Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors & Shane Hollander, Connors/Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Rose Landry/Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry & Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Victor St. Simon, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Theriault (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov's Wife, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander Plays for Boston, Ilya Rozanov Plays for Montreal, Gay Shane Hollander, Bisexual Connors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Topping from the Bottom, Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Sub Top Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov Visits Irina Rozanova's Grave, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Hopeful Ending, Fluff, Angst, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Good Parent David Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of heated rivalry fics

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-17 Completed: 2026-08-01 Words: 57,882 Chapters: 9/9

How About that Other Team?

Summary

Boston, while they usually draft players they know to be aggressive, see Shane Hollander, classically Canadian, composed, and calculating, and realize they have an opportunity. Not to reform their image necessarily, but to put out the narrative of a better influence. No one expects Shane Hollander to snarky, suave, and all together trouble for the league.

Montreal sees Ilya Rozanov for exactly what he is, brutal, talented, and masculine. He’s the leadership the Voyagers need, he’s tough on his teammates, on himself, and he doesn’t take shit from anybody. However, he’s too quiet off the ice, and it’s unsettling. He’s everything and nothing they thought he would be.

Notes

so. I had this idea right. what if shane played for boston. what if boston brought him out of his shell. what if ilya suffered in montreal

and thus a fic was born

Chapter 1

"This is a shocking departure from Boston's usual draft pattern," the pundit was saying. "I mean, I think we all had our money on them drafting Ilya Rozanov."

"Absolutely," the other man agreed. "I mean, I'd have put my money on basically any other player."

"Boston drafting Shane Hollander makes you wonder what they're playing at. I mean, congratulations to Hollander on being first draft pick, but I for one cannot wait to see what happens once he gets onto the ice with Boston."

"Same with Rozanov in Montreal. Rival teams, different play styles, these two boys are going to have a rookie season - a career even - to remember."

~~~

"Mom, I know it's not what we wanted, but this could be good," Shane reasoned. "I know it's not Montreal, but Boston is still an Original Six team. Maybe the change will be good for me, you know I've been getting bored of the game. This is something to look forward to."

"I don't want to root for Boston," Yuna grimaced. "But I also don't want to root for your rivals."

"So don't root for Boston, root for me," Shane said. "Root for Ottawa if it's going to be that much of an issue, at least they're barely our competition."

"We are going to root for you," his father soothed. "Your mother is just being dramatic. You know we're so proud of you. First draft pick, even if it means you're going to an American team. Let's go introduce ourselves to Coach LeClaire."

The Boston coach was loud and brash, and spoke to Shane like he was trying to figure him out.

"I know this probably wasn't what you expected son, we understand that Boston has a reputation, but you've got something special. I think what Boston needs is someone like you. You've got a natural talent for hockey that I haven't seen in at least a decade. You read the ice like a book. I can't wait to see how you fit in with this team, Hollander."

"Thank you, sir."

"And Mrs. Hollander, I know you were a born and raised Voyageurs fan, but I hope you can forgive us for stealing your son."

"Well, as long as my son is playing good, clean hockey…"

His mother's words faded to the background as Shane looked down over the balcony railing and caught a glimpse of Ilya Rozanov's messy blonde curls from where he was talking to Montreal's coach, Theriault.

What he didn't expect was the Russian to look back up at him.

~~~

"What a fucking day," Shane groaned as Rozanov collapsed across from him in front of the hotel gym mirror.

"Yes," Rozanov said, clipped. Shane couldn't tell if it was a product of his limited English, or if he was just irritated.

"Was it everything you ever dreamed of?" Shane teased.

"Ah, not quite."

"Sorry." Shane was absolutely not sorry. He'd worked his ass off for this. He was worried he'd lost it too, that Rozanov would take this away from him after Russia won their matchup, but Shane's skill spoke for itself.

"No you're not," Rozanov grinned, taking a long drink from his water bottle. "Montreal is nice, yes?" he asked after a beat.

"Yeah, it's awesome. Good city, solid team. My mom is basically the Voyageurs' biggest fan."

"So your mother will be rooting for me? Not her son?" Rozanov's grin was bright, like he was laughing at him.

"In your dreams," Shane scoffed.

Rozanov's face mellowed. "Boston is nice too?"

"I think so. People like it there."

"We will be seeing each other a lot."

"Boston and Montreal play against each other a lot. The rivalry is intense, historic."

"I look forward to playing against you," Rozanov admitted. "You challenge me."

It was more honest than he was expecting from Rozanov.

"You, uh," he cleared his throat. "You challenge me too."

Rozanov held out his water bottle. Shook it, taunting until Shane took it and squirted water into his mouth.

He watched a drop of sweat drip down Rozanov's neck. He had the startling thought that he wanted to lick it.

Shane's eyes snapped back up. He handed the water bottle back, ignoring the way Rozanov stared at him as he took a drink himself.

"We will see each other on ice," Rozanov said finally, decisively, picking himself up off the floor and extending a hand to Shane, helping him up as well.

Their hands stayed linked for a beat too long, Rozanov's eyes locked with his.

"See you on the ice."

~~~

Practice started next week, and Shane couldn't wait. He was excited to meet his team, to get back on the rink, to play some fucking hockey, but Yuna had his schedule filled with sponsorship obligations. Reebok, Dunkin' Donuts, and now he was on his way to a CCM commercial shoot.

A CCM commercial shoot with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

He'd found out two days prior, while he was packing his bag for Toronto. It was fine. He could do this.

He wasn't expecting Rozanov to call him pretty. To have been the one to ask CCM to pair them together.

To jerk off to him in the locker room.

To ask for his hotel room number.

To teach him to suck his dick, and suck his dick in return.

Fuck his whole entire life.

~~~

"Everybody be nice!" Coach LeClaire shouted into the locker, guiding Shane by the shoulder. "We've got a new rookie in the house!"

The locker room broke out into cheers, and Shane ducked his head.

"Everyone, this is Shane Hollander. Hollander, this is everyone."

A tall man with dark hair stepped forward.

"Coach wouldn't let me reach out before, he insisted on being the one to introduce you to the team. I'm Cliff Marlow, team captain, but from what I know about you, I'm sure I'm not long for my post."

"Let him get through the season before we start talking about who's gunning for Captain," LeClaire chastised.

Marlow waved him off. "The A's are over there, St-Simon and Connors. This is a close-knit team, so you have nothing to worry about. Anybody tries anything, we'll take care of it. You're our rookie now."

Shane blinked. He hasn't expected this kind of a welcome. "Thanks I think?"

"You're welcome. Now suit up, let's see how you do on a non-Canadian team."

~~~

As it turned out, Shane did pretty damn good. He clicked into his line easily, his fast skating complimenting St-Simon's brutality in a way he didn't expect, but also realized he kind of loved.

This wasn't the hockey he grew up with, but it was a hockey he understood better than he knew what to do with.

"Alright, Hollander, since it's your first practice with the team, and you did so well, I propose we go out," Marlow said, looping an arm around Shane's shoulders.

"He's too young to drink in America, you know that Marly," Connors said, smacking him lightly.

"I don't want to drink during the season anyway," Shane interjected.

"Responsible. I like you, kid," Marlow - Marly - told him. "Still, come out with us. We want to get to know you."

Shane hated going out, but getting to know his team sounded like a good idea. "Yeah, alright," he agreed.

~~~

An hour later found him sitting tucked inside a booth at some club Marly said had a good reputation.

Shane realized very quickly that meant that meant a lot of very attractive women frequented the establishment.

He was honestly a little bit nauseous.

He sat, nursing his ginger ale, nodding along quietly to some story St-Simon was telling about his own rookie year before the man suddenly vacated his seat, stuttering something about needing another drink.

His drink was still mostly full.

"He's got a thing for that bartender," Connors said, nodding towards a redhead that Shane hadn't seen when they'd come in. "It's embarrassing, really, but what can you do?"

"Jesus," he muttered.

"So rook, what's your poison? Brunettes? Blondes?"

He thought about his hands in Rozanov's hair. "Blondes."

"Alright, alright," Connors nodded. "Men or women?"

Shane startled and choked on his drink. "What?" he coughed.

Connors shrugged. "Men or women? If you don't have a preference, that's fine, I just wanted to make sure before I told you that guy at the bar has been checking you out for the last 15 minutes."

He was speechless.

"Shane, listen," Connors said, placing a hand on his wrist. "I don't care. None of us do. These guys are good people."

"How did…" Shane trailed off. "I mean…"

Connors shrugged. "Both of my siblings are gay. When you've been around it, you kind of know what to look for. Plus-" his eyes flicked over to Marly, who was grinding on a girl on the dance floor, "-I mean, we've all lived a life, right?"

"So, if I… liked guys," Shane said cautiously, "that would be okay with you?"

"Yeah, of course. Now do you want to go talk to that guy or do you want to keep sitting here with me?"

"I-" Shane glanced back over at the man, who offered him a little smile and wave. "I think I'm good for now. Maybe another time."

~~~

"Shane Hollander." Rozanov settled across from him for the face off. "Will you disappoint them?"

Shane barely glanced at him. "Nope."

He won the face off.

Boston won the game.

Marlow made sure he wasn't left behind when they went to the bar after.

He didn't pick anyone up, but he was aware of who was watching.

~~~

His mom called the next morning.

"Shane, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes mom, I know. I've been wearing my Reeboks, Rolex wants me as an ambassador-"

"You'll be lucky if they want to keep you after last night. Have you been the photos of you online?"

"What photos?"

Shane was barely online, relying on his team for any important gossip.

"Photos of you, Shane Hollander, out at a club with your team. You're technically underage in the US, Shane, do you know how this looks?"

"I wasn't drinking, mom," he reassured her. "I've been looking out for the guys when they go out, making sure they don't do anything irresponsible."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I suppose that's a good thing."

"I'm being responsible, mom, I promise. I'm not doing anything that will get me into any trouble."

"Keep it that way. You've got people looking up to you, you know that."

"And that's why I'm setting an example, being sober, responsible, and caring for my team. You know how valuable that is."

Another beat. "Fine. I love you, take care of yourself, we'll see you in a few weeks, after All-Stars, right?"

"I love you too. I'll see you after All-Stars."

~~~

The All-Star Game was Team North America vs. Team Europe.

Hollander vs. Rozanov again, Shane groaned when he saw they'd both been picked.

The press conference was its own special kind of hell. Shane hated talking to the media, and Rozanov was tense sitting next to him. He studied the way Rozanov paused before answering questions, translating in his head. Shane pressed his shoe against his when one reporter spoke too quickly. It was meant to be reassuring, especially combined with the way he jumped in to answer the question for himself, for Boston.

He smiled when Rozanov answered for Montreal. Maybe this weekend wouldn't be so bad.

At the very least, it would be exciting to have Scott Hunter as his captain.

He signed up for the shot accuracy competition, and was annoyed that Rozanov had done so too. When he won, beating the record right after Rozanov set it, he celebrated.

"Good job," Rozanov said, voice flat.

"Thanks," Shane responded.

"You have fun last night?" Rozanov asked from across the bench.

"What?"

"Did you have a good night with your team? Have dinner, get drunk?"

"Oh, yeah, I mean we had fun, but I didn't get drunk. You?"

Rozanov blew a raspberry. "Yeah, it was great. No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans…"

"So, what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they're in love with?"

Rozanov tried to hide his smile. "I think I'm going to bed early tonight."

"Yeah?"

He came off the bench again and skated past Shane.

"You're in 1221, yes?" he asked quietly, and Shane's eyes widened. That was his hotel room number. How the hell had he known?

"Nice shooting, rook," Scott Hunter said startling Shane out of his thought spiral. "Glad to see Rozanov didn't hold my record for very long."

"Oh, thanks."

"What did he want?" Scott Hunter asked.

"Huh?"

"He said something to you. What did he want?"

"He was just being an asshole," Shane lied easily. "He's the worst."

"Don't I know it," Hunter groaned. "His hotel room was almost next to mine. Thank god they switched me so I'm in 1223 instead of 1405 now. Imagine how awful that would have been."

"Yeah, awful," Shane agreed.

Fuck.

He couldn't think about that right now. His name was being called to get back out the ice.

~~~

There was a knock on his hotel room door, and Shane answered immediately, his arm snaking out into the hallway and dragging Rozanov inside.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed, and Shane slammed a hand over his mouth.

"You're fucking insane," Shane breathed. "Scott Hunter is right next door. How did you even get my room number?"

He could feel Rozanov's smirk under his hand.

"Fuck," he groaned, and moved his hand so he could shove him against the wall, kissing him deeply.

"Get on your knees," Rozanov ordered, and Shane sank to the floor, going for the fly of Rozanov's pants and taking his dick into his mouth.

He was intoxicated by the smell of him. Shane was shocked by the realization that he'd missed this. He'd sucked Ilya Rozanov's dick, once, months ago, and he fucking missed it.

"Up, up, up," Rozanov was practically begging.

Shane rose, going back to kissing him like he hadn't just had his dick in his mouth. He barely even noticed when Rozanov picked him up and carried him over to the bed, dropping him on the mattress and stripping off his pants as Shane took off his shirt.

Rozanov took him into his mouth, and Shane swore, stopping himself from running his hands through Rozanov's hair.

After a moment, Rozanov came back up and patted him on the thigh. "Turn on your stomach."

He did, unthinkingly before he realized what Rozanov wanted.

"You are scared," Rozanov observed.

"I'm not."

"You do not want this?"

"No, I do, I just-"

Rozanov drew back, studying Shane's face. "Is okay, you know, if you do not want."

"I own a fucking dildo, Rozanov, I think I know what I fucking want."

Now it was Rozanov's turn to be shocked.

"Shut up," Shane muttered.

"No, is cute. What color? Is big?"

"Fuck off."

"No, I want to fuck you, Hollander," Rozanov whined.

"I want you to fuck me too," Shane told him softly. "But not here. Not with Scott Hunter right next door."

"So where? When?"

Shane thought about his game schedule. "We play each other in a couple weeks. In Montreal."

Rozanov hummed.

"We wouldn't even need a hotel, if you're comfortable bring me home," Shane said, dragging his fingertips across his jawline. "We can figure out the details later."

"How?"

"I'll give you my number," Shane said easily, surprising himself a little. "That way we can plan for these things."

"Okay," Rozanov said quietly, smiling a sweet, shy smile that was uncharacteristic on his face. He looked younger, more his own age, and Shane couldn't help but kiss him again.

~~~

Shane sat next to Marlow in the airport, watching their coach talking on the phone in a hushed tone.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

Marlow shrugged. "It happens sometimes. The weather up there is unpredictable this time of year. They'll reschedule for later in the season."

"Sorry boys, nobody's getting into Montreal today," LeClaire called, and the team groaned. "Not a whole lot we can do about two feet of snow."

"Well, sounds like we've got a night off," Marlow said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You coming out with us, rook?"

"I think I'll pass tonight," Shane said. "I've been kind of tired recently."

"Alright, go home, get some rest, kid. We'll see you at practice in the morning."

Shane nodded. He needed to text Rozanov.

~~~

To Rosie: Catch you next time!

He received no response.

~~~

The game wasn't rescheduled. The next time they saw each other was at the NHL awards ceremony in June, after the playoffs.

They were both up for rookie of the year, and Shane knew he had it in the bag. He was first draft pick, his shooting percentage was excellent, he was the reason his team even made it to the playoffs.

They'd been knocked out almost immediately, but it was the first time Boston had made the playoffs in years, so that had to count for something.

His parents sat on either side of him as they announced the nominees. This was it, the perfect end to the nearly perfect rookie season.

"And the rookie of the year is… Ilya Rozanov!"

Suddenly, he felt like he'd been dunked underwater. His heart dropped into his stomach, and he couldn't breathe. He'd lost. He'd actually fucking lost to Ilya goddamn Rozanov.

Rozanov looked about as shocked as he was, but he recovered quickly, rising from where he was sat between his coach and one of his teammates to accept the award with a smile.

His speech was clunky, but Shane barely listened. He needed to get out of here, he needed air, he needed to not let people see how he was spiraling.

~~~

After an appropriate amount of time spent at the banquet, he found his way to the roof.

His parents had left almost immediately, really, he'd sent them away. They shouldn't see this. They shouldn't see how Rozanov would rub the win in his face.

He was surprised when that didn't happen.

Rozanov found him up there, lighter in hand, smoking like he was during their first meeting.

He didn't expect Rozanov to admit he thought Shane would get the award too.

Shane should just leave, but he was enjoying the warm air against his skin. The city was beautiful from above.

Rozanov was beautiful too, in his well tailored suit. He didn't even need to look at him to know that.

He was being mean, he knew that, but he also didn't want to stop. He wanted to drive Rozanov away. He wanted to be alone.

When Rozanov offered to leave, he realized he didn't want him to. He couldn't be alone and with Rozanov at the same time though, so he had to make up his mind.

"No, I should go inside. I have an early flight back to Ottawa tomorrow." He stepped back towards the stairs, and was surprised when Rozanov followed after him.

"Is fine," Rozanov assured him, dropping his half finished cigarette on the concrete and grinding it out with his shoe. "Is my fault."

He was close, too close to him. Shane could smell smoke and vodka and cologne. It was intoxicating.

No, he couldn't do this. He couldn't have this.

Shane let Rozanov back him against a wall. "We shouldn't do this here. Anybody could see us."

Rozanov looked around. "No one is here. Please, let me kiss you before I go downstairs. Before I go back to Russia."

He hated this. He hated himself for wanting this. "Fuck."

He hated the taste of tobacco on his tongue, hated how it mixed with the vodka and something minty. Gum maybe, or toothpaste.

He hated how his body reacted, how he wanted more.

Shane pushed him away when he heard laughter, too close for comfort.

This was insane. He felt insane. All he wanted to do was wallow in his self pity and now-

He studied Rozanov, his pupils blown so wide he couldn't see the blue in his eyes.

He wanted everything Rozanov would give him.

"This is too dangerous," he said instead. "I should go before we're caught."

Rozanov grunted, not moving back, so Shane flipped them around so Rozanov's back was against the wall.

