeling of their love.

After he rested his head on Ilya’s thigh long enough to remember about the hard floor, after he’d promised Ilya that he was okay without getting off just then, needing to rest up so Ilya could return the favor later, and after he’d brushed his teeth, feeling loose and happy the way he always did when he’d solved a puzzle, finished a task off his list, done something to earn knowing he was good and he was right –

They unpacked their grocery delivery in the kitchen and Shane could see, in the set of Ilya’s shoulders, and the way the fucked-out smile had dropped off Ilya’s face, that the problem they’d had before he went into the bedroom really wasn’t solved at all.

“Are you going to tell me what I did wrong?” he asked.

Ilya didn’t turn around. “Nothing is wrong,” he said, putting the frozen food away.

Ilya’s back was stiff. His words were short, clipped, the way he sounded when he was annoyed at himself for a bad play on the ice. He wasn’t touching Shane, wasn’t leaning against him, wasn’t even looking at him. Shane did the math and the math added up.

“It obviously is,” Shane said, “but I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I fucking did.”

The bag of broccoli went into the freezer harder than it needed to, as Ilya muttered something in Russian Shane couldn’t make out. When he was angry he spoke so fast the words ran together. Maybe if Shane knew more of the language he’d be able to piece out each word from the context. If Ilya was facing him, if Shane could see his lips move, he might be able to figure out the breaks between the words and translate it from there. Like this, it was just his beautiful angry boyfriend bitching about him to a bag of frozen vegetables, and Shane had no idea what either Ilya or the broccoli thought about him.

Eventually Ilya closed the freezer door and turned around. They had the wide kitchen island between them. Ilya took a deep breath; Shane watched his chest rise and fall, reminding himself not to get distracted by Ilya’s nipples and the way his wide chest tapered down to a waist he always wanted to grab with both hands. He bit his lip, waiting.

“I don’t want to fight,” Ilya said slowly. “You have a lot of changes, I am maybe being unfair.”

“I still want to know.”

Ilya sighed. “I thought only problem was, you were not here. I thought…” he paused, then rubbed his nose, looking away from Shane’s face before he continued. “I thought if you were here, no more problems.”

“But now that I’m in Boston, you don’t think that anymore.”

“U nas problemy!” Ilya shouted, waving his hands between them. We have problems. He shook his head.

“So tell me,” Shane said. “I don’t know if you don’t tell me.”

Ilya laughed, but it was strange, hard sound. “You tell me nothing, Shane. I thought it was our team, our bed, no? Our home? No, only for few weeks and then I come home from Russia to empty apartment.”

Oh.

There were times in his life where Shane understood he’d made a mistake in how he saw the world. His brain re-calibrated, accepting whatever new information, remaking his inner framework. It felt, as it was happening, like taking a step to the right and having the universe shift to follow you a second later, slamming into place. His stomach tightened. “We aren’t on the same page,” he said.

“No shit,” Ilya said, folding his arms across his chest.

“I need to show you something.” Shane walked to the bedroom without waiting for a response, practicing in his head what needed to happen next. He had to get the documents from the safe, show Ilya, explain the plan, apologize, and get them back on track. He had a plan, he always had a plan, where Ilya was concerned he had half a dozen plans, and he’d been working on them for months, but he hadn’t said it out loud had he? He thought… but it didn’t matter. He punched in the numbers to open the safe (1919 because that was the year there was no Stanley Cup winner, no way he’d ever forget that) and pulled out the thick manila envelope, along with the Bank of Canada zipper bag. He closed the safe again, pushing it back under the bed, then stood and turned back to the –

He slammed into Ilya’s broad chest.

He tried to step back but the bed was right there so Shane lost his footing and sat down hard instead.

“Fuck, sorry!” Ilya gasped out. He had his arms thrown out in front of him like he’d been trying to catch Shane, and failed. He looked shocked, a little scared maybe, and unfairly sexy.

I get to touch him whenever I want, Shane thought suddenly. He opened his mouth to say something else but laughter came out instead. How is this my life?

Ilya’s face softened. He pulled his arms back.

“If you wanted to touch me, Hollander, all you have to do is ask,” Ilya said, making his voice low the way he knew Shane liked it.

Shane laughed harder.

“You are being asshole now,” Ilya said, pouting a little. “Everyone thinks Shane Hollander is polite Canadian boy but he laughs at me! In my own bed!”

“Our bed,” Shane said, trying to stop laughing. He couldn’t wipe the grin from his face though. “Our bed, Ilya.”

“Still?” Ilya’s voice was quieter now.

Shane looked up at him. “Always,” he said softly. “Can I show you the plan?”

Ilya nodded, and offered one hand to pull Shane up.

He took it.

They ended up on Ilya’s oversized couch, sitting in the center of it as Shane spread everything out on the coffee table. “It’s okay if you have questions, and you should get your lawyer to go over it all,” Shane said, “but I had my agent help me, it’s all drawn up by a law firm in Canada, and they have your info too, so they’ll help you if you need it, it’s already paid for, all of this is and -”

“Woah, Shane,” Ilya said, putting his hand on Shane’s arm. “Slow, please.”

“Right, sorry.” He took a deep breath as Ilya watched him, then another, until his boyfriend nodded that it was okay to keep going. “I told you that I make a lot of plans and you’re in several of them.”

“Yes, I remember,” Ilya said. He didn’t take his hand back, and Shane was glad for the warm, reassuring weight of it.

“And we talked before the game in New York, about how I made you my emergency contact, and there were other things I was working on.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “That is this?”

Shane spread his hands wide. “That’s what all of this is. I made plans for us.”

Ilya’s eyebrows moved together, a tiny sign of confusion.

“Not just for you, I mean. For us, together. So we can be together,” Shane added. “For real.”

“You want this? To be together?”

“Yeah, I do. So much.” Shane leaned over to nudge Ilya’s shoulder gently. “Can I explain it?”

Ilya nodded, chewing on his bottom lip, but his eyes were focused on the papers in front of them.

“So there’s three parts of this, I guess. There’s everyday stuff we can do now, like being each other’s emergency contacts. I had a medical proxy form filed with the hospitals in Montreal and Ottawa, and Farah has a copy of it, that meant you could visit me in the hospital without anyone kicking you out. It’s different here but we’re working on the right forms. I already told the front office, the Raiders office, not the Metros obviously, that’s what the hospital paperwork was for. Not about us, I mean, but I told them my parents were in Canada so they let me put my mom’s info down for if I get injured in a game there, and you’re my contact person if I get hurt anywhere in the States. You can do the same thing, if you want, and I don’t think anyone would guess why. Not that I think anyone from the Raiders would say anything but we have an excuse, you know? Because your family is in Russia, and you probably have Svetlana as your contact person now, but she isn’t going to be at every game with you and I will.”