Shane swallowed Rozanov's moan. He really fucking shouldn't, but here they were. "We can't do this. Not here, not tonight. Not with everyone downstairs."

"Fine," Rozanov said petulantly. "Thank you."

Jesus Christ, he was going to be the death of him. "Congratulations, Rozanov," he said genuinely, taking a step back and straightening his jacket. "I'll see you next season."

He turned and walked away so he wouldn't do something stupid like stay and kiss him again. He ignored Rozanov calling after him as he descended the stairs back down into the hotel.

Shane never did return to the party.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Montreal sees Ilya Rozanov for exactly what he is, brutal, talented, and masculine. Ilya Rozanov feels like he's lost everything, but maybe, just maybe, he can build something from this strange new place he's found himself in.

Chapter Notes

and now for Ilya's POV! we're not going to talk about how many times i typed shane instead of hollander. it was a little ridiculous actually

All Ilya Rozanov did was lose.

He'd lost his mother, far too young, both of them. He'd lost the love of his father and his brother, although sometimes he wonders if he ever had it. He lost his will to live.

But he never lost with hockey. The ice was safe, clear, violent in the way he liked. He was the best on his team, of his age even.

It was a proud day when he won against Canada, against Shane Hollander, in Juniors.

Surely he would be first draft pick as well.

Then he fucking lost to Shane Hollander.

By all accounts, it shouldn't have happened. Hockey media was aflame with speculation as to what had happened to cause Hollander to be picked first, and by Boston of all teams.

Boston wasn't Hollander's style, he knew as much by watching years worth of tape of the man, studying him, getting to know him so he could beat him on the ice.

And yet, here he was, with his father in Los Angeles, California, talking to Montreal's coach.

Theriault, he remembered. He struggled with French more than he did English, but so many Canadians had French names.

"He needs discipline," his father was saying as he tuned back into the conversation. "Lazy."

"We don't tolerate laziness in Montreal," Theriault responded. "Seeing him play though, I don't think we'll have a problem with discipline."

"I will work very hard for you," Ilya tried to respond, before his father cut him off.

"You're an embarrassment," he whispered in harsh Russian. "Do not speak out of turn."

"Yes father," he responded, bowing his head.

He leaned his head back to look at the ceiling before scanning the rest of the room. He hadn't expected to catch Hollander's eye from where he stood on a mezzanine.

Pretty Shane Hollander, always on a pedestal, he thought. Perhaps rivals wouldn't be the correct way to describe them.

~~~

"What a fucking day," Hollander groaned as Ilya collapsed across from him in front of the hotel gym mirror.

"Yes," Ilya responded.

"Was it everything you ever dreamed of?" Hollander was making fun of him, that much was obvious.

You know it wasn't supposed to go this way. "Ah, not quite."

"Sorry." Hollander did not sound sorry.

"No you're not," Ilya corrected, taking a drink from his water bottle. "Montreal is nice, yes?" he asked after a beat. Hollander was Canadian, surely he would know.

"Yeah, it's awesome. Good city, solid team. My mom is basically the Voyageurs' biggest fan."

"So your mother will be rooting for me? Not her son?" Now it was Ilya's turn to make fun.

"In your dreams," Hollander scoffed.

"Boston is nice too?" Ilya asked. He wasn't sure if Hollander had been there, but if some of the two of them had, it would be him.

"I think so. People like it there."

"We will be seeing each other a lot."

"Boston and Montreal play against each other a lot. The rivalry is intense, historic."

"I look forward to playing against you," Ilya admitted. "You challenge me."

He hadn't meant to be so honest, but it was true. It was why he studied Hollander so intensely. Hollander was his only real competition, no one else could compare.

"You, uh," Hollander cleared his throat. "You challenge me too."

Ilya held out his water bottle. He didn't know why he did it, other than realizing that Hollander didn't have one himself. He shook it, teasing until Hollander took it and squirted water into his mouth.

He watched his throat work. He wondered what it would look like swallowing something else.

Hollander handed the water bottle back. Ilya let their fingers touch, reveling in the thrill of it.

"We will see each other on ice," Ilya said. He stood and extended a hand to Hollander, who let him tug him to his feet.

Their hands stayed linked for a beat too long. Hollander's eyes met his, and he saw an intensity there that he knew he would want to see again.

"See you on the ice," Hollander agreed.

~~~

It hadn't been a challenge to convince the marketing people at CCM to include Hollander in the commercial they wanted him in. The NHL was already trying to sell the hockey world on their rivalry, so it would draw eyes.

Plus, he had said he would see Hollander on the ice.

He couldn't resist calling him pretty. They were so close together, he was sure he could pick out the individual shades of brown in Hollander's eyes.

Then Hollander apparently couldn't resist checking him out in the locker room.

And, well, Ilya always wanted what he couldn't have.

"What is your room number? Say you are free around nine… I might knock."

Hollander's mouth was perfect. Actually, it was far from perfect, but he was tight and used too much spit and his eyes glossed over, and Ilya had to pull him off before he came too soon.

He took him on the bed, guiding him by his hair until it all became too much.

Taking Hollander into his mouth was exciting in a way he hadn't expected.

Ilya loved sucking cock. He was great at it too, which is how he knew Hollander would come in his mouth so quickly, but he hadn't expected his reaction.

His perfect, sweet noises. The way he grabbed at Ilya's hair, not domineering, but hard enough to sting.

The taste of his cum, more salty than sweet, but it was everything Ilya had ever wanted and more.

He wanted more.

He couldn't have more.

~~~

Theriault sat Ilya down in his office before his first practice.

"I wanted to have a conversation with you before I introduce you to the team," Theriault said. "I don't know how much you remember of our conversation with your father at the draft, but I wanted to set some expectations, some boundaries, before the season starts."

He spoke slowly, like Ilya was an idiot. His English wasn't that bad.

"Yes sir."

"I don't allow my players to fuck around," he said. "Montreal is never in the tabloids, and I intend to keep it that way. No clubbing, no public intoxication, no smoking, no drugs, no revolving door of women going in and out of your apartment or hotel rooms. Montreal has a reputation that you need to play within the bounds of, do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm sure you want to know why I brought you here, to this team. No one thought that you were the right choice for us, but I see something they don't."

Ilya knew he was making a face. "I do not understand."

"The problem with Montreal's reputation is that recently it's been making us look soft."

"Soft?"

"We need someone who plays hard, who takes hits and hits back. Someone who makes the rest of the league stop calling us fags and queers."

Ah, he wants masculinity, but not promiscuity. He could do that. "You want me to…" he thought for a moment, finding the English phrase. "Command respect?"

"I want you to change our game," Theriault explained. "If you don't uphold our agreement, you won't like what happens. Do I make myself clear?"

Ilya hadn't agreed to anything. "Yes sir."

"Great, go get ready for practice."

~~~

Montreal was too clean, Ilya found. They played too defensively, like they were afraid to get hurt.

Ilya didn't fit in.

"For the love of God, you fucking pussies!" Theriault screamed from the bench. "I'll make your fucking rookie captain if I have to! Rozanov is the only one out there playing like he's not scared of the damn puck!"

He hated the attention it was bringing to himself, but a couple players started playing a little harder to try and match him. He didn't know their names yet, just their numbers, 16 and 35.

Theriault noticed and put them on a line together, just to see what would happen. It wasn't perfect, but it was something.

~~~

"I'm Hayden, by the way, Hayden Pike," 35 introduced himself once they were back in the locker room. He reminded Ilya of Hollander in a way, clean-cut, obviously Canadian, earnest. "That J.J. Boiziau," he pointed at 16.

Ilya grunted as he tugged off his pads.

"Listen, I know Theriault's not the nicest guy, but he's really trying with this team. I think he made a good choice with you."

He stared at Pike, confused. "I am not like you."

"No, but Montreal hasn't gotten past the first round in the playoffs since before Andropov made the team, and that was like, five years ago, so maybe we need something different."

"Sure."

"Look, I might be totally overstepping here, but would you want to come out with us? We wanted to celebrate the new season, nothing crazy, but maybe we could get a drink?"

As much as he wanted to, he heard Theriault's voice in the back of his head, discouraging him. "Ah, no, maybe another time."

Pike's face dropped, but his smile returned quickly. "No problem, I'm sure you still have to unpack and whatever."

Ilya nodded. "Yes. Unpacking. Will see you tomorrow."

He threw the rest of his gear in his bag and walked out. He would shower at home.

~~~

Ilya paid attention as their lines slowly locked into place. As they started playing like they meant it.

Theriault still yelled, but there was some praise in between the insults.

"Alright boys, our first game is next week," Theriault said, gathering them for a post-practice meeting. "Your lines are as follows, and you will stick to them for the remainder of practices to make sure you know your places."

Ilya was second line with Pike and Boiziau. Captain got first line, but maybe someday that would be him.

~~~

"Shane Hollander," Ilya said slowly, savoring the shape in his mouth as he said it. "Will you disappoint them?"

Hollander didn't spare him a glance. "Nope."

There was sweat gathering in the space under his nose and above his lip. His Cupid's bow, a voice that sounded like Svetlana whispered in his ear. Silly American phrase.

He wanted to lick it. He wanted to know if the sweat there tasted anything like his cum. It probably did. He missed the taste, heavy on his tongue.

The whistle blew.

Hollander snapped the puck back easily, and later, when Ilya would watch the tape back, he would appreciate the grace with which his line shifted. How St-Simon and Marlow's violence didn't impact Hollander's clean hockey.

It was gorgeous.

He gladly withstood Theriault's verbal assault when they lost, after Hollander sank his goal. It was deserved.

After all, Ilya had lost. Again.

~~~

The All-Star Game was Team North America vs. Team Europe, but everyone knew it was really Hollander vs. Rozanov. The league was so eager to exploit their supposed rivalry.

Theriault had pulled him aside before he'd gotten on the plane to Nashville.

His "Behave" still rang in Ilya's ear.

Maybe that was just the sound of the journalist speaking to him. He was tired, and his head had been hurting for the better part of the day, jumping from conversation to conversation, never getting a break to rest his head.

His English was slow, syrupy. He took a beat to long to answer a question.

Hollander answered for him. He pressed his shoe up against Ilya's under the table, grounding him.

His brain finally caught up to the question, allowing him to answer for Montreal. He wouldn't embarrass himself. Not here, not now.

He signed up for the shot accuracy competition. It was a skill he knew he was good at, and could easily break Scott Hunter's record, dinosaur that he was.

In fact, he did break Scott Hunter's record.

Then Shane Hollander broke his a minute later.

He tried to be a good sport about it, congratulating him from across the bench. He wanted to poke at him to be annoying until Hollander snapped.

He didn't expect Hollander to be funny. Ilya was delighted, but he refused to laugh at his joke.

"I think I'm going to bed early tonight," he said instead.

"Yeah?"

He came off the bench again and skated past Hollander.

"You're in 1221, yes?" he asked quietly, and Hollander's eyes widened.

He didn't respond, but he knew it was true. A Swedish player on his team was friends with Hunter, so he'd heard about the room swap that put the North American Captain next door to Hollander.

~~~

Ilya knocked on the door of 1221 softly, and was shocked that it opened immediately. Hollander must have been waiting for him.

Then an arm shot out and dragged him inside.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed, and Hollander silenced with with a hand over his mouth.

"You're fucking insane," Hollander hissed. "Scott Hunter is right next door. How did you even get my room number?"

Ilya just stared at him, not bothering to hold back his smile under Hollander's palm. Just as he suspected, Hollander wanted this just as much as he did.

"Fuck," Hollander groaned, and Ilya's face was covered by something else entirely.

Hollander tasted exactly how he remembered, like mint toothpaste and something sweet, like soda. His hands rested on Hollander's hips, and he wanted to stay like this for ages, but he needed to be quick before anyone realized he was not in his room.

"Get on your knees," Ilya practically begged, and Hollander went. Ilya's head hit the wall with a dull thud as Shane took his dick out and went down on him like he needed it to breathe.

"Up, up, up," Ilya was going to come before he wanted to, and he didn't want that, not if he was going to fuck Hollander that night.

Hollander stood, and Ilya could taste himself on his tongue. It was too much. He hooked an arm under Hollander's perfect ass and carried him over to the bed, dropping him on the mattress and stripping off his pants as Hollander took off his shirt.

~~~

In the end, Ilya didn't fuck him, not yet. He walked out of the room with the taste of Hollander's cum in his mouth and a new contact in his phone.

They would make plans. He would have to figure out how to sneak Hollander into his apartment, but he had two weeks to figure that out.

~~~

The game was cancelled. Boston's plane couldn't get into Montreal because of the snow.

Theriault made them practice in the absence of a game, which Ilya was grateful for. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts after his plans were ruined so thoroughly.

"Hey, are you busy tonight?" Pike asked him as they changed out of their practice gear.

Not anymore. "No."

"Come out with us? It's not going to be a crazy thing, just a few guys getting drinks at the bar."

Ilya glanced towards Theriault's office. He really shouldn't.

"You got the speech from Theriault, huh?" Pike asked. "He's not going to make you do bag skates over one drink. Honestly, it might be good for your image to make an appearance."

He supposed that was true. His image was turning into something boring off the ice, and that wouldn't do.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, do not make me regret it."

"I won't, I won't, holy shit. I'll text you the address," Hayden said, pulling out his phone. "We'll meet there around 7, okay?"

"Okay."

~~~

When he met them at the bar, he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder constantly. It really was just a few guys getting together for some drinks. The place sat somewhere between a sports bar and a club, with music and a dance floor, but it was quiet enough on a Tuesday night that they were able to have a conversation.

Not that Ilya was doing much talking. He nodded when it was appropriate to do so, but he didn't have much to contribute to the conversation.

That's why he volunteered to get their next round of drinks.

He made his way to the bar, avoiding other patrons as he did so, and flagged down the bartender.

"Another round for the table in the back?"

"Yes, please."

"You guys had beer, right?"

"Yes. Could I also get waters with those?"

"No problem, man."

The bartender got to work, and Ilya waited patiently. He barely noticed when a woman came up to stand next to him.

"You're Ilya Rozanov, aren't you?" she asked, startling him.

"Yes. You are a Voyageurs fan?"

"You could say that. I was born and raised here, and my parents are huge hockey fans." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm Jackie."

"Nice to meet you Jackie," he said pleasantly, turning back to check on the bar tender's progress.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it briefly before putting it away.

From Holly: Catch you next time!

He ignored Hollander. He couldn't do this right now.

"Can I buy you a drink?" she asked.

"I can buy my own drinks, thank you." He wasn't trying to be rude, but he was aware of how he sounded.

"I know, but I want to. Let me?" Jackie rested a delicate hand on his forearm, looking up at him sweetly.

Normally, Ilya loved being flirted with. He was hot, women loved him, he was great at bringing them pleasure, but he really didn't want anyone right now. He was still thinking about a dumb fucking hockey player with beautiful freckles, and eyes that were far more lovely than this woman's.

"You don't want me," Ilya told her. "I am… not good with people."

"Oh," she said, clearly disappointed.

"I am sorry," he said. "You seem nice."

"I've been told I'm a great lay too," she said, immediately freezing and covering her face with her hands. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I came over here with the goal of flirting with the sexy hockey player and now I'm making a fool of myself."

Ilya laughed despite himself. "You are confident. This is good. I think I like you, Jackie."

"I'm a disaster."

"Is okay, so am I. I just tell you I am bad with people, and you do not judge, which tells me you are good person. Means your family is good people."

She waved a hand. "Family is family, they do their best and their worst, and you become all of it."

Ilya blinked. "Wow."

"Sorry-"

"No, is good, I like it. You are wise."

"Clearly not wise enough," she muttered.

"Do not, what is American phrase, beat yourself up?" Ilya questioned. She nodded. "You wanted something, you went after it, it does not go to plan. Is okay, now we have had a good conversation at this bar. Strangers become friends all the time."

"Friends?"

Ilya winked. "Life is strange, yes?"

The bartender chose that moment to appear with two platters of drinks.

"Do you need help carrying those?"

Ilya laughed. "No, is okay. Hold on." He turned towards his table. "Pike!" he shouted, getting the man's attention and waving him over.

"Hey Roz, need a hand?"

"Ah, no." He removed one glass from off of each tray. "This is Jackie," he introduced his new friend. "She is boring Canadian like you, but I think you will like her. Have fun."

He carried both trays back to their table, and was pleased that Pike didn't come back.

~~~

The season ended, and while Montreal hadn't won the Stanley Cup, they'd made it further in the playoffs than they had in years.

Theriault even agreed that it was only a matter of time before they were hoisting the cup.

Still, Ilya was uncomfortable going to the NHL awards. He was up for Rookie of the Year, but that would more than likely go to Hollander after the performance he'd put up.

Really, they were evenly matched in their stats, but Hollander was first draft pick. He was the golden boy, the NHL's wet dream wrapped in padding.

Ilya never expected them to call his name for the award.

He was sure his face showed his surprise, but he smiled easily, welcoming Theriault's pat on the back and Pike shaking his shoulders with joy.

He made his way to the stage, accepting the award.

"Ah, thank you," he started. "Is an honor to be here, to accept this. I would not be here without coaches, without team, without Montreal. My English is not good enough to say all I want, but I can show it on the ice. Spasibo, moi druz'ya."

He could hear his team cheering amongst the scattered applause. Perhaps Montreal was not so bad.

~~~

The after party was boring, but he was expected to be there. Ilya had hoped he would see Hollander, but it had appeared he had left.

He was in the crowd at the ceremony, flanked on either side by two people who must have been his parents. He'd seen Hollander's mother before, but his father was a mystery to him.

Hollander's disappointment when Ilya's name was called had been clear, so he supposed it made sense that he'd left.

"Rozanov!" a voice called, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Scott Hunter!" Ilya called back. "How are you? Admirals treating you well, old man?"

Hunter snorted. "As long as they don't force me into early retirement, I think we're fine," he played into the joke, much to Ilya's delight. "Speaking of old people, me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do shots with the rooks, if that's something you're into?"

Ilya wasn't typically one for shots, even when he did drink, but tonight was a celebration, and Theriault didn't have him on as tight of a leash.