He paused but Ilya didn’t say anything to that, so Shane kept going. “There’s long-term planning stuff, a trust for real estate, my lawyer said that’s the best way for us to own property together without anyone knowing. Or cars, or I don’t know, investments? So we can keep growing our money. There’s a lot of options, my agent got me a financial advisor that knows about this kind of stuff. Then there’s the emergency plans, like what to do if you get outed and, you know, Russia.” He realized he was speaking fast, maybe too fast for Ilya to translate in his head, so he took a second to slow down. “That’s what the cash is for,” he said once he felt calmer, patting the thick bank bag. “We have enough money between the two us that we can do anything we want, if we’re smart about it, and no one ever has to know.”

“Jesus Christ, Hollander,” Ilya whispered finally. “Fuck.”

Shane twisted in his seat, wanting to see more of Ilya’s face. It looked… blank? He wasn’t happy or angry, but some in between thing Shane didn’t recognize.

When Shane wasn’t sure how someone felt, he did the math. He counted the cues, added in the context. This was a lot, right? Everything he was dropping on Ilya at once, right before the playoffs were about to start. “It’s too much,” he said out loud. His heart beat faster. That had to be it, it was too much, Ilya didn’t want this, Shane had overreacted again the way he always did too much. “I wanted to wait until the season was over before I said anything, but you thought I didn’t want to be here and I couldn’t, I couldn’t – fuck.” His vision got blurry.

“Hey, hey, Shane, we are good,” Ilya was saying, his hand rubbing Shane’s back. When had Shane bent over? He opened his eyes, saw his own feet, then closed them again. “Shane,” Ilya repeated, more insistent now. “What do you need?”

“Did I make it worse?” Shane asked weakly. “You can say you don’t want this.”

“No, sweetheart, we are good, okay?” The hand on Shane’s back kept moving in slow circles. “We are good here.”

When he was ready, Shane tried again. Most of what he’d put together wasn’t real yet, he explained, stressing that they’d have to sign most of the paperwork in front of a notary and witnesses, and in some cases it’d need to be filed either here in the US or in Canada. Until then, it was only the beginning of a plan. At any point, Ilya could decided he didn’t want any part of this, or he wanted it changed, without committing to it. “I just want to be prepared,” he said.

“Shane, you are most prepared man I have ever met,” Ilya said. “This is very good for me. I am lazy, you know. I will be fat housewife and let you take care of me.”

Shane laughed a little, shaking his head at the very idea Ilya could ever be lazy. “I can’t imagine that at all.”

Ilya stuck his tongue out.

Shane ignored him. “This is the part that’s done already,” he explained instead, putting his hand on the smallest stack of papers. “This page is a list of contact information for my agent and my lawyer in Montreal, case numbers, stuff you can put in your phone so you always have it. You call Farah if anything happens to me. You call the lawyer if there’s a problem with Russia. They’ll help you.”

“How does your lawyer help me?”

“Well, that’s, wait.” Shane grabbed another stack of papers. “That’s this part of the plan. But basically if something happens where you need to apply for asylum, Canada is better for you than the US. My lawyer there started a file for you, it’s not applying for Canadian citizenship, okay? Not yet. It’s just… it helps if you can show you have ties to the country, does that make sense?”

Ilya nodded. “Why not here? I have contract here, I play here.”

“Yeah, and you have a US visa, so that’s the short term plan. That keeps you here until we can do the second part of the plan. Canada is better in the long term. You can get an asylum case there if you’re outed and have to hide from Russia for being, you know.” Shane felt the shame well up in his chest. If Ilya had to do any of this, it would be because he loved Shane.

That was the part of the math that never added up. Ilya risked everything for them to be together: hockey, his friends, his family. His country.

Shane’s parents would probably be okay with it, if he told them about Ilya someday. His own country wouldn’t put him in jail. He didn’t have any friends. All he could really lose was hockey, and the thought of losing that already felt like cutting off a fucking limb. He couldn’t imagine what he was putting Ilya through, just because Shane had never been strong enough to walk away.

“You can say bisexual.” Ilya tilted his head and made the face he always made when he thought Shane was being silly.

“I meant being with me.”

“Oh,” Ilya said. “Yes. Okay. So if I must run from KGB like spy in old movie, you want Canada to take me in.”

“The laws are better there. More on your side. And there’s the gay marriage part too.”

He could feel warmth spreading across his cheeks. He glanced at the manila envelope, at the outline of a small box he’d left in the envelope,. He thought about the jewelry store in Montreal, the one where he’d bought Ilya’s watch, and more.

“We have gay marriage here,” Ilya said. “I see rainbow stickers on windows.”

“They have it in Massachusetts, but it’s not legal everywhere in the States,” Shane said. “It’s legal in Canada. All of Canada, I mean. The whole country.”

Ilya made a small noise. “So, what, you gay marry me for Canadian passport?”

“Yeah, if I have to, of course,” Shane said.

“If you have to,” Ilya repeated.

“I would,” Shane said. He took one of Ilya’s hands in his own. “I’d do whatever you need, okay?”

“I don’t want you to have to marry me, Hollander.”

“Right,” Shane said quietly. He let go of Ilya’s hand. “Of course. I mean, we’ll be careful, right? Hopefully we don’t need most of this stuff. It’s just – just in case.”

“What else?” Ilya asked then, so Shane explained about the real estate trust that would let them buy property together without anyone knowing, and without it going to Ilya’s family if he died.

“When you say you will buy home this summer, that is for us?” Ilya rubbed the back of his neck. “I am understanding this?”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry I wasn’t clear about that. You still need your own place so the team thinks we don’t live together, but we’ll live in both places, okay? And it’ll be ours, really ours, if you want that.”

“Mr. Real Estate,” Ilya said, one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“Right now it’s set up that everything we put in the trust is owned by you and I together, which means if I die you get it all. But if we both die, then it’s split between my parents and Svetlana. You can change it, make it your brother if you want, I just gave the lawyer Svetlana’s name to get started.”

“No, is good. My brother gets nothing,” Ilya said bitterly. “Svet is like family, she would use money to care for my niece, but my brother would put it all in his nose and my niece gets nothing.” He looked at Shane for a long moment before continuing. “I did not think you like my friend this much. You are not, ah, jealous? I was fucking her for many years.”

“Jeez, Ilya, when you say it like that, then yeah I don’t love the fact that your best friend who goes to Russia with you every summer has seen you naked more than I have,” Shane snapped. “Sorry.”

He should have prepared for this conversation. It was taking longer than he expected, he hadn’t been planning to have it today. He was tired. Ilya had been right earlier; there were a lot of things changing in his life right now.

“I love her,” Ilya said.

“I know,” Shane said, managing to sound less annoyed about it than he had a moment before.

When Ilya reached out, Shane let the other man pull him into a hug. “I do not love her the way I love you,” Ilya purred, his lips brushing against the shell of Shane’s ear. “I have never loved her the way I love you.”

The rest of Shane’s resentment melted out of him as he relaxed into Ilya’s arms. “I know,” he promised, softer this time. “You’re lucky to have her.” He was only a little surprised to realize he meant it.

“Mmm, yes, but you are here in Boston now too so I think she will steal you from me very quickly.”

They leaned into the back of the couch. Ilya moved Shane’s head so it was resting on his chest. One of his hands found Shane’s hair, stroking him gently. “You are tired,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“You were right, this is a lot,” Shane said. “I haven’t even explained it all.”

“You will later. I like knowing you make plans for us. It…” He paused, kissing Shane’s forehead. “It helps me. But also yes it is many words in English. Yesterday we spent all day with team. In between you sucked my soul out through my dick. Is okay you are tired now.”

“Asshole,” Shane said fondly. “I didn’t know they really meant we’d be out the whole day.”

“Yes they are like excited children but you went on duck boat! You ate cannoli! You are a Raider now, only Dunkin after today. No more Tim Hortons for you.”

“Fuck that, Timmies put me on a donut last year.”

“What is this?” Ilya pushed Shane away just enough to see his face. “There was Hollander donut and you didn’t tell me?”

“It was a special event thing at the arena, one day only. I will show you pictures later.” 

“You have betrayed me,” Ilya muttered, but he pulled Shane back. “My boyfriend does not love me.”

“I literally went on a bus that goes into the Charles River for you.” It had been almost an hour and a half of sitting on a dirty bus seat while Marly cheerfully recited historical facts he’d clearly learned from the same exact tour they were on, before the oddly-shaped bus drove straight into a body of water Shane would never, ever, be swimming in. He’d been exhausted and overstimulated by the time they got back to the Museum of Science, convenient as a starting point because it had an attached parking garage. That was before Hammersmith made them all go into the museum to see an interesting exhibit about whales and Sebbin insisted they see the planetarium show which was, admittedly, pretty cool.

And when his fingers brushed against Ilya’s in the dark, none of the other Raiders knew. The planetarium had been his favorite part of the whole day.

Ilya waved his hand. “Was team building. Did not count.”

“I joined the team for you,” Shane pointed out.

That made Ilya grin. “Yes, you did. Okay, I forgive your donut crimes.”

Whatever energy he’d been using to power through this conversation drained out of him at last. “Can we go back to bed? Just to sleep, I mean.”

“Yes, pervert, you can take me to bed,” Ilya teased.

Another time, Shane thought happily. When he was more awake. When his brain was less of a jumble of thoughts. They could do that now, this luxury they’d rarely gotten in the past. They could spend a few hours sleeping and it wouldn’t be a waste of the hours they’d stolen from the rest of their lives.

Both of their phones buzzed at the same time. “Team?” Ilya asked as Shane got to his phone first.

“No, it’s a group chat with you and my dad? That’s weird.” He opened his messages app.

Dad: Mom has a lot of questions so you boys should decide what you want her to know before we get there tomorrow. Love you!

Shane looked up slowly. Ilya had his own phone in his hand; he was staring back at Shane with wide open eyes.

“I can explain,” Ilya said quickly.

“Ilya,” Shane said, trying to stay calm against the rush of emotion that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. “What the fuck does my dad know about us?”

Chapter End Notes

Everyone reading the first chapter of my new fic: oh Shane and Ilya are going to have the same problems as before

Me, plotting the next chapter: I assure you, I can create entirely new problems

Chapter 3: Key Vocabulary for Parents and Family

Chapter Summary

His dad said I know it's hard now but it'll be worth it for you two in the long run and I'm proud of you for going after what makes you happy. Shane thought it meant his father approved of the idea Shane might eventually play on Ilya's line. If David supported Shane going to Boston that might help convince his mom the Raiders weren't going to be the end of his career. Since his mother managed his brand deals and was close with Shane's agent, having his mom on board could help ease any anger she might feel about Shane leaving her beloved Metros. She'd be more comfortable working with Ilya on his own deals, which would mean more money for them in the long run, which was its own kind of security. Shane had done the math, on his mom and hockey and Russia, so he knew his plans to keep Ilya safe included his mother, even if she wasn't aware of it.

Shane saw his father trying to be gently supportive of his relationship with Ilya and thought this will be good for me professionally and financially like a fucking idiot. Like someone who didn't understand at all how people worked.

At some point Rozanov became your Ilya in his dad's messages without Shane noticing the difference.

Chapter Notes

It hadn’t been a fight. Not really, not when Shane yelled at Ilya while Ilya sat there, quiet, taking it all until Shane ran out of words. It wasn’t a fight because after Shane was tired of speaking, Ilya took over. It wasn’t a fight because in the middle of Ilya begging Shane to believe his apologies, in the middle of explaining about Ottawa and Ilya’s fear of his own father so deep and wide he shook trying to talk about it, Ilya let slip that Shane’s dad had asked him not to say anything, which pissed Shane off all over again. The idea that David Hollander had a plan to come right out and tell his 20 year old son he’d caught him fucking his not-straight, not-a-woman, professional rival hit Shane hard. It was so off course from what Shane knew his life to be that he’d actually laughed, bitter and disbelieving. He’d actually thought, in the middle of their not a fight because Ilya had obviously betrayed his trust, that Ilya was lying.

Fuck you, you don’t know my dad, Shane had said. He’d been certain of it when he said it. David wasn’t Yuna Hollander. He didn’t start the hard conversations. He was a great father, but part of what made him great was that he let Shane come to him when they needed to talk. He was safe that way. He supported whatever Shane wanted to do, which was mostly hockey. He let Shane’s mom be decisive and loud when she needed to be, one hand on her back and a smile on his face. David let Yuna be the one to set the rules, make the plans, to push Shane harder than he pushed himself.

David Hollander was the guy who made the dumb dad jokes to break up tension in the room. Shane knew that man. His father was a fixed point in Shane’s brain, so consistent Shane didn’t even need to worry about how the man was going to react to any situation because he was always going to be Dad when he did it. Ilya didn’t understand that, Shane was sure, but Shane definitely did. He had grown up knowing his family had a plan for who Shane was going to be and what Shane was going to accomplish. Even if it was Yuna’s plan, her husband still sat next to her every night at the kitchen table, nodding along.

To be fair, if he really thought about it Shane was pretty sure that David Hollander was maybe, probably, going to be okay with the idea of Shane being maybe possibly gay. It was even possible that, eventually, his dad would be okay with Shane being gay for one specific Russian hockey player the league had been advertising as Shane’s mortal enemy since before their rookie year. Ilya was sweet and charming, off the ice. He could win David over.