"Only if this place has good vodka," Ilya negotiated.

"I'm sure it's fine," Hunter laughed. "Now, where's your boy, Hollander?"

His boy. The phrase sat heavy in his chest. Yes, he wanted that, but that wasn't something anyone could know. "My what?"

"Sorry, that came out wrong. You know what I mean though, it always feels like you're a package deal. Hollander vs. Rozanov and whatever. It must be lonely up on your pedestal, but what do I know?"

"I do not know where he is," Ilya told him truthfully. "I can look for him if you want?"

"It's fine, I'm sure one of the other guys caught him."

Ilya knew they hadn't. It was confirmed when he scanned the line of men at the bar, and Hollander was notably absent.

The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, but it was nothing new to him. He took a second shot before quietly excusing himself to find a quieter space.

He bummed a cigarette off J.J. who he knew smoked in the off-season and headed for the roof.

As it turned out, someone had beat him there.

Hollander leaned over the railing, staring out at the city. The lights of the Las Vegas Strip illuminated him like a halo. Like Ilya's own perfect angel.

He flicked his lighter, the quiet sound getting Hollander's attention.

"You shouldn't be smoking."

"Is the off-season, Hollander, one will not hurt."

He hadn't turned to look at him.

Ilya joined him on the railing, watching the city's reflection in Hollander's eyes. He'd been crying. Or maybe was about to cry.

"I suppose I owe you a congratulations," Hollander said, like the words were being ripped out of his throat.

Ilya hummed. "I thought it would be you."

"You and me both."

It was bitter. The air was tense.

Ilya should just finish his cigarette and leave him alone.

But his skin itched with joy and want. He wanted to be kissed as a reward for doing so well, he wanted to feel Hollander writhing under him, to make both of them feel good before he went back to Russia.

"You have summer plans?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," Hollander spat. "You've done enough."

"Sorry," Ilya said. "I can go."

He didn't leave. Hollander told him not to.

Hollander let him back him against the wall. Let him take and take and take.

It was everything. It was too much. He was dangerous.

They parted when Hollander pushed him back, saying something about how they would get caught. Ilya let the words wash over him, not bothering to put effort into translating it fully.

He understood when Hollander flipped them around. When he shoved Ilya against the rough brick wall and kissed him again, keeping him quiet.

Ilya almost whined when Hollander pulled back. He wanted to rumple his suit more, not watch Hollander collect himself.

"We can't do this. Not here, not tonight. Not with everyone downstairs."

Ilya knew he was right. "Fine." Then, because he could- "Thank you."

He liked Hollander's little huff he let out when he was trying not to laugh. "Congratulations, Rozanov," he said as he started walking away. "I'll see you next season."

"See you next season!" Ilya called after him.

He let his head drop back against the wall with a laugh once Hollander was well and truly gone.

What had he gotten himself into?

Chapter End Notes

I hope yall like this as much as I do, I'm having fun personally

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Over the next few seasons, Shane does everything in his power to better his game, to become the Captain Boston needs him to be. He just needs to ignore Ilya Rozanov and his advances, lest he become a distraction

Chapter Notes

got hit with the curse of the ao3 writer once again, so please ignore any weird scene jumps, I don't have the energy to fix it lmao. I'm not really that mad about it, I just know it's not my usual style so yknow how it be

also, I've learned that I like this version of shane more than i expected, but this fic's ilya is my fav <3

It surprised Shane how much Rozanov texted him.

They'd exchanged numbers so they could plan to hook up, but Rozanov texted him even when their teams weren't due to meet each other for weeks. Sometimes it was about Boston's games, making fun of him when they played poorly and when they played well.

When they played each other though, Rozanov always upped the ante, promising to make him cum no matter which one of them won.

Shane tried not to respond, but sometimes his curiosity got the better of him. Sometimes he couldn't resist flirting back.

Sometimes he got the feeling that Rozanov liked it when he was being intentionally difficult.

That being said, no matter how much he wanted to hook up again, Shane wouldn't. He couldn't. There was too much to do.

LeClaire made it clear that he was destined for the C, so he spent every spare moment in Marlow's shadow, learning from how he led the team, and thinking about what he would do differently.

He was given an A, which gave him more responsibility and took away from his free time. He still went out with the team when he could, it was good to show face and to be involved in keeping everyone safe and out of trouble.

Connors still tried to push him towards attractive people who checked him out in bars and clubs, but he hadn't wanted to try anything.

He was focused, dedicated. He was Shane fucking Hollander.

Shane Hollander didn't fuck around. Shane Hollander kept to himself, stayed in his lane, and gave everything on the ice.

Shane Hollander wasn't going to give in to Ilya Rozanov's advances.

~~~

He lasted two whole seasons.

The 2013-2014 season was going to be a great one for Shane, he could feel it in his bones. He was finally Captain of the Boston Bears with Marly and Connors cheering him on as his A's.

He was slated to be Captain of Team Canada at the Olympics in Russia. He deliberately wasn't thinking about that yet. He would figure it out when things were more set in stone.

Shane was overwhelmed in the best way. Hockey was in his blood. He could feel it thrumming under his skin.

He wanted this. Needed this. Skating felt like breathing.

Boston started the season on a winning streak. This was their season, he could feel it.

The first time they played against Montreal that season, they were at home.

The itch got stronger.

Their communications director came and got him to talk to the press, causing the team to tease him. He hated doing press and they knew it, but it was a necessary evil.

All he wanted was to get back to the locker room and finish putting on his gear so they could get out on the ice. He needed it, especially today.

He was putting on the last of his pads when his phone buzzed.

From Rosie: How many times can you come in an hour?

Shane hated him.

To Rosie: There is something seriously wrong with you.

From Rosie: Well? Do you know? Can I help you find out?

He was going to kill him.

To Rosie: No. I don't know. Maybe twice?

From Rosie: You are terrible at sexting

To Rosie: I'm a little busy at the moment.

From Rosie: After the game you will not be busy. Where will we meet?

To Rosie: Don't make assumptions.

Shane hesitated.

To Rosie: If you're lucky, I'll text you later.

~~~

Shane's apartment was technically a duplex that sat on top of some store that he'd never been inside of. It was in a nice neighborhood, but he still had a keypad lock on his door just in case. He could never be too careful.

He'd skipped a night out with the guys. They'd invited him out after their win, but the hum of excitement under Shane's skin hadn't faded in the slightest, and he knew exactly why.

From Rosie: I think I'm here?

His apartment also had a back entrance. It was down an alleyway that wasn't well lit. Shane tried to take his trash out during the day because of it, but apparently it was useful for times like these.

He opened the door to see Rozanov standing a little ways away from the door.

"You will murder me?"

"Don't just stand there, get inside," he hissed.

Rozanov ducked into the doorway, and Shane let the door shut behind him before he shoved him against the wall.

"Why did you think it was okay to sext me before the game? Were you trying to distract me?"

"Yes, my genius plan to destroy Boston is to distract their captain with promises of sex," Rozanov deadpanned.

"Go fuck yourself," Shane scoffed, pushing himself back and walking up the stairs towards his apartment.

"Hollander," Rozanov whined.

"Come on." Shane motioned for him to follow, and Rozanov ran after him.

"Your apartment is nice," Rozanov remarked, looking around the place.

Shane was proud of his apartment. He didn't think he'd care so much about it, but when he found the place, he wanted to turn it into a place he loved living in. He hired a decorator since he was always terrible with that kind of thing, but in the last year, he made sure it felt lived in, comfortable.

"I own the place next door too. I'm renting it out for now, but I might turn it all into one place someday. "

Rozanov hummed, studying Shane from across the room before he walked over slowly.

Shane leaned back against the counter, letting Rozanov come to him. He closed the space, trapping Shane against the cool marble.

The kiss was nothing like what he was expecting.

He was expecting heat, urgency. Instead, he felt warmth, butterflies erupting in his stomach as Rozanov kissed him softly, sweetly.

"Hi," Rozanov said, pulling back with a smile. "I missed you."

"You missed my mouth," Shane teased, leading him towards the bedroom.

"I can miss you and your mouth, two different things."

Shane snorted and stood by the bed. "Come over here."

"You come here." Rozanov was already walking towards him.

He took a step forward, and the two of them collided.

The itch under his skin quieted as Rozanov laid him out of the bed. He checked in every step of the way, making sure that Shane was comfortable as he opened him up, first on his tongue and then his fingers.

Then he pressed inside, and nothing else mattered.

Rozanov went slow, filling him up inch by inch.

As soon as he was fully inside Shane, he stopped, letting them both breathe in the moment.

It was perfect. It was everything.

He needed Rozanov to fucking move.

"Please," he said, pulling Rozanov down by the back of his neck. "Fuck me."

Rozanov groaned, and finally started moving. His lips met Shane's again, and he moaned into his mouth. He kissed down his neck, his chest, anywhere he could reach.

He let Rozanov turn him onto his back, pressing his face into the pillow to quiet the loud moan he let out when he pushed back in.

"This is still okay?" Rozanov asked.

In response, Shane started fucking himself back on Rozanov's dick. His hands flew to Shane's hips, and he leaned down to kiss between his shoulder blades as he took control again.

The angle was intense. As much as he loved being able to look Rozanov in the eye as he fucked him, the feeling of his cock dragging back and forth across his prostate was making him forget his own name.

"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov groaned.

"I'm close, I'm so fucking close," Shane whimpered. He would have been embarrassed if this wasn't so fucking hot.

"Come on, Hollander, cum for me." Rozanov sped up, not relenting in his pace until Shane came with a loud gasp.

He felt like his strings had been cut as ropes of cum splashed across the sheets. Rozanov's cock throbbed in his ass as he followed him over the edge.

Shane wanted to stay like this forever, he realized distantly as Rozanov adjusted them so he was lying on his back.

He would have to change the sheets before he went to bed, but all he wanted to do for now was sink into the warmth of Rozanov's chest.

He still felt that warmth when Rozanov got up to shower.

He still felt it when he threw on pants and a sweatshirt to walk Rozanov down the stairs to wait for his cab.

He felt comfortable. He felt cared for. He felt adored when Rozanov leaned down to kiss him as he sat on the staircase, holding his coat.

The kiss came with teasing words, but it was so soft, so sweet, that Shane couldn't help but sink into it with a smile.

Later, Shane would realize he was the one who ruined it by mentioning the Olympics. That Rozanov had gone quiet when he asked about Russia, about his family.

In the moment though, he felt boneless, his mind quiet.

"I ah," Rozanov cleared his throat. "My car is here. I have to go. Pike will not be able to cover for me forever."

"Pike? As in Hayden Pike?" Shane asked with a laugh.

"Yes. You know him?"

"We've met," Shane admitted. "He's nice."

"He owes me many favors," Rozanov said. "He is good teammate, even if he is more boring than you."

"Don't be rude," Shane teased.

Rozanov hummed and leaned down to kiss him one last time. "I will see you around, Hollander."

He took his coat from Shane, pulling it on and backing towards the door. He smiled at Shane one last time before he slipped out into the night.

~~~

The next time he saw Rozanov was in Russia. They never played against each other, Russia lost to Latvia before they had the chance.

Team Canada was going to the finals against Team USA.

Scott Hunter was predictably Team USA's Captain with Carter Vaughn as his A. The two were a powerhouse in New York, so it made sense.

Shane didn't know how he felt about his A, a Montreal player named Boiziau, but he supposed it didn't matter. The team worked, that was the important part.

He ran into Hunter and Vaughn a couple of days before their final game. He was sitting in a cafe, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee and checking his emails, resisting the urge to check in on Rozanov when a shadow fell over his table.

"Hollander!" Vaughn greeted cheerfully. "What's up motherfucker?"

"Hey guys," he greeted.

"Do you catch that game with Russia?"

"Yeah, it was a shit show. I mean, Latvia?"

"It's fucking embarrassing is what it is."

"Be nice, Vaughny," Hunter chided.

"Come on, Scott! They lost to Latvia on home turf! Holy shit, Hollzy, have you talked to Roz about it?"

"Haven't seen him," Shane said. "Even if I had, I don't he'd tell me anything. We're not exactly friends."

Vaughn waved him off. "Whatever man, I bet he's just hiding somewhere with his tail tucked between his legs. At least that means you don't have to play him."

"No, I just have to play you guys, which should be easy enough," Shane snarked.

"No way, USA's got it in the bag this year, baby. We're fucking coming for you."

"Stop antagonizing him, Vaunghny," Hunter sighed.

"Don't worry about it, you guys will look great in silver," Shane said with faux-confidence.

Even Scott laughed at that.

"Competition aside, have you guys looked at the events schedule?"

"Short form figure skating has the rink tonight," Shane said. "I have a buddy who's competing. We trained together, I was thinking about showing up to support him."

"That's cool, mind if we tag along?" Vaughny asked. "I'd love to show up for a dude that's that brave."

Shane looked at Hunter, who looked just as confused as he felt at Carter's words. "What do you mean?"

"Sorry, I probably shouldn't assume, but I'm guessing your buddy's gay, right? Russia has laws against that kind of thing."

Once again, Hunter's face felt like a mirror of his own, this time with a look of horror.

"I hope he's being safe is all," Vaughn continued, oblivious to their reactions.

He agreed to let them tag along with him, and the conversation turned to something inconsequential that he tuned out easily.

Shane needed to find Rozanov.

~~~

As Joe took his final bow, Shane glanced around, and was surprised to see Ilya Rozanov standing on the upper level of the rink, staring down at the ice.

"I'll be right back," he said, excusing himself. Hunter and Vaughn didn't even look at him as he left.

He found his way to where Rozanov was easily.

"Hey," he said as he approached, so as not to scare him.

Rozanov didn't look at him. "No. Not here."

"No, I know, that's not-" Shane sighed. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine. Go away."

"You know if you need to talk-"

"I have people to talk to. Leave me alone, no one can see us talking. Is dangerous."

"Good sportsmanship is dangerous? Saying I'm sorry we didn't get to play against each other is dangerous?"

Finally, Rozanov looked at him, and Shane understood.

The look on his face was dangerous. He had tears in his eyes that Shane wanted reach out and wipe away. The set of his jaw was violent, jarring in a way that Shane had never seen before.

"Right, sorry. I'll go. Take care of yourself, Rozanov."

He walked away, and didn't look back.

~~~

On the plane back home, he logged into the Wi-Fi to see a text from his mother.

From Mom: [link]

The headline of a news article stared at him. He could barely believe it.

Team Russia Covered Up Positive Drug Tests for at Least 14 Players

At least 14 players?

The article didn't list any names, but it seemed so out of character for Rozanov to take part in something like that. He valued clean hockey as much as Shane did, even if he was rougher with his checks, and meaner with his chirps.

But maybe Shane didn't really know him either.

He opened up their text chain anyway.

To Rosie: Are you okay? I saw the news.

He didn't ask the obvious. He didn't want to know.

Rozanov didn't respond.

~~~

It had been weeks, and he still hadn't heard anything from Rozanov. Just like that, after months of hearing from him on a regular basis, silence.

Shane tried not to feel like it was his fault. It wasn't, they both had busy seasons, and Rozanov had been busier than ever, clearing his name after Sochi, playing hard to make sure Montreal made it into the playoffs.

He was doing the same in Boston, making sure their team was in proper shape to win the cup this year.

His team was starting to worry about him. Shane wasn't ignorant enough to not notice the way they were tip-toeing around him, how they were sending each other worried looks across the locker room after long, hard practices or games where they didn't do as well as he thought they could.

"Just say it," he told Marlow when he'd finally had enough. "You have concerns. Tell me."

"It's not a big deal, Hollzy," Marly started.

"Yes it is," Connors scoffed.

"Can one of you just tell me what you're all thinking so we can get this out of the way?"

They looked at each other, seemingly having some kind of silent debate that Marlow lost.

He sighed. "You've been different recently."

"I'm focused on getting us to the playoffs," Shane corrected.

"Which is why we're willing to put up with these tougher practices, but you've also been playing different. You're in your own head and it's starting to show."

Shane stared at him. "What?"

"Look, this is why we didn't want to say anything. There's something up with you, and you don't have to talk about it, but something's gotta give," Connors said.

"I don't know what to do with that," Shane said honestly.

"That's why you've got A's, brother," Marly said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're here to help."

"Come out with us tonight," Connors proposed. "You haven't gotten a drink with us in months. Team bonding is important."

"You know I don't drink during the season."

"Then drink your ginger ale and be the responsible one making sure we don't kill ourselves. You love being the responsible one, and you can't think about whatever's been bugging you when we're being idiots."

That was true at least. Shane sighed. "Fine, I'll come out. I can't promise I'll stay, but I'll make an appearance."

"I'll take it!" Connors said cheerfully, shaking his shoulders. "You know where to meet us."

~~~

The bar was the same as it had always been. The guys let out a cry of joy when he walked in, raising their glasses to their captain.

As the night went on, he felt a sense of déjà vu, like it was the first night he'd gone out with the team all over again. Marlow was on the dance floor, although now he was joined by Carmichael and Hammersmith. They were surrounded by women who'd do anything for a chance to bed a hockey player.

Connors snorted when one of them deliberately tripped and fell onto Marlow's chest.

"Could she get anymore obvious? Jesus," he muttered into his drink.

Shane elbowed him in the side. "If you're so jealous, why aren't you out their with them?"

"I'm good, I know what I've got." He winked at Shane. "Plus you need a babysitter, so here I am."

"Do I have to remind you that I am your captain?" Shane asked.

He gave him a look. "Shane, buddy, if I were not here, who would tell you that are are no less than four people checking you out at this very moment?"

"What are you talking about?"

Connors rolled his eyes. "Woman at the corner table, the blonde. She's been glancing our way and whispering to her friends for the last half hour. There's a couple at the bar that's been staring, clearly debating if you would have a threesome with them. The guy at the pool table has been… let's say very enthusiastic in his play style, and if I'm not mistaken, we would have the best view."

Shane looked over, and sure enough the man was leaned forward in a way that felt unnecessary, showing off what he could appreciate was a very nice ass in his tight jeans.

"You brought me out so that I would get laid?" Shane asked incredulously.

"Not necessarily," Connors shrugged. "However, even you have to admit that it might help."

"I cannot believe you." His gaze drifted back over to the man playing pool. "You're a terrible influence."

The man's friend seemingly abandoned him in that moment, leaving the admittedly very attractive man alone.

"I'm um, I'm going to go see if he needs a new player," Shane said, not looking at Connors as he rose.

"Sure you are buddy," Connors snorted.

"Shut up," Shane hissed. "Go make him jealous or something, leave me alone." He nodded towards the dance floor where Marlow was now talking to a group of women that all seemed hooked on his every word.

He approached the pool table, lightly dragging his hand across the man's back as he rounded the corner towards a rack of cue sticks.

"I think you need two people to play pool," Shane teased, trying not to feel some type of way about how the stranger's eyes took him in.

"I mean, I had a friend, but I think he found something more worth his time," the man returned.

"Are you not going to do the same?" Shane asked, feigning ignorance.

The man licked his lips as he stared at Shane intently. "I'm good right where I'm at."

Shane felt his face heating up, but he did his best to play unaffected. "Rack them up then, let's play," he said, motioning towards the table as he grabbed a cue.