Despite that, Shane couldn’t imagine his father being okay with Shane loudly fucking said hockey player in his childhood bedroom because what the fuck had Shane been thinking with that idea? (Even if it had been one of the hottest moments of Shane’s life.) His dad couldn’t be so okay with the idea of them being in a relationship that he’d taken Ilya out in Boston to tell him just how okay it was (although that did happen, at least the part where they were together – he’d seen the photo their waitress took of them together because Ilya sent it to him while they were still at the restaurant). And even if that was all real there was no way Shane’s dad could be so profoundly, unquestioningly okay with it that David Hollander would keep it a secret from his wife until Shane was ready to tell her about it himself.

Shane was a liar. He knew that about himself. He’d lied to his parents about so much. Who he was. Who he loved. His dad could hardly keep from telling his mom what he got her for her birthday every year. Hollanders don’t keep secrets, his dad always said, as he gently prodded Yuna into opening at least one present the night before, because he couldn’t keep them to himself any longer. Presents aren’t secrets, silly man, his mom always said with a laugh, before she rolled her eyes and accepted a wrapped gift and a kiss before dinner was even over.

But most of all the father Shane knew would never be so weirdly, world-shatteringly okay with the idea that Shane and Ilya were in an actual more-than-fucking relationship that David would reach out to Shane on his own to talk about it, instead of waiting for the conversation to come to him.

He knew all of this. He knew it. He was sure of it. But Ilya saw things he didn’t. Somehow both of those things were true at the same time.

So he did what he always did when his brain disagreed with the rest of the world: he checked the evidence. He went to the texts his dad had sent for the last few months because they were concrete. They weren’t going to change in the middle of him reading them. They were black and white proof that Ilya’s perspective was wrong and Shane’s was right. He was so sure of his fucking rightness that he opened the phone in front of his boyfriend, making him sit next to him on the couch while Shane scrolled through his dad’s messages. Look, he’d said, pushing his phone in front of Ilya’s face.

Until Ilya, his face scrunched up like it hurt him to speak, said very slowly, Shane what do you think he has been saying? Which is how Shane learned, once again, that he did not know how to be a person. He’d known that before, but years of Ilya Rozanov made him forget.

There was everything that happened with the Metros of course, the ways they didn’t see him as a person, but that was different because that was outside Shane’s head. He told himself they were wrong, most of the time. He knew what some of the guys did to him were against the rules, which helped. Farah, his agent, told him those things were wrong, bad, and in some cases illegal. He used those rules, Farah’s reassurances, and Ilya’s love, to build a wall in his head which helped him keep the things they said and the things they did and the ways they hurt him on the outside. Helped him understand which parts were wrong. Let him believe that how Ilya saw him was right.

Without that, Shane wouldn’t have pushed back against the Montreal locker room as hard as he did this past year. He would have signed the extension contract, been what they expected him to be, and died inside a little more every season. Because of Ilya, Shane had felt like a person for the first time in years. Maybe for the first time since some of the boys on his Atom team started calling him a hockey robot and Shane had believed them. He was nine and a half years old then, already aware he was not a real human in the way everyone else got to be. It made sense and it was fine because he had hockey, but he knew that to get to the MLH he’d have to at least try to fit in with the other boys. Hockey was a team sport, after all. His mom always said so. Shane decided he would learn to read the people around him the way he learned to read players on the ice. It would take the same kind of dedication, but Shane could teach himself to be at least person-adjacent. He could fake it until he understood people better. It shouldn’t be any harder than learning to deke a goalie, and he was great at that.

Humans turned out to be much more complicated than hockey.

It was eight years before Shane met someone he didn’t have to pretend with. Another year and a half before Rozanov the player whose moves he studied on his laptop became Ilya whose moves he studied in a hotel room. Before another person touched him in a way that made him feel instead of overthinking about how they might expect him to react. Before someone saw him as a person worth not just being seen with or playing against but worth wanting. Not reduced to a hockey player or a brand ambassador. The whole of Shane Hollander, because apparently Shane Hollander could be a real person worth loving.

Ilya knew that before Shane did.

He realized now all the times Ilya had pushed him away before, Shane deserved it. Shane was the one who didn’t know how to be in a relationship with another person. His father had known about them for months. Had texted, over and over, but Shane didn’t see it for what it was. Reading those words again after the look on Ilya’s face – the way he’d been confused that Shane didn’t get was what so obvious to him – changed Shane’s understanding in a moment. Ilya, who’d learned English from fairy tales and movies about fast cars, could read between the lines. Boston’s notorious Russian ice machine had a better grasp of the subtleties of the language than Shane, who’d grown up speaking it.

David had texted to get your friend’s number while Shane was driving Ilya to the airport after the All-Star game weekend, immediately after what happened in Shane’s parent’s house. While Ilya sat there in the passenger seat, terrified about a version of Shane’s dad that didn’t exist, because it was the only way he knew fathers to be. Shane had missed it completely.

Shane’s father texted to ask does your friend had a recommendation for good vodka because he’s important to you, isn’t he? and I want to know anyone you care about.

Shane remembered thinking it was nice his dad wanted to know the most important person in his life. He’d had a warm feeling, because it would help for his parents to like Ilya now so they’d be more accepting of the man in twenty years when hockey was finished and their relationship didn’t have to be a secret anymore.

He’d thought it was fucking nice, then moved on with his day.

His dad responded to throwaway comments Shane vaguely remembered making with happy for you son and he seems like he’s good for you.

Shane thought this meant David was pleased Shane made a friend. His parents were always saying he needed more friends. Sure, his father didn’t talk about Hayden the same way, but Ilya was his best friend even if the rest of their lives was not for anyone else to know, so it made sense that his dad would be a little nicer about Ilya than Hayden. It made sense, so Shane didn’t think about it more than he needed to. Hockey was taking up most of his time. Any spare moment he had went to Ilya. His father wasn’t going anywhere; he didn’t force Shane to focus on him. He could make time for his parents in the summer, once the trade and playoffs and moving to an entirely new country was done.

His dad said I know it’s hard now but it’ll be worth it for you two in the long run and I’m proud of you for going after what makes you happy. Shane thought it meant his father approved of the idea Shane might eventually play on Ilya’s line. If David supported Shane going to Boston that might help convince his mom the Raiders weren’t going to be the end of his career. Since his mother managed his brand deals and was close with Shane’s agent, having his mom on board could help ease any anger she might feel about Shane leaving her beloved Metros. She’d be more comfortable working with Ilya on his own deals, which would mean more money for them in the long run, which was its own kind of security. Shane had done the math, on his mom and hockey and Russia, so he knew his plans to keep Ilya safe included his mother, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

Shane saw his father trying to be gently supportive of his relationship with Ilya and thought this will be good for me professionally and financially like a fucking idiot. Like someone who didn’t understand at all how people worked.