~~~

In the end, Shane didn't go back to the man's hotel room with him. Instead, he sucked his dick in a dingy bathroom tucked back down a hallway no one noticed them disappear into.

He wasn't small, but Rozanov was bigger, so Shane had no problem taking him all the way down his throat.

"Holy fuck," the man swore, grabbing at Shane's hair.

"Stop, stop, stop," he begged, already on the verge of cumming.

"Where do you want it?"

Shane stuck out his tongue then, letting him rest the tip of his dick there.

"In your mouth? You want to swallow for me, pretty boy?"

He nodded, not caring how he must look, begging for a stranger's cum on his knees in a disgusting bar bathroom.

"Fuck," he groaned, and then he was cumming, letting out a long, low moan as Shane took his tip into his mouth.

He didn't taste like Rozanov, was Shane's first thought.

It was insane, he was losing his mind.

He swallowed, and let the man get on his knees for him in return.

The stranger used too much teeth and too much spit, but it was fine. He was good enough.

When they were finished, Shane straightened his clothes and walked out as if nothing had happened.

He said his goodbyes, and called a cab to take him home.

~~~

"You should go out with us more often," Marly said, slinging an arm around his shoulders after their next practice. "You're already relaxing a little."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Shane grumbled, trying to unlace his skates.

"Trust me, pal, it shows." Marly let him go, starting to take off his own gear. "Connors, tell him I'm right."

Connors glanced up, and him and Shane made eye contact. He grinned conspiratorially. "Yeah Hollzy, it's almost like going out with friends is better than sitting at home and being alone with your thoughts. Plus, who knows what might happen when you leave the safety of your ivory tower."

"You guys are assholes, I'm going to request a trade to Ottawa if you keep this up," he announced. It was a joke and they all knew it, but everyone boo'd regardless.

"You know what, let's make a bet," Marly said, glancing at Connors who raised an eyebrow. "We win the next… let's go with five consecutive games, and you have to come out with us at least once a week for the rest of the season."

"Ten games," Shane countered.

"How about six?" Connors bargained. "We have six games in the next two weeks, it's perfect."

Marlow nodded. "I can work with that. Come on, Hollander, it'll be motivating."

"I think getting us into the playoffs should be motivating enough," Shane said, "but fine, if we win the next six games, I'll go out with you guys more often."

The team cheered, and Shane rolled his eyes. "This is fucking ridiculous."

Connors scrubbed at his hair. "Come on Captain, show up for your team."

"I do show up for you. On the ice, every fucking day because we are here to play hockey. We are here to score goals and outskate everyone. We're here to fucking win," he emphasized. "So yes, I will show up for you, as long as you show up for me, because that's what we fucking do."

The sound that erupted from the locker room felt like the moments before they hit the ice for a game, not like they were getting ready to go home.

"That's why you're the fucking Captain!" Marly hollered, and Shane laughed.

He hadn't expected to love Boston so much. By all accounts, him and this team should have like oil and water, but Shane realized he fit in in a way he hadn't expected. This was his team, and he wouldn't trade them for the world.

~~~

They won all six games, and Shane held to their agreement, going out more often. He still didn't drink, he held hard and fast to that rule, but it was fun hanging out with the guys.

Connors kept pointing out when people would check him out. Shane was getting better at noticing the patterns, but it helped to have confirmation.

He didn't usually act on anything, but every so often he'd give into the impulse. He'd let himself be dragged into a bathroom or a storage closet. He'd give and he'd take the the whole time he would think of Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Shane could admit that he knew what he really wanted. He wanted what they'd had in those hotel rooms, in his apartment, because somehow Rozanov made him fall to pieces in a way he suspected no one else could.

But Rozanov hadn't texted him back. Shane stared at the name Rosie in his contact list and resisted the urge to message him.

If Rozanov wasn't going to reach out, he wasn't going to push.

The closest he came to breaking was when Montreal made the Stanley Cup Final.

Boston had put up a good fight, but the round they'd played against Florida had been the final straw. All of them had injuries in some form or another, and it showed in their play.

Carmichael in particular had taken a beating, and was batting at St-Simon with his one good hand as his teammate offered to help him shave.

"You need to shave the playoff beard, man. It's over, we lost."

"What the fuck, man. Wait, Hollzy's here! Hollzy, dude, tell him to leave me alone!"

"Just let him help, Mikey," Shane said as he toed off his shoes at the door. "You can't exactly do anything with a dislocated shoulder."

"Ugh, fine."

Marlow had invited them all over to watch the final game, Montreal vs. San Francisco. Montreal had been playing harder than Shane had ever seen, with them clearly following Rozanov's lead.

Even the commentator mentioned Rozanov's fervor, attributing it to his loss at the Olympics, and maybe wanting to redeem himself, prove to the world that he could still play good hockey.

And good hockey it was.

Shane watched the TV, transfixed by his rival's pure skill on display.

He let all other conversation fade into the background, only paying attention when he heard his name.

"What?" he asked.

"You hate Rozanov," Marlow said.

"I mean, I guess," he muttered.

"He's a great player though. I mean, that's just good hockey right there," Connors observed from beside him.

"It's great hockey," Shane admitted. Playing against him was his favorite thing to do.

Montreal won, and all of his teammates groaned when Rozanov scored the final goal. They all started to disperse, getting up to help Marly put food on the table to refill their drinks, but Shane stayed put.

He smiled as Rozanov raised the cup, yelling something in Russian he wouldn't pretend to understand.

Maybe he shouldn't be, but Shane was proud of him. After this whole season, Rozanov deserved this.

~~~

The NHL awards were a fucking joke, in Shane's humble opinion.

It was nice to be recognized for their achievements, but in recent years, they'd turned the whole ordeal into a pseudo-Oscars event, rolling out the red carpet for men who were more comfortable in athletic gear than in tuxes.

He was even being forced to present this year, the one for good sportsmanship, which meant reading lines off cue cards with none other than Ilya Rozanov at his side.

What a fucking joke.

Shane arrived back stage to find Rozanov already waiting.

"You're early."

"You were not. Was starting to worry I would have to present alone," Rozanov said. "Then what would they think of hockey's Golden Boy?"

"Shut the fuck up," Shane muttered, following Rozanov out as the announcement went out for them.

Shane tried to remain focused on the task at hand: read his lines, hand off the award, get the fuck out.

It was just hard when Rozanov was that close to him, gripping the back of his neck like he was an unruly kitten, dragging his fingers down his spine, leaving him cold as he pulled away.

But then it was over, they were dismissed, and Shane found his way to an empty bathroom behind the stage, determined to shake whatever feeling this was off.

He splashed water on his face, and while his eyes were still closed he heard the door creak open. He didn't need to look to see who it was.

"Get out."

"I don't think you want that," Rozanov said, leaning against the paper towel dispenser.

"You don't know shit. Leave me alone."

"This is because I do not answer your texts?"

"This is because I want you to leave me alone," Shane said, getting in his face before he grabbed a paper towel to dry off with. "I don't fucking need this."

"I think you want it," Rozanov teased.

"It doesn't matter what I want!" Shane practically shouted. "What I want is someone who's not a complete asshole, I want someone who doesn't just fuck me because it's convenient."

Rozanov snorted. "You are not convenient, and you like that I'm an asshole."

He did, but he wasn't going to tell Rozanov that. He liked that he got to fight about this.

"Why are you even here?"

"Because I wanted to apologize," Rozanov said plainly.

Shane stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Apologize?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I could have texted you back and I didn't. I was an asshole to you in Russia. I needed to be, I think."

"To protect yourself?" Shane scoffed.

"To protect you," Rozanov corrected. "I can handle myself. Is my country, I know how to deal with it. You do not. So I was an asshole, and I didn't text you back, and I am sorry."

He worked his jaw as he looked for a response. "Well, you found one hell of a time to do it."

"Was convenient, as you say," Rozanov joked, and Shane bit back a smile.

"I'm still mad at you."

"Okay. I will make it up to you."

Shane laughed. "Really?"

"Yes."

"And how will you do that?"

Rozanov considered him for a moment. "I will make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"We are both up for MVP. If you win, I will do whatever you want me to do. Does not have to be sex, I will leave you alone for the rest of my life if that is what you ask. Whatever you say, I do."

"We both know you're going to win," Shane pointed out. "You won the Cup for Montreal for the first time in a decade. You had a historic season."

"We both thought you were going to win Rookie of the Year," Rozanov countered. "We were both wrong then."

"So if I win, you do whatever I want. What if you win?"

"You come back to my room. I beg for forgiveness until you let me touch you, because I missed you even if I shouldn't."

God, he was insufferable. "Fine. You've got a deal." Shane stuck out his hand for him to shake.

Rozanov took it and dragged him closer, kissing him breathless.

Shane tried not to let himself fall into it, but he'd missed this. He'd missed the taste of mint on his tongue, how it mixed with his vodka and the cigarettes that he apparently smoked. It took everything to pull away when Rozanov finally broke the kiss.

"I thought you were going to beg for my forgiveness first before you touched me," Shane said, surprised he could form a complete sentence.

"To make a deal with the devil, you seal it with a kiss, not a handshake," Rozanov told him.

Shane didn't know who was meant to be the devil between them.

"I will see you after," Rozanov said, exiting the bathroom quietly, letting Shane collect himself before he returned to his seat.

~~~

Predictably, Rozanov won. Shane knew he would, and was waiting on the text with Rozanov's room number as he chatted with the defensemen from some other team, he thought Toronto but he couldn't be sure.

When the message finally came through, he gave himself a little time to slip away from the party and up to the penthouse level where Rozanov was waiting.

He texted as he approached the door, hearing the door unlock so he could slip inside.

The suite was gorgeous, lit only by a few lamps and the lights of the Strip.

Rozanov wasn't looking at him, instead staring out one of the large windows on the far end of the room.

A glass of what was probably vodka dangled from his hand. His shirt was open and untucked, and he was barefoot.

He was the most beautiful thing Shane had ever seen.

"You came," Rozanov said, not turning around.

"We had a deal."

Then he turned around, and Shane's breath caught in his throat.

His eyes were dark, anticipating. "Yes we did, but I still didn't know if you would come."

"If you make a deal with the devil, doesn't the devil hunt you down if you break the agreement?"

"Who said I was the devil here?" Rozanov stepped down towards him, and Shane resisted the urge to take a step back.

Instead, he laid his jacket over the back of the couch. "That doesn't sound like begging for forgiveness. Where's the bedroom?"

Rozanov nodded in the direction of the bedroom, and Shane walked towards it, leaving Rozanov to follow behind him.

He grabbed a chair as he walked, dragging it along with him and placing it across from the bed. "Sit," he ordered.

"What?" Rozanov asked, clearly baffled even as he followed the command.

"You are going to sit right here and beg for my forgiveness while I do whatever the hell I want."

He muttered something in Russian that Shane was sure were cuss words.

Shane knew Rozanov's game. He'd kissed him in that bathroom because he thought Shane would cave. He opened the door to him looking unbelievably sexy because he knew Shane was attracted to him.

What he'd forgotten though was that Shane had an incredible amount of self-restraint. He'd spent his whole life practicing a very strict kind of discipline, making sure his body and mind could withstand the pressure he needed to get into the NHL.

So he undressed slowly, taking off his shirt and pants, folding them carefully and setting them on the bedside table, leaving his boxers on, and climbing onto the bed.

He turned to see Rozanov practically drooling. Pathetic.

"Well?"

"Hollander," Rozanov groaned. "Fuck, please."

A shudder ran though him. "Please what?"

And oh did Rozanov beg.

Shane reveled in it, leaning back against the pillows on the bed and touching himself to the sweet sounds coming from his lips.

When he finally removed his underwear, Rozanov paused, likely thinking Shane would let him touch.

"Please Hollander, let me-"

"No," Shane said sharply. "Why should I? You've gotten everything you could want from me. You won Rookie of the Year, you won the cup before me, you won MVP first. You've fucked me, had your dick in my mouth, and all you can think about is how you want more."

"Please."

Shane threw his boxers at him, thinking it would shut him up, which it did, but not in the way he'd expected.

Instead, Rozanov picked them up from where they'd landed on his lap and studied them for a moment before he held them to his face and breathed in. His eyes rolled back into his head, and Shane couldn't look away.

"Fuck. Do you want to fuck me?" Shane asked, barely holding himself together.

"Will you let me?"

Shane brought himself up onto his knees and crawled forward, reaching for Rozanov who rose from his hair to meet him.

He grappled with his belt while Rozanov dealt with his shirt.

Loathe as he was to admit it, this was exactly what he wanted. No one could fuck him like Rozanov. No one else compared.

"Be a good boy and fuck me."

~~~

As they laid there in the afterglow, Shane took in the vision that was Ilya Rozanov. He was quieter now, as if lost in thought.

"Hey," he said softly so he wouldn't startle him. "You know I forgive you, right?"

Rozanov barely looked at him before he nodded.

"I was worried about you. Between Russia and the news after, I thought- Christ, I thought I'd lost you."

Now Rozanov looked at him. "Lost me?"

"You're my favorite part of hockey," Shane said, maybe a little too honestly. "You make it fun."

A noise came from Rozanov that sounded like a sob mixed with a laugh.

"I know you probably have to go home this summer, back to Russia I mean, so please, for the love of god, stay safe. Come back to me."

"For hockey? Or for sex?" His words were teasing, but Rozanov's tone was off.

"Both, I guess," Shane laughed, choosing to treat the question like a joke.

"No one else can fuck you right?" Rozanov asked, finally sounding like the asshole Shane knew.

"That's none of your business," Shane said loftily. Then - "When do you leave?"

"Early tomorrow," Ilya answered. "I have, ah, business to attend to."

"I can get out of your hair," Shane said, rising from the bed and searching for his clothes.

"Okay."

He dressed quickly, ignoring how Rozanov's eyes tracked him around the room.

"Get home safe, okay?"

"Okay."

Shane hesitated by the door. "So, this is it?"

"What is it Hollander, do you want a goodnight kiss?"

Yes, his traitorous brain supplied. They hadn't kissed since the bathroom during the awards ceremony.

"Do you?" he asked instead.

He hadn't heard Rozanov get up from the bed before he was suddenly standing in front of him, pressing him up against the door.

"If I kiss you," he breathed against Shane's mouth, "I'm going to want to ask you to stay."

Shane wrapped his hands around his neck, stroking his jaw as he pulled him down.

There was no heat, no promises of something more. Just desperation and an unspoken want for something he couldn't have.

"Do you want me to stay?" Shane asked.

"How will you leave in the morning without getting caught?" Rozanov argued.

"Let me handle that. If you want me to stay, I'll stay."

Rozanov stared at him like he was insane, which maybe he was, but he didn't care.

He was definitely insane.

Shane, because he hated himself, because he had completely lost his mind, because he wanted this more than anything, stayed.

Chapter End Notes

oh, and yes i worked actually 2014 olympics lore into this fic. because i love drama and I want to use it to traumatize Ilya a little bit. you'll see what i mean

next we get to see how ilya's going the Fuck through it lmao, have fun kids!

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Over the next few years, between earning his place as captain and staying in his lane in Montreal, Ilya finds that the only place he can be himself is with Shane Hollander, secretly, over text. But he can't be Ilya at the Olympics, he can't be Ilya when he's trying to prove that this is what he was meant to do, and finally, when he can be Ilya again, everything is too cold.

Chapter Notes

if we're being totally real, I wrote most of this chapter yesterday. this was a hard one for me, and unfortunately it's only going to get harder for ilya if we're being honest

Ilya hated going back to Russia.

He hated seeing his father, sick and dying without knowing he was doing so.

He hated having to talk to his brother in person without the barrier of thousands of miles between them.

He wasn't even looking forward to coming back to Canada, with Theriault breathing down his neck, grooming him to be captain soon.

Texting Hollander was a bright spot. He was funny without trying. He didn't give in to Ilya's relentless teasing.

With Hollander, he didn't feel the pressure of expectation. With him, he wasn't Montreal's up-and-coming captain. He wasn't shouldering the weight of representing his entire team.

He wasn't Grigori Rozanov's disappointing son, he wasn't Alexei's annoying little brother that he tormented.

With Hollander, he could just be Ilya.

Ilya, who was just as smart as Shane Hollander, even if language sometimes failed him. He could pick apart games, tell you exactly where lines had failed, where they'd done well, and he delighted in pointing them out to Hollander.

Before the NHL, before Hollander, Ilya spent his time going out with friends, partying, drinking, fucking, even when it got him into trouble.

It was fun, it took him out of his head when his thoughts drifted in a way that he knew was dangerous. It wasn't healthy, but now that he was in Montreal, Theriault would have his head if he tried anything, so it wasn't important.

Now, he focused on hockey, he annoyed Hollander, he made sure his father was taken care of from a distance.

He was fine.

He went to practice, he played the game, he watched tape and studied every team in the league, including his own.

He bought books about hockey, because he was boring and wanted to know how the greats had built their legacy. He had started to build his own, slowly, one brick at a time.

Theriault praised him, used him as an example with the rookies, and then turned around and screamed at him the moment he fucked up a play.

His coach is Russia hadn't even yelled as much as Theriault had. Shame, as it turned out, wasn't the worst motivator out there.

It did, however, do something that confused the whole room.

It made Ilya more careful with his team.

He never yelled at them, they all got enough of that from Theriault. Instead, he offered support, to help run extra drills, to help get them out of their heads.

At first, Theriault had scoffed, called him every name under the sun, but then he watched his team flourish, and the insults stopped.

He still gave Ilya odd looks, but it was obvious that the team respected him.

Ilya became the first person everyone turned to when they needed help, on and off the ice. He was proud of that. He wanted to be there for his team.

So that was how life went on. He flirted with Hollander, he supported his team, and eventually he was given the C.

What he hadn't expected his first year as captain, was that it would finally be the year he would get to fuck Shane Hollander.