At some point Rozanov became your Ilya in his dad’s messages without Shane noticing the difference.

The distance between himself and what was true for everyone else was a vast chasm Shane didn’t know how to cross. He could feel it, the emptiness gaping open in his chest. Shane sat on Ilya’s couch, only distantly hearing what Ilya said next, while his brain went back through it all. Over and over, a million miles away from the man who’d wrapped himself around Shane’s body. Ilya was holding him but Shane could barely feel it. I didn’t know, Shane had said, and I’m sorry. That he was sure of, he knew he’d said those words, though he wasn’t sure of much else.

Ilya had said I know sweetheart, I have you, so Shane gave in to the one thing he still trusted to be true. He nodded when Ilya whispered apologies into his hair. He let himself be tucked into bed. He fell asleep with Ilya’s warm breath on the back of his neck, one strong arm wrapped around his chest.

When Ilya left for practice the next morning – Shane was excused just this once because his sticks and skates were in the car his parents were driving from Montreal to Boston that day – he still wore a worried expression, but he didn’t ask anything. Ilya kissed his cheek before looking at Shane’s face for a long moment, until Shane couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore and had to look away. “I’ll be home by noon,” Ilya said softly.

Shane nodded.

One more kiss, this time to Shane’s other cheek, and something murmured in Russian. Then Ilya was gone.

Shane gave himself a list of tasks to be completed because a plan meant forward movement. He drifted through straightening up, checking emails, replying to a few comments in the Raiders group chat he’d been added to somewhere between the whale exhibit and the planetarium show. It hurt for a moment when he saw a text from Ilya Rozanov instead of Lily, but it had made sense when Ilya suggested changing their names in each other’s phones, once their teammates started reaching out to Ilya for Shane’s contact info. Jane and Lily didn’t need to exist in a world where Shane and Ilya played for the same team.

He didn’t know why that made him sad. He put the feeling aside, looking for the next item on his list.

Just after noon, his mom texted that they were 20 minutes away. Shane’s hands trembled as he confirmed he was there waiting for them. As he was trying to figure out how to tell Ilya they were almost here without it sounding like he was accusing Ilya of being late, the front door burst open. “I’m home!” Ilya yelled, obviously out of breath. “Did they,” he said, panting as the door swung shut behind him, “are they – am I… time?”

Ilya’s hair was damp from his post-practice shower. His cheeks were faintly pink, which made his eyes look greener than usual. He had his gear bag slung over one shoulder, and wore a tight black Raiders tee. His loose Adidas joggers were riding low, caught at the top of his hipbones. He was so fucking perfect. It wouldn’t take much to slide those pants down Ilya’s thighs. A little tug. Shane could cross the living room in less than 30 seconds, drop to his knees, and drown out his thoughts with the warm heavy pressure of Ilya’s cock on his tongue. He could just decide to do that, if he wanted.

“Wow, Shane, wait!” Ilya gasped when Shane pushed him against the kitchen island and hooked his thumbs into Ilya’s waistband.

“We have fifteen minutes,” Shane said, then let himself go.

Ilya got hard in Shane’s mouth. He dropped his bag to the ground as Shane’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock, using both hands to twist his fingers into Shane’s hair. “Fuck, baby, yes.”

The words were in Russian, but Shane understood them now. He moaned at the praise and sucked him deeper. Ilya smelled faintly of sweat and the cheap mint body wash Shane knew he only used in the Raiders’ locker room. It was the smell of Ilya in Boston, after a game, when they only had a few stolen hours before Shane had to sneak back into the Metros hotel before curfew. The muscles in Ilya’s ass clenched under Shane’s hands as he got close.

Shane popped off long enough to say, “Come in my mouth,” before swallowing Ilya back down again. The other man moaned loudly as he started to thrust his hips erratically, moving quickly but only a few inches at a time, careful and desperate all at once. They knew by now when they had to be quick and when they had time to drag it out. Shane kept one hand on Ilya’s hip, used the other to gently squeeze Ilya’s balls, while curling his tongue around the head of Ilya’s dick every time he pulled back, flattening his tongue every time he pushed back down.

Ilya came hard, leaning forwards to wrap both arms around Shane’s head, holding him tight as he shuddered through his orgasm. His release was hot and thick in Shane’s throat. For a moment, nothing hurt. He was safe here.

“How much time?” Ilya asked as he straightened, pulling Shane up by the shoulders.

He checked his phone. “Six minutes?”

Ilya grinned. “I bet I can do it in three.” He kissed Shane hungrily, tasting himself on Shane’s tongue, before dropping to the floor.

After, the pressure crept back into his brain, faster than usual. “Are you scared?” he asked as Ilya straightened his clothes.

“Some,” Ilya admitted. “David no, but Yuna, yes.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “It’s not too late to break up with me,” he added. “Save yourself.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t. Ilya raised one eyebrow at him. “Fuck, sorry, ignore me,” Shane mumbled.

The doorbell rang. Ilya started toward it but Shane’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“What, they do not know I play for Raiders?” Ilya grinned, gesturing at his tee shirt. “Is okay Hollander. You are Raider now too.”

“Shit, yes, you’re right.”

“We are okay,” Ilya said softly, one hand squeezing Shane’s bicep for a second. Then he opened the door.

The first ten minutes were manageable. They went straight down to unload the car – the reason Ilya hadn’t taken his shoes off when he came home, it turned out – getting everything out in two trips. David asked if Shane’s car was parked in the right place, Yuna complimented Ilya’s apartment, Shane hugged them both in between directing his dad and his boyfriend where to put everything. Ilya bounded up and down the stairs like an eager puppy, chatting happily, even with an armful of boxes. It was chaotic but warm. Perfect, until it wasn’t.

Until Yuna saw both David and Ilya take Shane’s clothes into the master bedroom without asking, and demanded someone tell her the truth. She listened to Shane’s halting explanation with her arms crossed against her chest. Listened as they explained how they saw each other after games, during breaks in the season, making it work with a hockey rivalry and an international border between them. Heard Ilya say I have only been in love with one person when she asked about the women he was photographed with his first few months in Boston, heard Shane say same. Then she nodded stiffly and excused herself to step outside.

“I’ve been talking Ilya up to her,” David said while they waited for Yuna to return. They were sitting at the dining room table Shane and Ilya rarely used. David took the shot glass Ilya handed him, watched as Ilya popped the cap off the chilled bottle of vodka he kept in the fridge.

Shane waved away the glass Ilya offered him, keeping his eyes on the balcony door. “I should go talk to her,” he said.

“Give her a minute,” David said, but Shane was already standing, his chair pushed back from the table.

He felt a hand on his skin. He looked down to see Ilya gently holding him in place, his long fingers wrapped around Shane’s wrist. “I have to tell her I tried to be what I was supposed to be,” Shane said. “I really tried.”