~~~

It started when he was texting Hollander before the Montreal vs. Boston game, the way he always did.

To Holly: How many times can you cum in an hour?

He hadn't expected Hollander to respond, too busy being the captain of his own team to entertain Ilya.

Then three dots appeared in a bubble. They disappeared and reappeared several times before the response came through.

From Holly: There is something seriously wrong with you.

It thrilled Ilya. He tried to not let it show, not wanting the rest of his team to realize anything was awry as he texted Hollander, attempting to convince him to meet up after the game.

He knew he won when Hollander's final text came through.

From Holly: If you're lucky, I'll text you later.

"Wow, this girl must be really something, Roz," Pike said from the stall next to him.

"What?"

"You're blushing. I assume it's about a girl, right? I've never seen you like this."

Ilya couldn't help but be offended. "I do not blush, Russians do not do this."

"Whatever, buddy. I know I owe you a lifetime's worth of favors for introducing me to Jackie, so if you need me to cover for you, I will."

He looked at Hollander's last text and considered it carefully. It wasn't a no, but he'd have to wait until after the game for a definitive answer.

"Maybe. We will see. This is not important though. Boston will not lose on their own."

"Roz!" one of their rookies, Comeau, called out. "Did you see them burning your jersey outside? It's all over Twitter!" He was grinning, showing off the gap in his teeth from where he'd gotten them knocked out at some point or another.

Comeau was an okay player, but Theriault had started treating him like the second coming of Christ because he followed in Ilya's shadow like an eager puppy. He could do no wrong in coach's eyes, even when he caused trouble, mouthed off, and was constantly one wrong move from ending up on the news because of some stupid thing he'd done.

If Ilya had done half the shit Comeau had as a rookie, he'd have been on a plane back to Russia in a heartbeat, but all Theriault had done was tell him not to do it again, and then turned a blind eye when he did it again.

Comeau was an aggressive player, constantly checking people a little too hard and having to be dragged out of unnecessary fights. At least he wasn't on Ilya's line so he didn't have to deal with him, but there were still moments like these in the locker room, where he tried to start something.

"What?"

"They're burning a whole effigy to you outside! Our fans do it for Hollander back home, but like, you could totally use this as motivation to kick Boston's ass!"

Ilya could feel a headache building slowly at the back of his temples. He filed away the unfamiliar word to look up later, but he got enough to understand the sentiment.

"You think I need motivation?" he asked calmly, focusing his full attention on Comeau. He was more than aware that he cut an intimidating figure, and it was satisfying to watch the young man shrink under the attention.

"No, but a little extra can't hurt," he tried to argue.

"You want me to play angry?" Ilya clarified. "You want me to hate Boston because they hate me?"

The locker room had grown quiet, all of them focused on their captain dressing down a rookie.

This was why Theriault had given him the C, Ilya knew. He spoke, and everyone in the room listened. He showed them care, but he never shied away from putting them in their place, for offering a course correction to make sure they never went too far.

"Do you not think I play good hockey?" Ilya asked after a beat of silence. "Answer me!" he barked.

"No, but-"

"But what? You think Boston is better than us? That we need to play like them to beat them? That we are not enough?"

"No, sir," Comeau mumbled.

"I cannot hear you, say again."

"No, sir," he said, louder this time.

"Good. So we go out there and play good hockey, and if we lose, we go home, we watch tape, and we make corrections, the same way we always do. Understand?"

The whole room rumbled in agreement, and Ilya nodded. "Good. No more distractions, we must focus on the game."

"Good speech, Cap," Hayden said with a grin.

"Ignore him, we all know you will have Hollander's ass tonight," J.J. said, and Hayden burst out laughing. Ilya had to hide his face in his cubby to keep from showing how he felt about J.J.’s slip of the tongue.

"Buddy, that is absolutely not a saying. I think you mean he'll get Hollander's ass."

"English is a bullshit language, I mean what I mean."

"English is bullshit," Ilya agreed. "Good thing hockey is the same everywhere and we can show Hollander's stupid team how it is done."

"Damn right!" Hayden clapped him on the arm. "Let's do this!"

~~~

They lost, but not by much. They'd put up a good fight, and Ilya made sure they all knew that before they left the locker room to head back to their hotel.

He hadn't gotten off the bus before his phone lit up with an address.

They dispersed towards their rooms, and Ilya stripped out of his game day suit quickly, rifling through his bags for something more casual that he could wear to Hollander's place.

He changed quickly and called a car before he turned to Hayden who was staring at him from where he was lying back against the headboard of his bed.

"I'm not going to ask questions," Hayden said, holding his hands up in surrender. "It's none of my business. Go have fun, get laid. Maybe it'll make you fucking relax for a change."

"I hate you."

"You don't. And don't worry about anything, I'll cover for you if Coach comes by."

"I don't hate you," Ilya agrees. "Thank you."

"You got it, buddy."

Ilya slipped out into the hall quietly, making his way towards the elevator. No one was out, but just in case, he pulled his hood up and kept his head down.

His car was waiting, and he gave the driver the address, not expecting it to take them to an alleyway.

The driver dropped him off, and Ilya made his way down to the building he was pretty sure it was, texting Hollander as he went.

Almost as soon as the message was sent, a door opened, and light spilled out into the alley like a proverbial lighthouse, guiding him to Hollander.

"You will murder me?"

Hollander looked angry. "Don't just stand there, get inside!"

And soon enough, Ilya was exactly where he had wanted to be for months, years even.

Well, not exactly, but Hollander slamming him against the wall was a relief in a way. He'd missed this, being so close to him. He missed his eyes, his freckles, the taste of toothpaste and soda on his tongue.

He missed how he smelled like sweat and something cold, like the ice was a permanent part of him.

He wanted more.

And then, like a God given miracle, after their initial back and forth, Hollander gave him more.

Hollander went easily, staring up at Ilya with something like awe in his eyes that nearly knocked Ilya on his ass. He couldn't keep looking at him like this, or he was going to lose his mind.

He made sure Hollander was comfortable against his pillows before he shuffled down the bed and pushed his legs back so he could more effectively eat him out.

Then he made sure the lube was warm on his fingers as he opened Hollander up, using one, two, three fingers before he was satisfied.

Hollander was holding back his moans, Ilya was sure of it. He decided he wanted to hear all of his noises.

He'd expected the gasp as he pressed his cock into Hollander's ass, but he hadn't expected Hollander to pull him down into a searing kiss.

Ilya wanted to wait, to let Hollander get used to him, but then Hollander was begging him to fuck him, and who was Ilya to refuse? He started off slow, devoting just as much attention to worshiping Hollander's body as he did to fucking him.

It was too much. It was everything.

He made Hollander flip over, hoping that the inability to see his face would help, but then Hollander's moans got louder, and it wasn't long before he was following Hollander over the edge.

Ilya made sure Hollander came down from his high gently, feeling their sweat cooling between them. Hollander curled into his chest, burying his face there like he wanted to stay like this forever.

He ignored how much he wanted to do the same.

Eventually he had to get up and shower and make his way back to the hotel. He would call another car and make sure he didn't wake up Pike or any of their neighbors getting back to their room.

Eventually, this moment would be broken.

~~~

"I think the next time we'll see each other is in Russia right? At least if we play against each other," Hollander was rambling as they waited on his staircase for Ilya's car.

"Maybe," Ilya said. He knew he was captain of Team Russia. It was supposed to be an exciting series of games.

His father was going to be staying nearby, forcing Ilya to spend time with him instead of in the Olympic Village with the other players.

"I think I've been waiting for this my whole life," Hollander admitted. "It's basically a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you'll be playing at home, probably in front of your family right?"

"My father probably. Maybe my brother. I don't know." He needed to change the subject. "This was good for you, yes?"

Hollander let out a soft laugh, and Ilya couldn't help but lean into his space. "You made me cum hands free, what do you think?"

"It was good then." It was perfect.

His car was almost certainly there, so he took his jacket from Hollander with a kiss and a few parting remarks.

He'd see him soon, although he wouldn't get to touch. He needed to make this last.

~~~

As soon as the final buzzer went off for the Russia-Latvia game, Ilya knew he was fucked. It was a devastating loss, even if it was a close game. Russia losing on home ice wasn't something that he was going to be able to brush off easily, not to fans, not to the media, and certainly not to his father.

Ilya managed to avoid his father for three whole days. He did not manage to avoid Shane Hollander.

That had been a painful conversation, if a necessary one. He would have time to feel bad about it later.

For now, he let Grigori fuss with his tie and mock him for the loss before they went to the minister's gala. He let himself be talked down to because that was what it meant, coming home. There was no love for him here, especially not now.

His mother had been dead for just over ten years. That had been the last time someone loved him.

Not that his father remembered, asking if Irina had tied his tie.

He wanted to go back to Montreal. At least Theriault's anger was coherent.

Ilya felt like he was floating through the gala, barely aware of his surroundings as he stood diligently behind his father, being introduced to all kinds of important people. They all wanted to express their disappointment in him, in the team. Ilya didn't have an excuse other than they didn't click.

Svetlana was a godsend, appearing from nowhere to whisk him away to a large, ornate bathroom the public probably shouldn't be able to access.

She was cruel to have Sasha meet them there.

Once upon a time, they had been a unit. Svetlana, Ilya, and Sasha. Brains, brawn, and beauty, some American movie would probably call them.

They wouldn't be wrong, but Ilya was older now, more mature. Sasha wore on him, reminded him of the unread text in his phone from Hollander.

By the time he finally got away, it was late, nearly midnight. He went to bed, resolving to pack his things in the morning so he could return to Montreal as soon as he could book a flight.

When he awoke the next morning, he didn't expect his phone to nearly be vibrating off his night stand.

The caller ID said it was Theriault. He checked the time. It was the middle of the night in Montreal, which meant it had to be urgent.

He answered the call. "Hello?"

"This better not be fucking true, Rozanov, or I swear to god, you will wish you had never been born."

He spoke quickly, angrily, and Ilya had only just woken up. He felt like he was missing something.

"What? What better not be true?"

"The fucking drugs, Rozanov!"

The drugs? "Coach, what is this about? What drugs?"

The line was quiet for a moment. "You really don't know?" came his incredulous laugh.

"Coach, I just woke up, what are you talking about?"

"Check the news and call me back, and you bet your ass when you're back in the country, I'm going to drug test you from here to Vancouver." He hung up, and Ilya stared at his phone screen in a daze.

Then he checked the news app he kept on his phone.

Team Russia Covered Up Positive Drug Tests for at Least 14 Players

Oh. Oh fuck.

Immediately he called one of his Russian teammates, a defender named Kuzmin he'd played with in Juniors.

"Tell me you did not know," he demanded as soon as he picked up the phone.

"Rozanov?"

"Yes. Tell me you did not know."

There was a pause. "This is about the drugs?"

"Obviously. Did you know?"

A sigh. "Yes."

Ilya let out a long string of curses.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Kuzmin apologized. "If it means anything, I was the one who told the coaches to keep it away from you."

Now it was Ilya's turn to pause. "What?"

"I remember what you were like. You always talked down on enhancements, you said if skill wasn't enough, that people should get out of the sport. So when they approached me to go to you with the plan, I told them no, Rozanov plays clean hockey. He will not take them, I will not make him."

He wanted to scream. To cry. "Fuck."

"I know, I didn't like it either. They thought it would help."

An ugly voice in the back of his head spoke up. Maybe this is why we did not click. Maybe if you'd known, if you'd-

He shut down that train of thought immediately. Kuzmin was right, Ilya believed skill should be enough. His team deserved to lose if they cheated.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He rubbed a hand over his face.

"It's bad, I know," his teammate assured him. "And I'm sure this will have consequences for you in America."

"Canada," Ilya corrected absently. "I will deal with it, do not worry about me. Worry about yourself."

He hung up and called Theriault back.

"Rozanov."

"They did not give me anything. I did not even know," Ilya told his coach. "I swear, I just found out."

"How is that possible? You were the captain-"

"An old friend told them to keep it away from me. He knew how I would react if I knew. If a whole team needs to use enhancements, they deserve to lose. I have always said this."

"Fine," Theriault said tersely. "You'll be back in the country within 48 hours, and I expect you to be ready for testing before that time is up, understand?"

"Yes sir," Ilya said, already reaching for his suitcase.

~~~

After the Olympics, the rest of the season was a blur.

Ilya was focused. Focused on proving his innocence, proving he was the best player in the fucking league. Focused on improving his team, and not letting them down himself.

He ignored everything that wasn't right in front of him. Nothing else mattered except for this. Except for hockey.

He made sure everyone knew he was worthy of the C on his chest, and Montreal went all the way to win the Stanley Cup.

He held the trophy over his head, celebrated with his team, let them spray him with champagne, the sticky alcohol mixing with his sweat.

Then the party ended, and Ilya went home to his blissfully quiet apartment.

It was empty. No, he was empty. His whole world felt… blank.

He felt like he was going through the motions, merely keeping himself alive.

When he got the notice about the NHL awards, where he would have to present with Hollander, he didn't know what to feel. He should be excited to see Hollander, but then he remembered the unanswered text messages sitting in his inbox, and all he felt was dread.

He didn't even like the awards show. Recognition was important, but it was so public. He just wanted to curl up in bed and sleep until the season started up again.

Still, he tried to convince himself that this would be a good thing. He could apologize to Hollander, he could make up for his mistakes.

In Las Vegas, he sank into the shell of the person he used to be. He knew how to get what he wanted, he knew how to break down Hollander's barriers.

He could be an asshole and no one would question it, because Ilya Rozanov was an asshole.

Backstage, he could poke fun at Hollander for almost being late. He could tease him on stage, and no one would know. He could corner him in a bathroom, and make a deal with the devil.

Everyone thought Ilya was the devil. Maybe he was, but Hollander was just as bad. He was just nicer, Canada's Golden Boy, the bright, shining light on Boston's first line.

So Ilya promised he would make it up to him. He used every move he could to tempt Hollander into giving in, letting him fuck him.

He kissed Hollander in the way he knew he liked. He left his shirt undone, pretending to be relaxed as Hollander walked into the penthouse.

What he hadn't expected was for Shane to resist. To make him actually beg for forgiveness, to make Ilya beg to fuck him.

As soon as Hollander dragged the chair in front of the bed, he felt hot all over. All he could feel was a mixture of shame, want, and embarrassment that turned into a molten core in his stomach.

He had never seen Hollander like this before. Ilya was overcome with desire to the point he felt insane. He wanted to touch him, to feel him, to let Hollander invade all of his senses.

When Hollander threw his underwear at him, he barely hesitated before he covered his face with them. His body shuddered with want as Hollander's scent overtook him.

As he let them drop back into his lap, he saw that want mirrored in Hollander's expression.

Finally Hollander let him touch. He opened him up quickly, not wanting to waste any time. It had been too long, six whole months since he'd been in Hollander's apartment, consumed by the sweetness of that time they spent together.

Hollander seemed to share his desire, turning over on his stomach to give Ilya better access. It was intense, it was too much, it wasn't enough.

He pounded into Hollander, watching him scramble to hold onto the sheets, the pillows, anything he could reach. His moans reached a fever pitch as he came, his ass squeezing Ilya, forcing his over the edge with him.

Immediately, Hollander collapsed onto the sheets, rolling over and shivering with effort, not bothering to open his eyes.

Ilya didn't know what to do now. He debated going to fetch a bottle of water, but Hollander reached out a hand to hold him in place, so he stayed in bed.

It took several moments for either of them to say anything, and then, because the world was cruel, Hollander forgave him.

"You're my favorite part of hockey," Hollander confessed, and Ilya was a weak man.

He held back a sob, barely. He tried to cover his feelings with a joke. He told Hollander he had to leave in the morning, that he had business to attend to.

Hollander didn't know that that business was taking care of his sick father. That he had to deal with his asshole brother.

The important part was that it got Hollander to leave.

He watched him get dressed, tracking his movements carefully until Hollander was out of sight, about to walk out the door.

"So, this is it?" Hollander asked.

And because Ilya was a very stupid man, he asked, "What is it Hollander, do you want a goodnight kiss?"

"Do you?" Hollander returned.

Ilya was on his feet in an instant, rounding the corner and backing Hollander against the door.

"If I kiss you," he whispered into Hollander's mouth, "I'm going to want to ask you to stay."

He let Hollander cradle his face and pull him into a kiss.

It wasn't sexual. It wasn't heated. It was sweet. It was kind.

There was a different sort of want embedded in it that Ilya could practically taste.

"Do you want me to stay?" Hollander asked.

"How will you leave in the morning without getting caught?" Ilya posed another question instead of answering.

"Let me handle that. If you want me to stay, I'll stay." Hollander was still holding his face, running his fingertips along his jaw.

Ilya determined that Shane had lost his mind, but he was losing his anyway, so what did it matter?

"Stay," Ilya begged.

From the outside, they must have made a bizarre picture, Ilya in just his boxers, Hollander fully dressed in his suit.

So Ilya undressed him slowly, slipping his shirt off his arms as he pulled him back towards the bedroom. He wanted to bury himself inside his skin, to be surrounded by everything good that was Shane Hollander.