“I know sweetheart,” Ilya said softly. “Remember when you called me a potato?”

“What?” Shane asked, confused until the memory came roaring back. Their argument at the last All-Star game. His first attempt at swearing in Russian. “My pronunciation was terrible.”

Ilya hummed, bobbing his head in agreement. “Yes but not what I am saying. You went for walk. You said two things were true, you were angry but also not letting me go. You remember this?”

Shane sat back down. “I also said you were an idiot and I hated you, so I could have been wrong about that too.”

“Hmm, I remember you saying you love me, many times.” He brought the back of Shane’s hand to his lips.

“It’s hard for me not to fix it.” Shane glanced toward the balcony again. “What if she never forgives me?”

“Kiddo, your mom loves you,” David said. “I love you. Pretty sure this guy likes you at least a little bit.”

“You like me?” Shane asked. A smile caught at the edges of his lips as he watched Ilya’s face.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said softly. I love you.

The balcony door opened with a click. Yuna shut it behind her, then stepped to Shane’s side of the table. She leaned over to hug him with both arms. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. He tried to apologize but she crouched next to him, shaking her head. “You have nothing to apologize for, you hear me? Nothing. I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me.”

He buried his face in her long hair. She let him cry for a minute, the way he used to when he was little. Ilya’s hand found its way to his lower back, sneaking under the bottom of Shane’s shirt to stroke long slow circles against his skin.

When she broke away and stood up, Yuna moved to stand in front of Ilya. “You too, c’mon, up,” she said. Shane watched Ilya’s wide eyes as he followed her order, obviously unsure about it. But then Yuna said, “I’m sorry to you too honey,” and pulled him into a hug. “I don’t think I handled any of this the right way.”

Ilya tried to nod but his eyes filled with tears. “Okay, Mama Yuna,” he said brokenly as his face wobbled, then lifted her off the ground and hid against her shoulder.

“My boys,” Yuna sighed as she patted Ilya on the back. He set her down, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay,” she said, shaking him gently. She twisted enough to put one hand on Shane’s shoulder too. “Enough of this. Tell me you have a plan.”

Ilya burst out laughing. “Shane has a million plans!”

“Fuck you, I have a normal number of plans,” Shane objected, but he smiled too.

“No, no Shane you must show them all of your papers! Yuna, he hired lawyer and finance person and immigration something,” Ilya said, still laughing. “I feel like tiny cog of big Hollander machine.” But he grinned when he said it, nudging Shane’s foot under the table.

“If you don’t know how to do it yourself, you hire a professional,” Shane said. “Mom, tell him.”

He sat back in his chair, watching the people he loved best argue playfully. He was in Boston, at home with Ilya, and his parents knew about them now. Tomorrow he’d go to his first practice as a Raider. He’s learn a whole new team, a different kind of teamwork than he’d known in Montreal. This time, he’d have Ilya to help him learn how to be the kind of person they wanted him to be. Maybe this time, he’d get it right.

Chapter End Notes

The number one comment I get on this series (other than "work faster!") is folks saying that Ilya needs therapy. YES, YES HE DOES. Is he going to get it? Yes! When? Eventually! Are you going to know when he's started therapy! No you are not! Because Shane doesn't know either. In The Long Game, when Ilya starts therapy he doesn't tell anyone. We know about it because we have Ilya's POV in that book, but here we're seeing it from Shane's perspective, so there's going to be a point where he finds out that Ilya has been going to therapy in secret for a while. Please trust that I know a young immigrant from a country sliding into overt homophobia, with a dead mom, greedy drug-addict brother, abusive dad who develops dementia, an anxious/autistic secret boyfriend, and a league full of violent coworkers needs therapy. I promise, I know.

Chapter 4: Introductory Lesson: Movement and Location

Chapter Summary

Shane adjusts to his new life as he steps into the Raiders practice rink for the first time.

His hands shook a little, even when he woke up the next morning, but his parents still loved him, and he could hide the tremor by keeping his hands busy. Hiding it from his boyfriend was harder, and probably Ilya had already noticed, in the way that he noticed everything about Shane but chose when to mention it and when it leave it alone. He needed today to be a leave it alone day, a can we talk about this later day. The tremor was another thing he was carefully not mentioning, the way he carried what the Metros had done to him in a secret place at the back of his tongue, heavy enough so he didn’t say it without thinking, big enough that he could barely swallow around it. He would tell Ilya all of it eventually, when it was no longer a thing strangling him but a thing he had survived. He’d sit Ilya down once it was all a time in his life he had overcome, had moved past, could look back on with fond memories and which didn’t, at all, require Ilya to take on worrying about one more thing.

Shane could be smaller until then. Folded on himself and barely able to breathe. He could choke on it until Ilya left the room, until he could rush away with the excuse of getting ready. Until he could hide himself in the sound of a shower he wasn’t taking, letting water hitting tile be louder than Shane Hollander is vomiting up his feelings.

This is fine, Shane told himself, on his knees in Ilya’s en suite bathroom. It had to be true, because the other alternative was that he helped orchestrate blowing his own life up for nothing. No, worse than nothing, because there was the Rozanov of it all: Shane’s fall from hockey grace could drag the love of his life down with him, only Shane would end up working at a hardware store in a little village outside of Ottawa and Ilya would end up beaten to death in a Russian prison. Or bleeding out on the floor of his father’s home, which was very nearly the same thing. In Shane’s future, there was the mortifying ordeal of being recognized by former fans who simultaneously thought Shane Hollander had single-handedly ruined hockey but had also been overpaid, overhyped, and a diversity hire at the same time. In Ilya’s future, there was broken bones and heavy boots. Shane’s failure to manage the situation could ruin hockey for Ilya Rozanov, ruin his chance to live in a free country, ruin whatever scraps of a family relationship the man held tightly behind his teeth, ruin his body with bruises and broken bones, ruin his life by being the excuse monsters would use to take it away.

Shane was spiraling but the shower was on behind him, so he had at least ten minutes before Ilya came looking for him. He could afford to spiral a little more.

His gear was already packed. When they got to the rink – both in Ilya’s car because he was a guest in Ilya’s home, the team and their coaches all knew that, so it made sense for them to drive together, at least for the first practice – he would stop by the equipment manager’s office to hand over the long bag of hockey sticks his parents had driven down in the back of his Range Rover. He had three of Bauer’s Supreme Total Ones, his favorite for games because of their one-piece carbon fiber construction. Those sticks were all exactly the same: stiff 100 flex, with a nearly flat custom blade, short with a low lie. He rotated them for practices so they wore equally; if one broke during a game Kevin (Kevin, Kevin, the equipment manager for the Raiders was named Kevin, don’t be an asshole and forget the man’s name) could hand him another and it would be okay. He wouldn’t have to try to remember how the new one was supposed to feel in his hands while also trying to put aside the way his blood pressure would spike if a piece of his gear failed during a game. He knew the weight of those sticks. They were here with him now, in Boston, going with him to his first practice with the team, and they would ground him when it came time to play.