In the morning, he would wake up to am empty bed. He would hold his breath for days, waiting for headlines that would never come. He would convince himself it was a beautiful dream until Hollander would text him, thanking him for letting him know that he got home safe, thanking him for the night they spent together.

Shane Hollander was going to ruin his life, Ilya decided, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter End Notes

this fic is making use an actual outline for the first time in my life, are you people happy?

in all seriousness, this is a wildly interesting fic for me to write, and exploring these new dynamics is a lot of fun for me, so it's totally worth it. I hope yall like it

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Life after Vegas, as Shane began to categorize it, was strange.

On one hand, nothing changed. On the other, everything had.

Chapter Notes

this is a little shorter than my last few chapters because honestly I wanted to focus more on Ilya for what would basically be episode four of the show, but I am really happy with how this turned out regardless

Life after Vegas, as Shane began to categorize it, was strange.

On one hand, nothing changed. On the other, everything had.

They texted near constantly.

Sometimes it was about hockey, sometimes it was flirty. Shane had even got used to sexting, looking forward to it after long days between Boston-Montreal games.

But something had changed. He could feel it, like a spiritual rock in his shoe. Like a skate with a loose blade.

He was off-balance. The world felt strange with two singular exceptions: when he was on the ice, and when he was with Rozanov.

Hockey was hockey, and he had been playing excellently. Shane Hollander lived and breathed hockey. He was the best player in the NHL, and everyone knew it. Every time he was on the ice, in practice or at a game, he was perfectly in tune with himself, centered even.

The only other time he felt so at peace was when Rozanov was fucking him. It felt like every time they had a moment's privacy, Rozanov was taking Shane on the nearest flat surface. After every game where Boston faced Montreal, at All-Star games, or that one time they were both in New York for a charity gala, they found time.

He'd been bent over his couch, gotten fucked though countless hotel beds, and even they'd even traded blow jobs in the shower once when they'd been too tired to do much else.

They didn't let each other spend the night again. Not since Vegas.

Shane realized in the clear light of day how stupid an idea it had been. Had anyone found out, it would have ruined their lives, and he knew it.

He also knew that he missed those moments, that he hoarded every post-coital cuddle Rozanov gave him where he would push his nose into the crease where his neck met his shoulder, like Rozanov was hiding from the world in Shane's body.

It wasn't romantic, Shane thought resolutely. It was just sex, nothing more.

So, this became his life. He played hockey, he fucked Ilya Rozanov, and he pretended that everything was fine.

When Boston won the Stanley Cup, Shane wasn't surprised. He was happy, yes, he'd even go as far to say as he was thrilled. This was the best day of his life, and he celebrated as such.

He hoisted the cup, then passed it off to Marlow who passed it off to Connors.

They went out to a bar and got drunk, or in Shane's case, just tipsy enough that he could send a few unabashedly filthy text messages to the man who was supposed to be his rival before he went home and jerked himself off, staring at a photo of Rozanov's hard cock, thinking about the time he'd been fucked on the stairs leading up to his bedroom because it had been so long and they just couldn't wait another second.

The second time he won the cup the very next year, the pattern repeated itself.

He hoisted the cup. He passed it to Marly. Marly passed it to Connors. He thought about Rozanov.

Shane liked routine.

He had one drink. He texted Rozanov. He went home and pulled his dildo out of his bedside table, the larger one he'd bought after Rozanov fucked him the first time, and pretended it was flesh and blood instead of silicone.

He pretended that his whole world didn't feel like it was slowly tipping on its axis.

Until, obviously, it did.

At the beginning of the 2016-2017 season, Shane felt better than ever. He was coming off of back-to-back Stanley Cups, Boston was on fire, and while he wasn't sure if they could pull off a three-peat the way sports analysts speculated about, he knew they'd give it their all.

He was focused, his world narrowed to what was right in front of him.

Which right now, was Ilya Rozanov's front door.

In the three years that him and Rozanov had been consistently fucking, Shane had never actually been to the man's house. Every time he was in Montreal, Rozanov would cite some issue as to why they had to meet up at a hotel - electrical outages, water main breaks, an exterminator one time.

Shane suspected that Rozanov just wanted to keep him at a distance, that bringing Shane into his house was a boundary that couldn't be crossed.

So when Rozanov texted him his address, Shane leapt at the opportunity. It felt like… something that Shane refused to name. It felt serious in a way they weren't.

He rang the doorbell.

Rozanov answered the door shirtless.

Shane toed off his shoes and left them on a mat by the door. He let Rozanov circle him, the same way he'd done in that very first hotel room in Toronto, backing him against the counter.

"Do you think we should talk?" Shane asked, because he felt like he should. Not that he wanted to, but given the weight of the situation-

"No, later," Rozanov responded, lifting Shane onto the kitchen counter and kissing him thoroughly.

Later, Shane wouldn't remember the final details.

He'd remember the cold, marble counter top against his bare ass as Rozanov opened him up, right there in the kitchen.

He'd remember his back hitting a mattress, allowing himself to sink into soft sheets for only a moment as Rozanov undressed.

He'd remember flipping them over, riding Rozanov hard and fast until suddenly Shane was on his back again, and he was coming untouched while Rozanov fucked him.

The first crystal clear memory he had was Rozanov whining one word.

"Stay."

Shane had been walking back from the bathroom, happy to wash the dried sweat and cum down the drain.

Rozanov had stayed curled up in bed, having showered first while Shane recovered, and flopped back down onto the mattress next to him, pointing him towards the now vacated bathroom.

It was only when Shane made to leave that Rozanov stopped him.

"Stay?" Shane repeated.

"Game is not until tomorrow. We do not have morning practice. You could spend the night?" He made the suggestion out to be a question.

"What about my team? I told Connors-"

"Connors is what? Your mother?" Rozanov scoffed.

Shane rolled his eyes. He pointedly did not think about Connors mocking him as he left the hotel to go to his "Montreal Beau's house."

What a fucking asshole.

"I guess I can stay for a bit," Shane said, only feeling the shame of it for a moment before Rozanov had pulled him close.

"Good. Now rest, I am not done with you."

They hadn't stayed with each other for more than an hour since Vegas, and Rozanov was proposing staying the night.

Shane didn't think about it as he slipped into unconsciousness. Instead, he leaned into Rozanov's warmth against his back, and let the darkness take him.

He woke an indeterminate amount of time later with Rozanov wrapped around him like an octopus. He liked to cuddle, Shane noted, and then chastised himself for noting it.

This wasn't information to be catalogued. He shouldn't know any of this.

Like Rozanov could hear his thoughts whirring, he groaned as he slowly started to wake up himself.

"So it was not just a lovely dream," Rozanov rumbled, burying his face in the back of his neck. "You are here."

Shane was resolutely not charmed by the gruffness of the sleep in his voice. "I'm here," he confirmed.

"Good. Are you hungry?"

He turned to face Rozanov, who made a noise of discontent at being displaced from Shane. "What?"

"Is lunch time, I can cook if you want?"

"You can cook?" Shane teased.

Rozanov reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed a pair of pants to hit him with before he rose and headed for the kitchen.

Shane put the pants on, realizing with delight that they were not his.

He made his way out into the kitchen, where he leaned against the counter as he watched Rozanov pull ingredients from the fridge.

"I have stuff for ukha," Rozanov said. "Is Russian soup. Fish, vegetables, potatoes. You can have, yes?"

"Technically, sure. I've been trying to be less strict about my diet, so it's fine."

"Good. Was my favorite back home, I hope you will like it. Now go, find something to watch on TV. I will be there in a moment."

Shane turned on a hockey game from last week that he hadn't gotten around to watching yet. He'd deal with Rozanov mocking him for it later.

While the soup was left to simmer, they talked about other games, about their favorite places to play against, about players from their teams that had been traded and then had moved on.

When the soup was done, Rozanov ladled out a bowl for both of them, and they ate in silence, watching the Tampa game on the TV.

Then, Rozanov's phone rang.

He stepped out of the room to take the call, and a moment later, Shane heard yelling. He couldn't understand a word, since Rozanov must have been talking to his family, and thus was speaking Russian.

Whatever was going on, Rozanov sounded upset, so when he came back to the couch, Shane wanted to do something to comfort him. He thought about asking about his father, since that had been the only word he'd been able to understand in Rozanov's conversation, but he realized he probably shouldn't have been eavesdropping.

Instead, he leaned into Rozanov's space, resting his head against his bare chest, listening to his heartrate slow down, and then pick up again as Shane ran a finger along the inseam of his pants.

He kissed down Rozanov's stomach, spending extra time at the base of his torso, where there was a patch of soft hair. He nuzzled into his lap, nosing at his crotch over his pants.

Shane wanted more than anything to get on his knees and take him into his mouth, but the space between the coffee table and the couch was too narrow, so he pivoted. He moved back up, slinging his leg over Rozanov's lap to straddle him. He pressed kisses to his forehead and cheek as he got his pants down just enough to free his hard cock.

Rozanov was moaning and cursing under him, and Shane felt giddy with it. This was what he was good at, making him feel good. He could take his mind off of whatever was wrong just like this.

He got his own pants down just enough to get himself out too, palming the two of them together, making both of them hiss. The drag was rough, but Rozanov reached for his hand to spit in it, making the glide easier. It was gross, messy, but it was them.

It was too much, it was perfect. Rozanov was looking at him like he was something precious, and Shane couldn't take it. He leaned down to press their mouths together, which wasn't so much a kiss as it was them breathing together.

And then Rozanov moaned his name.

"Fuck, Shane."

Shane had never considered calling Rozanov anything other than Rozanov. Calling him Ilya would have been strange, personal. They didn't do that.

"Ilya."

And oh. Oh fuck. He wanted to say it again. He wanted to moan Ilya's name for the rest of his life. It was too much. It was everything.

They both tipped over the edge, coating Shane's hand in cum. He needed to get rid of it. He needed to leave.

Ilya was kissing him softly, pulling away with something like wonder in his eyes.

Shane had to get out of there before he did something unbelievably stupid.

Well, more stupid than what he'd already done.

"I have to go," he heard himself saying, like he wasn't in control of his body anymore. "I forgot, I have a team meeting-"

"You forgot?" Ilya was asking, clearly confused.

"Yeah, sorry, I have to-" He scrambled to leave, washing off his hands and finding his shoes. He barely remembered the drive back to his hotel, but soon enough he was unlocking his hotel room to see Connors leaned back against his headboard with Marlow's head cushioned on his lap.

Fuck. He changed his clothes and headed back downstairs. A run would surely help work this out of his system.

~~~

Shane didn't get to see his parents very often. It was the one thing he hated about being drafted to Boston, since if he'd played in Montreal, he'd see his parents a whole lot more. Still, when they played in Ottawa, he made sure to get lunch with them before the game.

"You still haven't given me an answer about Wimbledon," his mom was saying.

"Right, sorry, I forgot," Shane apologized.

"Rolex is a little worried about their box being too tennis-y, I think," she informed him.

"That means it's going to be all white people, and me if I can go," Shane said dryly.

His dad covered up his laugh with a cough.

"Shane," his mom chastised. "I thought you liked this deal. You have to show face sometimes, you know. Plus it could be fun, you'd be sitting with a Swedish prince, I think." She checked her phone again. "No, sorry, princess."

"I get two weeks off a year, mom. I don't want to spend it with strangers. Why don't you just take the tickets and go, you two could use a vacation."

"They don't want us, Shane, they want you. We're just your parents, you're the star."

"Is there something going on, Shane?" his dad asked. David Hollander had an uncanny way of figuring out there was something wrong with him.

"Sorry, I think I'm just tired. We've been traveling a lot recently, and since Sebbin got injured a few weeks ago, LeClaire switched up our lines, and nothing is clicking the way it used to. I'll give it some more thought once I'm able to sleep in my own bed for more than two nights in a row, okay?"

This seemed to appease his mother.

Shane didn't have to pay attention to the game as they swept the floor with Ottawa that night.

Christ, he needed sleep. He hadn't felt like he'd gotten a decent night's sleep since-

He refused to think about Montreal.

~~~

"Hollzy, you have to see this, you're not going to believe it," Marlow was calling from across the gym. Him and Connors were on stationary bikes, practically sharing a phone, no doubt discussing whatever they wanted Shane to see the moment he walked in the door from his physio appointment.

Shane walked over, taking Marlow's phone from him to read off a headline from some gossip rag.

Rose and Rozy? Has Hollywood's Dream Girl Pinned Down Hockey's Most Eligible Bachelor?

He was going to throw up, Shane realized as he scrolled through the article. He barely even read it, but he didn't need to. The photos made it clear what was happened.

Famous actress Rose Landry had been seen hand-in-hand with Ilya Rozanov.

Paparazzi had taken photos. They were smiling, with Landry pulling Rozanov by the hand as they tried to outrun fans.

"Can you believe it? I mean, the man is practically a monk for his entire career, and suddenly he's going out with her?"

"I mean, I'd be happy if I was banging Rose fucking Landry," Connors said. "Jesus, they're hot together."

"How did they even meet?" Shane was proud of himself for not choking on the question.

"They're shooting the X-Squad movies in Montreal. It says they met through a mutual friend or something, I don't know."

"Right," Shane responded. It was flat, giving away nothing. "Are we seriously paying attention to tabloids right now? We've been playing like shit as it is, we don't need any more distractions."

"Sorry Cap."

"Sorry Hollzy."

Marlow put his phone away, and they went back to pedaling.

They played Montreal in a month. Shane hoped she wouldn't be at the game.

~~~

Rose Landry was, in fact, not at the game in Montreal.

Not that he cared. Of course he didn't care.

He didn't care that Ilya didn't speak to him once, not a curse or a chirp, not even a good game at the end after Montreal won.

Shane played like shit. So had Ilya, but Ilya wasn't his fucking problem anymore, he was hers.

He took the scolding from LeClaire, and ignored the confused looks from his teammates. It was just a bad day, he excused. They all had them sometimes, the timing was just not ideal.

They went back to their hotel rooms, and Shane paced around restlessly. Connors was politely pretending to read the room service menu.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and Connors gave up the act, now openly tracking his movements.

"Okay, what is your issue?"

"I don't have an-" Shane took a deep breath. "I don't know. I think I need to get laid or something."

"Like, now?"

"We're in Montreal. There's plenty of clubs in Montreal," Shane pointed out.

Connors' eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "Yeah, sure, let me just text the guys and we'll find a spot."

The club he found on short notice was nothing like the places they would go back in Boston. The music was loud, and the lights were bright and flashing.

Shane could do this. He could have fun here.

He walked up to the bar, a few of his teammates close behind. He ordered drinks and put them on his tab, apologizing to the bartender as Marlow snagged his drink off the counter as soon as it had been placed down.

Finally he got to order a drink for himself, content to watch his friends disappear into the crowd.

It was a nice place, crowded in a way that usually overwhelmed him, but the itch under his skin wasn't made any worse by it. He glanced over the crowd, seeing if there was anyone who piqued his interest.

He made eye contact with a man at the other end of the bar. He'd been leaned over, ordering a drink of his own before he dropped back into his seat and glanced Shane's way. He gave him a cute little wave, and Shane realized why he looked familiar.

Rose Landry's co-star, Miles something-or-other, Shane couldn't remember what. That could only mean one thing.

Rose Landry was here, and by extension, so was Ilya.

Shane turned and scanned the room with intent, his eyes landing on the tall, built figure of Ilya Rozanov dancing with Rose Landry. He towered over her, even in her high heels that matched her silver slip of a dress.

Ilya hadn't seen him, thank god.

He chugged his drink and made his own way to the dance floor, letting himself he grabbed and guided into a dance with a couple who were bound and determined to get him between them.

Shane didn't do this. He didn't get sloppy and grind on men on dance floors while their girlfriends felt up both of them, but it felt so good to let go.

He dropped his head back onto the man's shoulder, hands reaching for the woman's waist as she shook her ass against his crotch.

Suddenly, he felt as if he was being watched, and not in the paranoid way he always did. He was being watched.

He lifted his head, and immediately realized why. Ilya had gotten separated from his girlfriend, he guessed, and was now staring at him from across the dance floor.

Shane never claimed to be a good man. Apparently, he was a cruel one, because he grinned at Ilya sharply before he kissed the man behind him, and then the woman in front of him.

He didn't feel anything for them. He wasn't even sure that he liked women anymore. All he wanted was to erase Ilya from his mind, to forget anything had ever happened between them.

When he looked up again, Ilya was gone, and he excused himself to the bathroom.

This had been a mistake.

Chapter End Notes

fuck the tuna melt, I'm a ilya cooks russian food for shane truther, and i will Not be silenced

also, I was seriously struggling with the Rose Landry of it all until like. three days ago, so everybody get excited!!! by which i mean i Will be putting Ilya through the fucking wringer, and that's how life is going to be

love you! have fun kids

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Ilya feels too much, too deeply. Vegas was a mistake. Every time he fucked Shane Hollander, he was making a mistake, but he could stop until he finally fucked it up beyond repair.

Chapter Notes

hey kids! sorry for the delay with this one, I literally did not have time to write between work and personal stuff happening, so I’ve been doing what I can to get this out

it’s possible the next couple will be slower too, I am after all only one man, but who knows?

also I realized while writing this chapter that my Ilya is a little more ooc than I planned for but I’m also not mad about it so I hope you’ll forgive me

Vegas had been a mistake, Ilya knew.

He shouldn't have asked Shane to stay. He was greedy, always wanting too much.

He'd given up on calling him Hollander in his head, given how much they started talking after the fact.

It wasn't like they hadn't been texting before, it was just now it was… more.

When Ilya had woken up that morning in Vegas, his body still wrapped around the Shane Hollander-shaped ghost in his bed, he knew he'd made a mistake. This was something he couldn't come back from.

He made it… complicated. He'd let his heart speak for him, something he promised himself he'd never do, and now he felt like he was a mess.

Not on the ice of course. Everything on the ice was fine, excellent even, despite Theriault's best efforts to ruin things for him.

He'd bumped Hayden back to their second line, and was threatening to push him to the third unless they started playing better. Ilya had argued with him for weeks about it, but the only thing he managed to stop was him moving J.J. off his line too.

Hayden's place on the wing had been replaced by Comeau, who Ilya was barely tolerating. The man was an asshole, and got too cocky, especially during powerplays.

He understood what Theriault was trying to do. He wanted Ilya to give Comeau an A, likely the one off of Pike's chest, but Ilya decided he would only do so over his dead body, which made Theriault, and by extention Comeau, hate him even more.

Ilya was also building a case that Comeau was actually the team's problem, not their veteran roster, but he had a feeling coach wouldn't believe him, especially considering the chemistry the man had with their new goalie.

Miitka had had an excellent season, helping them get multiple shut-outs during their playoffs run, and yet when they'd come back for the 2014-2015 season, Theriault had made the decision to start them with a new kid named Patrice Drapeau.

He, like Comeau, was an asshole, although he was a competent goalie. Not great, certainly not as good as Mitty, but fine. Drapeau wasn't going to get them a shut-out during a playoff run anytime soon. Not with Boston winning back-to-back cups.

Hockey was starting to give him a headache. There was nothing he wanted to do less than go to practice some days, but he did it anyways because that was what was expected of him.

He went to practice, he led the team, he won games, and when he didn't, he tortured himself until they won again.

Hollander was his only escape from it all. Every text message, even it was about hockey, even if it wasn't sexy, was a breath of fresh air.

And the times they hooked up?

Shane's Boston apartment, the first game back of the season. Ilya had kissed him against the door and had been delighted to see that Shane had stored lube in the living room so he could fuck him bent over the couch.

A hotel room in Montreal that time Ilya's water had been turned off, something about a water main break that he cursed over and over again until he watched Shane hold onto the headboard like his life depended on it.

In Shane's shower, after a game where Shane had been forced to do media after Marlow had gotten in a fight and had his wrist broken, and Ilya had played a double shift with Andropov out on IR. They'd both been exhausted, just wanting, needing, to be in each other's space.

A different hotel room, this time in New York. They hadn't planned to both be at that charity gala, but Ilya relished it nonetheless, letting Shane drag him in by his tie. He'd pushed Ilya onto his knees, and who was he to turn away the opportunity to worship Shane Hollander like a god.

Shane's apartment again, this time they'd made it up to the bedroom. Well, eventually they'd made it to the bedroom, although not before Ilya had rimmed him and opened him up on the stairs leading to his bedroom, fucking him in a position that couldn't have been comfortable for either of them, but he made it work.

And then after.

After, when he'd had to carry Shane from his living room to the bathroom to shower, then toweling him off and leading him to bed. When he'd let Shane pull him down onto the bed, claiming he was cold from the shower and needing Ilya to warm him up.

After, when he laughed at Shane fussing over the hotel bed, making sure they hadn't broken anything, before Shane finally settled down when Ilya pressed kisses into his jaw.

After, when Shane had bullied him into taking a short nap before he'd gone back to the hotel Montreal was staying at, and Ilya hadn't been able to fight him on it when he realized it meant holding Shane close, even if it was only for a few more minutes.

After, when he'd been able to undress Shane slowly, one button at a time, folding his clothes over the arm of the chair in the corner, taking care to make sure everything was perfect before kissing Shane goodnight and slipping back to his own hotel room.

After, when they really had made it up to Shane's bedroom. Ilya had reminised privately, silently, about the first time he'd been in this room, and Shane offered up round two. All Ilya had wanted to do was kiss him, but he could multitask.

But then the real after, when he was alone again, was when he suffered. When he remembered that this was something he couldn't have, would never be able to have.

They would only ever have these private moments that weren't supposed to mean anything.

Ilya's chest hurt.

The only reason that he refused to call himself lonely was because of his team, or more specifically, Hayden Pike.

Ilya didn't fully understand how his friendship with Pike had happened, it just sort of did.

Maybe it was about forced proximity, but he wasn't this close to anyone else on the team, except for maybe J.J., but even that was different. Maybe it was because of his wife, Jackie, how she and Ilya had connected at that bar late one night and became fast friends when she started dating Hayden.

Maybe that was how he ended up in this situation, cradling a tiny baby Arthur Pike in his arms as they walked though some exhibit about fresh water in the Montreal Biosphere.