Shane knew it was true because he needed it to be true.

There were two other sticks which had their own bag. Easton S19s, elliptical profile and both much looser flex than he used in games. He had an 85, because he’d wanted to learn what it felt to hold one with the same level of give as the sticks Ilya used most of the time, and a 70, for practicing trick shots during his private ice time. Both were custom wraps, striped in the rouge, bleu et blanc of the Metros. He left that bag zipped up. He’d planned to leave them in Canada but his parents didn’t know which sticks he needed in Boston and which ones he was trying to forget existed. They’d go into storage and eventually he’d donate them to a charity auction, or maybe give them to a kid who wouldn’t know how his team had treated him. Some day, when his former fans had stopped burning his jerseys outside of Bell Centre, which wasn’t going to be today.

Ilya had looked at the bag with the Eastons in it, leaning against the wall unopened while Shane checked his Supremes instead, making sure none of them were damaged, explaining his choices in the level of flex and the shape of the blades. Yes, yes, I know this, Ilya had laughed, I have seen you play Hollander. Ilya Rozanov saw everything, and Shane noticed Ilya noticing the sticks Shane didn’t touch, but neither of them mentioned it.

His pads were all CCM, a gift from the company when they shot that commercial together before their rookie season, him and Ilya. They’d been nicer than what he’d been able to afford up until that moment, fitted to him by professionals, the best CCM could offer at the time. He’d had to replace a few pieces that wore out in the two years between now and then, but he kept them, the shoulder pad where the strap had come off and the shin guard that cracked protecting his tibia from a puck that should never have come close to him. They were in a box, back in Montreal still, waiting on the movers that would come when he either found new apartment of his own or had a buyer for his old place. Ilya had asked why, last night, when they were inspecting Shane’s gear together. His voice had been low, almost too close to Shane’s ear, but they were tired and leaning against each other. It was Ilya’s first time seeing all of it spread out in front of him, though of course he’d seen Shane on the ice. Why do you still have? Ilya had asked, about the broken pieces in the box in Montreal, so Shane told him.

That’s where we started, Shane had said. He wasn’t looking at Ilya at the time. His eyes were fixed on the pads in front of him, on the sticks leaning against the coffee table, at the open bag with all the assorted things he felt the need to bring with him every game: the tape he liked, his gloves, a couple of packets of electrolytes that could be added to a bottle of water, two of the protein bars he could eat without having to spend time thinking about their texture.

Ilya didn’t say anything about that either but he pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple.

Shane’s gloves were Metros blue but that would be fine for the first day of practice. Either Kevin would have another set of gloves waiting for him as part of his uniform, Boston black, or he’d have time to buy a new pair. He wouldn’t be allowed on the ice during any of their playoff games, but he’d be in a game day suit, riding the bench on national television, another reminder that Montreal found him too valuable to give up until the season was over but had shoved him out the door the minute a chance at the Cup was no longer worth keeping Shane Hollander on their roster.

He had less than five minutes left. He needed to move past this. Get up off the floor. Shower, get dressed, get his shit together and get out the door of Rozanov’s apartment.

Go out in public with his rival-turned-teammate secret boyfriend that he’d very carefully spent the last two years not being seen with.

His skin didn’t belong to him, which was really inconvenient because Shane was pretty sure you needed skin to play hockey, even it was just practice. There was a fifty-fifty chance that getting in the shower would either make his skin tighten up enough to feel like it was a part of his body again, or slough off entirely. He wasn’t ready to risk it yet.

His gear was packed. He was allowed to leave the apartment with Ilya Rozanov, former rival. They were teammates now. Going to his place of employment to do his job with his coworker was not going to end up with them losing everything, as long as Shane was careful. If he managed them both – if he kept Ilya at a distance, if he kept his love for this beautiful ridiculous man off of his own face…

It wasn’t a гулаг anymore. Gulags didn’t exist these days, officially. Shane had looked it up. The word he worried most about now was лагеря, lagerya. You could send a man to a Russian prison camp and blame his death on the elements. Beat him hard enough to break his ribs and collapse his lungs? Let’s call that pnuemonia and oh, sorry, we buried your love in the Siberian wilderness because you don’t even have the power to bring his body back home to Canada, sorry Mr. Hollander.

Maybe Shane would steal Ilya’s gloves from the Raiders locker room and wear them when Rozanov’s bones were rotting on the other side of the world.

“Shane, are you almost ready?” Ilya called from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, yep, one minute!” he called back.

Давай, he thought, as he stripped his clothes off. Let’s go.

He found Kevin just fine. He smiled and shook the man’s hand, passed over the stick bag Ilya had insisted on carrying for him. He answered questions about his preferences, kept one for that afternoon along with the pads he’d leave in his stall once practice was over. Kevin was fifty years old, with the easy manner of a guy who took his job serious enough to handle Hollander’s request for scent-free soap for his uniforms without rolling his eyes. Kevin praised Shane’s choice in stick tape and promised to keep his skate blades sharpened to the right specifications.

“We like Kevin,” Rozanov had said, wide smile on his face, shoulders straight, as he shook the other man’s hand before they said goodbye. Already leaving Ilya-the-boyfriend behind. Shane had smiled, something small that pulled awkwardly across his cheeks, then forced a bigger smile onto his face. The one he’d practiced, ever since their draft day. Another handshake, a we’re glad to have you here Hollander, then Kevin was behind them.

Rozanov watched Hollander out of the corner of his eye as they walked side by side down the corridor that led to their locker room but didn’t say anything. Hollander noticed him watching and swallowed against the things he kept trapped at the back of his mouth. They had to split up then; Shane had to swing by the med room to be weighed and measured. They checked his healing injuries, making notes and suggestions. The overhead lights were distracting, buzzy fluorescents. Yeah, sure, totally, he said to questions he hadn’t heard. They wanted updates if anything hurt worse, if his head gave him trouble, something about an ice bath, or maybe not. Yeah, I’ll let you know.

The hallways went to the wrong places. He got turned around more than once, learning the layout. CN Sports Complex, where the Metros trained, was spread between several buildings including on-site physiotherapy, an indoor soccer field and two ice rinks. Warrior Ice Arena was massive even though it only had one rink, but everything was contained to a single building.

The carpet was wrong too. The smell of the paint on the walls, the color of the polo shirts staff members wore as they passed him in the hall, hands raised in quick greetings…

Hey man.

It’s an honor Mr. Hollander.

Great to see you here.

Need any help?