~~~

"What?"

"Jackie's pregnant."

Ilya stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "So you will have four kids?"

"Can you please just say congratulations like a normal person? Jesus."

"Right. Sorry." Ilya shifted Arthur to his hip so he could pat Hayden on the shoulder. "I am happy for you. I love my nieces and nephew, you know that. One more just means more to love."

Hayden grinned. "Don't be an asshole."

"I am serious! You think I would help take the three kids you already have to boring museum if I didn't love them?"

"We're doing this because Jackie needs a day off, and both of us think you need to get out more."

Ilya waved him off. "I get out plenty."

Hayden raised an eyebrow, and Ilya shoved him away.

"Anyways, don't you ever think about this?"

"Think about what?"

He motioned to the baby Ilya was readjusting against his shoulder since he'd started to get fussy. "A family? Kids?"

No, never. He couldn't. "Is Jackie not satisfied with you? You need me to step in, take over? I can be dad who steps up."

"Okay, you know the word is stepdad, you're just being an asshole. No, I just mean I've never seen you out with anyone. Whatever happened that that one girl, your friend from Russia? Sophia?"

"Svetlana," Ilya corrected. "She is… She would not want me. We have always been just friends."

He nodded in understanding. "What about that girl you text? Your Boston girl. Holly, right? Ever think about locking that down?"

Ilya glared at him.

"Sorry, I got a look at your screen once when you were texting her. You seem sweet on her, I don't understand why you're not official."

"Because she does not want to be with me either," Ilya said simply. "And long distance would be hard. Distracting."

"One day I'm going to kill Theriault for making you think you can't live a normal life. Your hockey will not suffer just because you're in a relationship."

Ilya shrugged. "Is fine. I'm fine."

"You're lonely," Hayden said bluntly. "Jackie wants to set you up with someone."

"No."

"I know, I know, but at least think about it? It'll make her so happy."

"Oh, I have to keep your wife happy now too?"

"Obviously. You want her to keep making those Russian dumplings you like, don't you?"

He conceded the point. Jackie was an excellent cook. "Fine. You should probably go catch Ruby before she falls into the exhibit."

Hayden turned and cursed before he chased after the twins.

Ilya continued to rock the baby in his arms.

"You would not be so mean to me," he murmured to Arthur. "Tell your papa to not worry so much. I am fine. I have you and your sisters and your mama to keep me company."

"Excuse me?" came a voice from behind him. "Are you Ilya Rozanov?"

He turned to face a couple of teenagers. "Yes."

"Could we get a picture with you?"

He glanced down at Arthur. "No."

"But-”

"But nothing. Where are your parents? They must be looking for you. Have fun in museum." He was mean, intentionally so. He hated people asking for photos in public.

Hayden returned as they scurried away. "What was that about?"

Ilya shrugged.

~~~

Today would be the first time Shane Hollander had ever been in his house.

After the water main break incident, Ilya had realized in its own way that the inconvenience was a blessing. That Shane not coming to his house allowed for… distance. A boundary that he wouldn't cross, choosing instead to make excuses as to why they needed a hotel.

But today, Ilya had sent his address. He'd cleaned the whole place, top to bottom, taking care to leave certain items where they might need them. He'd prepared ingredients for ukha, one of Ilya's favorite comfort foods that he was fairly certain Shane could eat too.

He played nonchalant as he opened the door.

Ilya had been shirtless, obviously. He didn't want to waste a moment since there was a potential that they could have the whole day together. Maybe even the night. Maybe the morning.

He wouldn't get ahead of himself. He would start with this, kissing Shane Hollander in his kitchen.

When they finally made it to the bedroom, Shane laying back against his sheets, his pillows, he was struck with the feeling of how much Shane looked like he belonged here.

When Shane flipped them, riding Ilya hard and fast like they were on a deadline, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

There was a halo of light illuminating Shane, sunlight coming in through the window and baptizing him with pure grace.

It was too much. It was everything.

Ilya flipped them over so he didn't have to keep seeing it, afraid of how his heart might betray him.

And then, he asked Shane to stay.

He'd prepared an argument, expecting a fight, but after a brief rebuttal, Hollander had given in easily, slipping back under the covers and into Ilya's arms.

Shane was still there when he woke up.

Not a dream, came the sleep addled thought.

He told Shane as much, who confirmed that yes, he was really there.

"Good. Are you hungry?" Ilya asked.

Shane shifted in his arms, much to Ilya's displeasure. "What?"

"Is lunch time, I can cook if you want?"

"You can cook?"

Ilya reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed the pants he'd abandoned earlier, throwing them at Shane in retaliation before he got up himself.

Shane followed behind him a few minutes later. He didn't say anything, he was just watching him as Ilya moved around the space.

I have stuff for ukha," Ilya explained. "Is Russian soup. Fish, vegetables, potatoes. You can have, yes?"

"Technically, sure. I've been trying to be less strict about my diet, so it's fine."

"Good. Was my favorite back home, I hope you will like it. Now go, find something to watch on TV. I will be there in a moment."

A moment later, Ilya heard the sound of a hockey game coming from the TV. Classic Hollander. Always thinking about hockey.

Ilya joined him on the couch. He was watching the game Tampa Bay had played last week. Boston must be playing there soon.

It was fun to play in Florida, Ilya thought. At least it wasn't boring like Buffalo or Minnesota.

He asked for Hollander's opinions, content to listen to him talk shit about other teams until the timer went off for the soup.

He served them both a bowl, and was delighted when Shane hummed around his first bite. He didn't think Shane had even been aware that he'd done it, but Ilya loved watching Hollander's reactions to everything.

Something about knowing that Hollander was satisfied settled something in his chest.

The moment was ruined when Ilya's phone rang.

He'd put it on Do Not Disturb earlier, but there were still a handful of numbers that he allowed to override that. He hoped it was someone easy to get rid of, like his coach.

It wasn't his coach.

"Papa?" Ilya answered, stepping into the other room, away from Shane. "Papa, what's wrong?"

"Where are you?" his father asked, desperation clear in his voice. "I have been looking for you all day and I cannot find you."

Ilya felt his heart rate spike. "Where have you been looking for me?"

"Your room, your mama's room, the attic."

Still in the house. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief. "Papa, you cannot be alone, where is Alexei?"

"Where is who?"

"Alexei, my brother."

The line went quiet. "I do not know. Ilya, where are you?"

"Do not worry, father, I will be there soon."

Ilya hung up the phone and immediately dialed his brother.

"What the fuck do you want?" Alexei answered.

"Where the fuck are you?" Ilya demanded. "Father called me, he is alone. You know he cannot be alone, Alexei. What if he left the house? You know he is not well."

"Who cares?" his brother mocked. "He will die soon anyway."

"Get the fuck back to the house or I stop sending the money," Ilya threatened. "You need me, and he needs you. Act like it."

"Go fuck yourself."

The line went dead, and Ilya took a few long, shuddering breaths before he returned to the living room, to Shane.

Shane didn't say anything, even if he had almost certainly overheard. It wasn't like Shane could speak Russian, but fear and anger were universal emotions, so it wasn't unreasonable that he would figure out that something was wrong.

Instead of asking about it, Shane leaned into his space. Physical comfort was easy, it was familiar to them, so Ilya let his mind go blank when Shane started kissing down his torso.

When Shane swung a leg over his, Ilya's hands were quick to reach out and grab his hips, holding him there.

Ilya looked up at him, knowing his face probably gave away too much, but he was tired. He couldn't pretend anymore, not when Shane Hollander, sweet, precious Shane Hollander, sat in his lap and gave him everything he ever wanted.

He cursed when Shane reached into his pants, jerking him off roughly. He held his breath when Shane pulled his pants down too, his hand wrapping around both of them.

This was too much. He couldn't take it anymore.

He spit in Shane's hand. It didn't make it any less painful.

And then Shane was kissing him. He was kissing his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

Ilya gasped into it, and it became less like kissing and more like they were sharing air.

He had no one to blame but himself when he moaned Shane's name. Not Hollander, Shane. He hadn't meant to do it, he'd been so careful to not cross that line, but he felt awful and wonderful all at once, and he slipped.

"Fuck, Shane."

And then, because the universe was cruel, Shane moaned his name in return.

"Ilya."

He could cry. His cum spilled all over Shane's hand, and he pushed up to kiss him, over and over and over again.

But then Shane pulled away, saying he'd forgotten a team meeting and that he needed to leave.

He sat frozen in his seat as he heard a faucet running. Then the door slammed, and Ilya was alone again.

It might have been hours, it might have been just a few minutes before he finally unfroze and was able to get up and start setting his apartment to rights.

He did the dishes, packing away the leftover soup as he did so. He picked up their clothes from the floor, instinctively folding them the way Shane, the way Hollander would. He put them to the side, like he'd be able to give Hollander back his things.

He doubted he'd ever see him again, at least, he wouldn't see him again like this.

Ilya felt blank again, the way he had after Montreal's cup win. He found himself going through the motions, day in and day out, not caring about anything.

He had learned a new English word recently, one that most accurately described his situation.

Apathy.

If he had the energy to care, it would have terrified him. For now, he sat in the silence of his house, and didn't feel anything.

~~~

"Capitaine!" J.J. cheered when Ilya picked up the phone a few weeks later. "How do you feel about coming out with us tonight?"

Ilya stared blankly at the Boston game on his TV. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you promised to come out with us at least a couple of times per season, and you have not come out with us yet."

He had promised that. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"You remember my buddy François? The chef?"

"I think so. Maybe."

"He's the chef at Le Tambour, we've been before. He's letting us rent out half the restaurant to host a team get together. It's a nice place, not a club, nothing we'd get in trouble for-"

"Why only half the restaurant?" Ilya interrupted. It was rude, but it felt like an important detail.

"This is part of why I called. You're not going to believe it, but the cast of the X-Squad movies are in town, and they rented the place out too. François said the manager double-booked us, but that they are willing to share if we are. so…"

"Send me the address and what time I need to be there," Ilya acquiesced.

J.J. let out a whoop of excitement on the other end of the line. "Yes! I promise you will not regret this, Capitaine."

"Whatever."

Ilya hung up the phone. He still didn't really want to go out. He hadn't wanted to do anything in weeks, not since Hollander had walked out his front door. He went to practice, he won games, he didn't let anyone know there was something wrong, but he stopped leaving his house, or his hotel room if they were on the road.

He could do this. He could go out for one night and pretend that nothing was wrong.

Like the rest of his team, he practically lived in athletic wear when he wasn't required to be in a suit and tie, but he knew how to dress up nice when the occasion called for it.

He found a nice shirt in the back of his closet, and dark jeans to pair it with, making sure he had his wallet and keys before he walked out the door.

~~~

As he walked into the warmly lit restaurant, Ilya was greeted by an overly enthusiastic J.J. who introduced him to a couple of men he'd never seen before.

"This guy never leaves his fucking house!" he told him, laughing like it was a joke.

It wasn't, but they didn't need to know that. He learned that they were a part of the writing team on the movie, and Ilya nodded along as was appropriate as J.J. drove the conversation forward.

He excused himself to get a drink, getting the bartender's attention easily.

"Do you have any Russian vodka?" If he was going out tonight, he might as well indulge.

"I mean, I can check, but…"

Ilya shook his head. "Whatever you have on draft is fine."

"Ilya Rozanov can get whatever he wants here," the bartender winked.

Clearly not, but Ilya smiled anyway. "Is an interesting crowd," he said, making conversation as the man poured his drink.

"It's really cool! I mean, I knew they were filming a movie in town, but it's another thing to serve Rose Landry, you know?"

Ilya had watched probably every movie Rose Landry had ever been in. "Rose Landry is here?"

"The whole cast is," the bartender confirmed.

"I may need another drink," he huffed, and the bartender laughed.

He made his way back to J.J., second drink in hand. He was talking to someone new now, who didn't bother introducing himself to Ilya. Definitely an actor then.

The next hour was spent in conversations that he barely understood or cared about. It was exhausting.

Eventually, a pressure started building behind his eyes, and he started looking for a way out.

Maybe there was a smoking section, or-

Or an empty booth at the back of the restaurant.

He made a second round of excuses as he moved towards his target, not even caring if anyone was watching as he collapsed onto the seat with a sigh.

"Are you here to help me finish these fries?" a new voice asked.

Ilya startled. In front of him was a petite woman whose head didn't reach the top of the booth, so it was no mystery as to why he didn't see her.

"The chef brought them out to me. They're amazing, but if I eat any more, I don't think I'll fit into my costume," she continued. "I'm Rose by the way."

"Ilya," he returned. "I like your movies."

"I like your hockey," Rose Landry told him.

He felt an eyebrow raise against his will.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Maybe a little."

She laughed, a pretty, bell-like sound. "I'm from Michigan, and all three of my brothers played hockey. I'd root for my home team, but Detroit hasn't done well in the playoffs since your rookie season, and I like what I've seen in Montreal so…" she trailed off, biting her lip and staring at him intently.

This was familiar to him. The motions of flirting, of being attracted to someone, hadn't completely rusted over.

It helped that she was nothing like Shane Hollander. She was small, blonde, all soft curves instead of hard edges. She was sweet, openly flirting with him where everyone could see.

He could play this game.

"Is this your first time in Montreal?" he asked.

"No, I filmed a different movie here a few years ago, in the summer."

"Winter is different, no?"

"It reminds me of home," she admitted. "Michigan's winters are similar, so it's kind of nice, actually."

"Will you be here for a while?" He let the question land heavily, full of intention.

The corner of her mouth twitched, like she was holding back a smirk. For a moment, she reminded him of Svetlana, calculating, aware of her place in the world and other's perception of it. Then her mask settled back into place, a soft smile replacing something sharper.

"I'll be here long enough," she answered.

"Plenty of time to get to know each other then," he said, and her smile got wider.

This was fine. He could do this.

They spent the rest of the night no more than a few feet apart. She told him about some of the worst movies she had made, and he complimented her even on her worst performances. He taught her curse words in Russian as they played cards, not even making fun of her frankly terrible pronunciation.

She grabbed his thigh underneath the table. He replaced it with his own hand, lifting her hand so he could kiss the back of it.

She blushed and laughed, and his heart fluttered.

Good. This was good.