My office is on the second floor, basement, down the hall to the left, stop by if you need anything, stop by, stop by.

Shane smiled, a small tight thing, while he held the paper printout of the facilities map in his hand and promised thanks, I’m good, I’m ready, it’s nice to meet everyone, sorry but I really needed to get to this next thing, no I don’t need any help finding it to people whose names he would never remember and whose faces were already blurring together.

Marly found him outside the staff cafeteria, which was not, at all, where Shane was trying to go. The bigger man laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and pointed out the most direct route from where they were to the Raiders’ locker room.

“What are you doing up here?” Shane asked, once he had the path he needed to take clear in his head.

“We’re out of the good Gatorade downstairs,” Marly said, like it made sense that he’d left the gym to walk halfway across the building. “Fruit punch,” he added.

“Lemon lime,” Shane said, tapping his own chest.

“You try the new lime cucumber yet?”

“Yeah, last year when we played in Florida, some of the guys bought a case. It’s all right.” My old team, Shane wanted to say. Back when I thought -

“So, uh,” Marly said. He shifted from one foot to the other, then looked around to make sure the hallway was empty. “You know I know about your thing, right?”

“My thing?”

“Roz.”

“Right,” Shane said. He did know that Marleau knew. Ilya had also explained how his friend had to be told twice, which actually made Shane feel better once he got over being frustrated because maybe it had meant Marly didn’t need to have been told at all. They were pretty good at hiding this thing; he just needed to remember that.

“So, I just gotta ask…” Marly leaned in, dropping the volume of his voice. “You’re not gonna be like that here, right?”

Be out. Be in love. Be a fucking faggot. Why you gotta be like this Hollander, we brought you on to win not embarrass the fuck out of us.

“No, Marleau,” Shane said instead. “I’m just here to play hockey.”

Marly straightened up then, grinning. “Great, man.”

Shane’s gear bag was slipping a little, so he shifted the strap higher up on his shoulder. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it. “Is it a me thing or the gay thing you don’t like?” he asked quietly.

The smile disappeared from Marly’s face. “Hollander, man, it’s not like that.”

“Okay,” Shane said, barreling ahead even though his body was screaming at him that this is a terrible fucking idea, “because if Svetlana got a job here, say working with the coaching staff, and you knew that your relationship was a secret, are you gonna be inappropriate with her at work?”

“Of course not. We’re at work.”

“Right, and if you knew that not only would she be fired if anyone even suspected you were together, and you’d be fired,” Shane added, pointing first at Marleau and then himself, “and not only that but she’d be deported and probably go to prison or I don’t know, fucking disappeared to Siberia, don’t you think you’d be really fucking careful about how you even looked at her, here,” Shane said, gesturing around him now, “at the place you fucking work?”

He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t, he was sure of it, but Marly’s face had gone pale.

“Sorry man,” Marly said. “It’s just, he’s my friend.”

“He’s my friend too, Marleau.”

“Yeah, but you know… hockey.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shane sighed, because he did. “I’ll see you out there.”

The other man looked like he was going to say something else, but thought better of it. He nodded as he walked away. Shane moved on autopilot after that. He wasn’t sure how many other people tried to talk to him by the time he found the ice, but he hoped he hadn’t said anything stupid. Hoped that whatever they remembered of him after today, it was more hockey robot than stupid gay panic. His wrist was vibrating; his fitness band congratulating him for spending so much time in an elevated heart rate zone. He’d have to drink more water today to make up for it.

He briefly wondered if he should go back to the cafeteria for Gatorade.

He smelled the ice before he found the right door. It wasn’t the same as the smell of the ice back in Canada – not the clear outdoor scent of ice on the river, or the electric ozone scent of the ice the Metros practiced on, but it was still familiar. Boston’s practice ice smelled cold, with a hint of metal and rubber. There was a little bit of gasoline in the air; the Zamboni must have just been out. Shane passed several people sitting in the stands and was startled, for a moment, until he realized the Raiders usually let fans into their practice sessions.

The noise of their conversations grew louder as they recognized him, but no one called out to him. He heard his name though, Hollander caught in the air, like passing cars in the distance. Nothing to do with him unless someone else decided it did.

The bench smelled faintly of old sweat. Shane checked the time. 37 minutes until the team was due to finish in the gym. He could do 30 minutes on the ice now, he decided, without his pads on, when the ice was pristine, with enough time to get back to the locker room before the others. He kicked off his shoes, pulled his skates from his bag, and got to work.

Shane wanted the rest of the world to melt away the moment he stepped out onto the ice. It never happened quite that way though. The first few steps were about making sure his skates caught on the slick surface under his feet, adjusting his weight to sit evenly across the thin blades, and letting go of the tension in his muscles. He kicked off, gliding into a wide elliptical around the rink. He softened his knees as he took a curve, listening to the crisp sound of his edges catching the ice. The stand was only on one side of the rink, so as he moved into the straight again there was only a wall beside him. The noise from people speaking to each other faded.

There it is.

His brain went quiet.

In a game, Shane’s brain was clear but focused, letting most of his usual feedback loops fall away as he calculated the angles, looking for opportunities. In drills, he mentally reviewed the tape as it was happening, looking for mistakes and corrections.

When he skated for the sake of skating, none of that mattered. Alone on the ice, Shane lived in his body instead of his mind. He felt the muscles in his legs warm as he moved. He felt the stretch, then relaxed into it and got loose. His weight shifted when it needed to, without thinking.

Shane kept his turns neat, bending his knees lower while crossing from one foot to the other in a continuous rhythm. Every cross was a little movement forward as his outside foot went inside, caught the edge and his weight transferred, then his inside foot crossed under and pushed out.

Curve.

Cross.

Push.

Fly.

Blades scraping against the ice.

The phone in his pocket was beeping. His 30 monitors were up.

Shane leaned toward the bench, letting his skates glide forward until he reached it. Ilya was there, still in his sleeveless workout shirt and gym shorts, leaning against the bench gate. Ilya opened it as he approached so Shane could hop up without stopping.

“Better?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded. “You look cold.”

“Russians do not get cold.”

“Tell that to your pink cheeks,” Shane laughed.

Ilya smirked. “That is for different reason, Hollander.”

“Not here,” Shane hissed, looking around.

“Relax Hollander, no one is listening.” But Ilya looked at Shane’s face, carefully, then gave a tiny nod. “I have not seen you skate before. Not like this,” he added when Shane opened his mouth to argue, “not just, no hockey. Just… skate. Like children, yes?”

Shane relaxed. He knew what Ilya meant. “Yeah,” he said softly.

The smile Ilya gave him was small, but warm. “Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together, “now I show you famous Raiders locker room, which you can probably find by smell but I am good teammate so I make sure you do not get lost. Ready?”

“Let’s go,” Shane said, and meant it.

Давай.