~~~

"Rozanov!" Theriault barked from his office as Ilya walked into the practice facility.

"Yes coach?"

"Get your ass in here!"

Ilya stepped into the man's office. It never seemed to change from year to year. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"You better have a damn good explanation for this," he growled, throwing a magazine down on the desk in front of him.

It was a shitty tabloid, but it was a shitty tabloid that featured him and Rose on the cover.

Truth be told, they'd gone on a few dates now, so Ilya was a bit shocked that it took this long for people to notice.

"I did not know you liked gossip magazines, Coach," Ilya said dryly, which only earned him another glare.

"Don't fuck with me, Rozanov."

"Sorry," Ilya mumbled.

"What did I tell you when you joined this team?"

"Don't fuck around," Ilya quoted dutifully.

"Then what the fuck do you call this?"

"I am not fucking around," Ilya told him calmly. "We met at a dinner thing. She is a nice girl, I like her a lot."

Theriault stared at him quietly, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "I don't need you to have any distractions, Rozanov."

"She is not-" Ilya started to argue, then he took a deep breath. "I have been playing good, yes? Not - I think the phrase is - out of the ordinary?"

"No, you haven't," Theriault admitted.

"Then she is not distracting. Anyway, this could be good for me, for us."

Theriault frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I am one of the only men on this team without wife or girlfriend. It's been, what, seven years, eight maybe that I have been on this team? I am serious about hockey, yes, but people still talk."

It was barely a threat, Ilya knew, but his words hit their mark. In that same conversation where he told Ilya to not fuck around, he told him that he didn't want his team to look like a bunch of fags and queers, so implying that Ilya not having a girlfriend for so long made them look like they were hiding something, well…

"Fine. As long as it isn't a distraction, and as long as it doesn't get messy, I don't see an issue with it."

That was a lie, but Ilya would take it. His life had been something close to normal recently, so even a lie from his coach, pretending to accept reality, was fine.

~~~

Rose came to some of his games, his jersey with his number displayed proudly across her back. She would wave and blow kissed when she was displayed on the Jumbotron, and Ilya smiled, proud he finally had someone to come to his games.

She wasn't at the one that mattered most to him through. Montreal vs. Boston at home, and she was shooting late. They made plans for after, but he had to face Hollander alone, with no one in his corner.

He sucked in a breath as Hollander slammed him up against the boards. Ignored the way his heart stuttered in his chest. He meant nothing to him. They were nothing. He had Rose now.

Rose, who pulled him close to her side in their corner both at the club later that night.

"Hey handsome," she teased. "Good game tonight."

"We barely won," Ilya argued. Rose knew hockey, she knew it hadn't been a good game.

"You still won," she pointed out. "That's a good night in my book."

She didn't feel the ache in her bones after a rough shift. She didn't hear Theriault yelling in the locker room for them to get their shit together. She just saw what he allowed her to see, the easy parts, the parts of him that the world liked.

"Okay," he said with a tight smile. "What are you drinking?"

"Some cocktail the bartender insisted on making her," Rose's friend Miles said, collapsing on his other side. "It's gross. Here, I got you a gin and tonic." He handed her the new drink.

"You're an angel," Rose groaned, immediately passing over her old drink. "This is why I hate being famous."

"Do people ever try and do this for you, Ilya?" Miles asked, clearly trying to rope him into the conversation.

"I am Russian. They assume I want vodka," Ilya answered curtly.

"And?"

Ilya raised his glass. "They are correct."

Rose giggled, holding onto his arm. "Come on, you have to dance with me," she said suddenly. "I haven't seen you all week and I want to dance."

He was tired, so tired, but he couldn't tell her no. "Okay."

She gasped and wiggled out of the booth, dragging him along with her.

He'd gone out clubbing in Russia as a teenager, years ago now, but not much had changed. He moved with her to the music, letting his senses be taken over by her perfume, the way the lights danced off her outfit, by the crowd pressing in around them.

He didn't think about people staring at them. He didn't think about anyone else in the room other than the two of them together.

Then something caught his eye.

There was a man who stood out. He was tall, towering over the crowd. It would be impossible to miss him.

Cliff Marlow, Ilya realized, his blood going cold. And close by his side was Connor Connors, who blended into the crowd significantly better, but once Ilya knew what he was looking for, he couldn't stop noticing.

"I need some air," he leaned down to tell Rose, stepping back to let Miles take his place. "I'll be back."

He walked across the dance floor, looking for a bathroom, a smoking area, anywhere where he wouldn't see Shane Hollander.

And then he was there. Shane Hollander, in the flesh, pressed in the middle of a couple who clearly considered themselves lucky to have caught him.

Shane's head was pillowed on the man's shoulder, his hands were on the woman's hips, and then, because God hated Ilya, he looked up.

They made eye contact, and Ilya felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

His smile was sharp, nothing like the sweet thing Ilya had had in his bed so many months ago. It was like something had possessed Shane's body, which he was even more convinced of when he kissed both the man and the woman in quick succession.

He couldn't be here. He needed to go home.

He fled, finding Rose along the way. "Can we go?" he asked her quietly. "Or if you want to stay, are you okay without me?"

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Let's get out of here,"

Rose threaded her fingers through his and started guiding them out of the club.

"Sorry, it was just-" he struggled to find the words once they were out on the street.

"It was loud, crowded, and we've both had a long day," she filled in the blanks for him. "It's okay, honey. How about we go back to your place and watch a movie?"

That sounded manageable. Quiet.

He drove them back to his house, giving her the door code so she could go in and change while he pulled the car into the garage.

When he walked in, she had already set up camp on the couch, remote in hand, scrolling through his watchlist. She had stolen an old Voyageurs t-shirt out of his dresser, along with a pair of his boxers, and it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

"Rose," he said softly.

"Hmm?" She barely looked up at him.

It felt domestic, like something he never thought he could have.

"Rose," he said again, louder this time.

Now she looked up at him, and he felt like he could see his future playing out.

He could have this. He could have her, just like this, in his house, in his bed. He could love her, build a life with her, and that would be enough.

He wouldn't think about how he'd fucked Shane Hollander, how they had almost been something before Ilya had ruined it, right there on that same couch Rose Landry had made herself at home on.

"Ilya?"

He walked over to her, dropping to his knees in front of where she sat. "You are beautiful," he told her plainly. "I like that only I see this. You are perfect."

"Oh, baby," she said, running a hand through his hair. "You just saw me all dressed up, and you like this better?"

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. "Yes. Can I show you how much?"

She leaned back, parting her legs further so Ilya could pull down her underwear and get his mouth where he wanted it.

He liked the noises she made when he ate her out. They were soft, breathless things, not full moans. She pulled his hair lightly, nothing that would hurt him, but he liked the scratch of his nails against his scalp.

It surprised him a bit when she tugged a little harder, pulling him up and away from her.

Color sat high on her cheeks, and her chest was heaving.

"Take me to bed," she commanded softly, and he listened.

He got to his feet, dragging her up with him and picking her up so he could carry her further into the house. He swallowed her little squeak that she made when he handled her weight like it was nothing.

Having sex with her was fine. He knew how to get her off. In truth, that was why he preferred giving over receiving when he was with her. It meant he didn't have to think about himself, about what he wanted.

And Ilya didn't want her. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he was more than likely across the city, tangled up with that couple from earlier.

He wanted what they'd had on that lazy morning, when they didn't have to rush, when Ilya could take him time with him. When he'd buried himself in his body, when he'd let himself say his name like he was something precious, because he was.

When he came with Rose, he thought of him. He felt sick with it, but he was making her happy, and that was enough.

That had to be enough.

Chapter End Notes

man I hope yall liked this one because I had to attempt to write straight sex and I am an asexual trans man. I don’t do Any of this

also it took me so long to write this chapter, so proof reading it before I posted it was hilarious. I made some little changes that don’t matter in the long run but they matter to me personally because I think I’m funny

see you in the next one!

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

The Rose Landry Crash Out of 2016 (Shane Hollander's version), the 2017 All-Star Game, a funeral, and the dinosaur that changed the hockey world forever.

Chapter Notes

hello, once again i am a week late, but that's the cost of writing emotionally devastating fanfiction i fear. this is a longer chapter, but it's so worth it, I promise

oh! and to the person who said "shane crashing out over ilya with glasses" in my comments,,, thank you. I hope you enjoy this

Shane blew the whistle around his neck sharply. "Again!"

He watched his team skate from the end of the rink to the first blue line and back. "Faster!" he called, as they hit the red line.

He ignored the way they cursed at him. None of it mattered.

"You'll thank me when we win the Stanley Cup!" he yelled. He blew the whistle. "Again!"

Shane didn't give them a break until two rookies and St-Simon threw up over the boards.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Cap," Marlow skated over to where Shane had set up camp with his clipboard and iPad on the bench. He was breathing hard and speaking slowly like he was also trying not to lose his breakfast. "You know there are other drills we can run to improve our game, right? Plus the All-Star game is coming up, I think most of the guys were hoping for some easier practices to lead us into the break."

"I know, but this team has been playing like shit recently, so I felt like you deserved it. Connors!" he shouted for his other A.

"What's up, Hollzy?" he asked as he skated over.

Connors, unlike Marlow, was mostly unaffected apart from the flush high on his cheeks.

"Dude, how are you not dying?" Marly asked, still holding onto the boards, trying to recover.

"Because I'm not a fucking pussy, I know how to deal with this shit."

"I fucking hate you."

"No you don't," Connors sing-songed. "You should probably check on that third rookie who definitely just puked on the ice."

Cliff glanced over his shoulder and swore. "Fine, but you owe me."

Connors waved him off before directing his attention back to Shane. "What do you need, Cap?"

Shane considered the men on the ice carefully. "Let's get some cones set up, we need to work on our edges. Then we'll bring out some pucks so we can work on shooting drills."

"Got it, Cap."

"Take some of the younger guys that haven't thrown up yet to help you set up," Shane directed. "And before you go-"

"What's up?"

Shane leaned in. "How do you manage bag skates so well?" he asked.

Connors let out a loud laugh. "It's all about mentality, breath control, eating a breakfast good enough to keep your blood sugar from dropping, and letting it digest long enough so that your stomach doesn't revolt."

"You're fucking insane," Shane told him.

"Says you," Connors returned.

"Whatever. Go set up the drills," he dismissed him.

"Hey, we should do another Captains' dinner. You, me, and Marly, like a mid-season check-in before All-Stars," Connors said as he skated away. "Just think about it. Marly's place, Friday night, maybe around 7?"

"Your boyfriend know you're propositioning me?" Shane teased.

"Of course, he wants this too," Connors shot back, and Shane grinned. "Don't be an asshole. Come to dinner."

"Fine. Now stop delaying practice more than you already have."

Connors grabbed a couple of guys to set out cones, and Shane blew his whistle again to get the rest of the team's attention.

~~~

A few days later, Shane was knocking on Cliff Marlow's door, case of beer in hand. He'd almost brought a bottle of wine, but that felt too formal, and he knew none of them would drink it anyway.

Connors opened the door with a flourish. "Cliff owes me $50, he didn't think you would show up."

"Why would I not show up?"

"Because you're an asshole who's been out to terrorize the whole world recently, or at least the city of Boston," Marlow yelled from the kitchen. "It wouldn't shock me if you told us to fuck off too."

"I wouldn't do that, you guys are my best friends," Shane argued.

Both of them gave him a look.

"Okay, so I've been a little on edge recently, sue me," Shane said. "I'm still not planning on being an asshole to you guys specifically."

"Oh, so that wasn't you being an asshole at practice yesterday?" Marly asked.

Shane cringed when he thought about how he'd yelled at his team the day before. "Well, I can't show favoritism, can I?"

"You could if you weren't a coward," Cliff grumbled.

Connors laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he made his way to the fridge to put away the beer Shane brought. The casual show of domesticity made Shane blink.

"Come on, you know he's right."

"You're just as much of a hockey robot as he is!"

Shane watched their back and forth like it was a tennis match. He'd known they were… something since his rookie year, but witnessing it in a private setting was another story.

"Hollzy, can you come stir this? I only have so many hands, and Connor is setting the table."

"Huh? Oh, sure." He took over stirring what looked like some sort of sauce so Cliff could check the fish he was working on.

"You know we only make fun of you because we love you, right?" Cliff asked without looking at him. "And we're worried about you."

"There's nothing to worry about," Shane responded automatically.

Cliff gave him a look. "Would it shock you to know that I don't believe you?"

Shane sighed. "I guess I have been… intense lately."

"Intense is certainly one word for it," Connor said as he reappeared from the dining room.

"You've been weird since Montreal," Cliff pointed out.

"We started playing like shit that game," Shane countered. "I think that gives me reasonable cause to start being harder on the team."

"And harder on yourself," Connor said. "Don't think we haven't noticed that, by the way. Anyways, you've been weird since before Montreal, Montreal was just a shit show and suddenly you had an excuse to openly be an asshole."

"Maybe let's eat something before we start having the hard conversations," Cliff suggested. "The food's ready anyway, go sit, I'll bring it out."

Shane headed into the dining room, followed closely by Connor. He'd spent time with them over the years, but it felt like something had shifted.

He took his usual seat at the table, with Connor to his left. Cliff brought out their plates, and Shane tried to inspect the food without being obvious about the fact that he was doing so.

"It's safe for your macrobiotic diet, I promise," Connor said gently. "Cliff made sure."

"You being harder on yourself always means you get stricter with your diet," Cliff said. "You think no one notices, but we do."

"We're your A's, it's our job."

Shane stared at his plate and willed himself to not tear up.

"Plus I'm a damn good cook, so if you insist on your fuckass diet, then I'm at least going to make sure it tastes good," Cliff said decisively, sitting down next to Connor. "Go ahead, try it."

He did, and he had to admit the food was amazing. When he cooked for himself, he didn't care as much about flavor as he did about function, but maybe he could put in the effort from time to time.

They ate in relative silence, but Shane could feel the tension in the room. He knew it was his fault, that his issues were causing everyone else to suffer, but he didn't want to talk about it. Not yet.

Not that he had much of a choice in the matter. Once their plates were mostly clear, Connor cleared his throat and stared pointedly at Shane.

"Are you going to tell us what's wrong, or are we going to have to guess?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Shane said, causing them both to give him a look. "Look, it's not a big deal-"

"Alright, here's what's going to happen," Connor interrupted. "I'm going to talk, we're going to see how much I get right, and then you're going to fill in the gaps, okay?"

Shane just sighed and nodded.

"You've been openly an asshole since that shit game in Montreal, but you were starting to get weird before that. You stopped coming out with us, you stopped sleeping around, and I think it started the last time we were in Montreal. Not this past game, the one before that when you came back from your Montreal Beau's house early, running into that hotel room like you were being chased. Something happened that day that you refused to talk about, and it's been affecting not just your game, but the rest of your life too."

"I played fine that game," Shane protested.

"You played the single most robotic hockey game of your life that night, which is saying something since you are known to be a hockey robot. It felt like you weren't even on the ice, it was just your body playing the game using muscle memory," Connor pointed out. "It was after we got back from that roadie that you got weird and started being an asshole."

Shane gave up on arguing, motion for him to continue.

"I think we need to talk about that trip to Montreal, not the most recent one, although we should probably talk about that too. Something happened with your Montreal Beau, and it fucked you up."

Cliff leaned back in his chair, studying Shane. "What do we know about his Montreal Beau?" he asked Connor like Shane wasn't even there.

"Every time we're in Montreal, Shane leaves to hook up with someone," Connor answered. "It's the only city outside of Boston where he ever hooks up with anyone, and they have each other's numbers."

Shane glared at him, and Connor just shrugged. "I saw the text thread over your shoulder once, I was nosy. I thought it might be serious since you weren't hooking up with anyone else at the time."

"It wasn't serious," Shane muttered petulantly.

"Interesting. 'Wasn't' as in past tense," Connor noted.

"Did The Shane Hollander get dumped?" Cliff asked, almost gleefully.

"I might have dumped him, actually," Shane said, covering his eyes so he didn't have to see their reactions.

There was a beat of silence, and Shane uncovered his face to see their twin expressions of shock.

"Guys, come on, it can't be that shocking that I dumped him." He glanced back and forth between them. "Seriously?"

"Sorry, I just needed a second," Connor took a deep breath. "You're telling me that you've been acting like you got your heart broken, and you're the one who broke up with the guy?"

"I'm not acting heart broken," Shane protested.

"Buddy, I am not arguing with you about this. You've been acting weird since you left the guy. No dick is good enough for that unless you have feelings for the man attached to it."

"Have you thought about reaching out to him?" Cliff asked.

Shane scoffed. "Absolutely not."

"Do you think he wouldn't want to hear from you?"

"I think he's already moved on because we didn't mean anything to each other," Shane insisted.

"Is it weird that I don't believe him?" Cliff asked Connor, once again like Shane wasn't sitting right in front of them.

"You guys are assholes," he told them.

Connor just laughed. "Okay, so you didn't mean anything to each other. Do you think telling us about him would help get him off your mind?"

"It's probably like having a song stuck in your head," Cliff said. "You listen to it and it goes away or whatever."

Connor stared at his boyfriend in disbelief. "You're an idiot."

"It could work!"

Shane watched them bicker, and his chest hurt with it.

Maybe he did miss Rozanov.

God, he didn't want his friends to be right.

"I'll tell you about him," he said, interrupting their argument, which they immediately ceased when he spoke.

"Holy shit, I didn't think you would actually do it," Connor said. "Tell us about him."

"I don't actually think I know how to talk about him," Shane admitted.

"When was the first time you hooked up?" Cliff asked.

"2010," he answered.

There was a beat of silence.

"I'm sorry, it's entirely possible that I've had one too many concussions because I could have sworn you just said 2010," Connor said, his voice tight.

"That's what I said, yes. We hooked up in 2010."

"You were a rookie in 2010," Cliff pointed out.

"I hooked up with him before the season started."

"Jesus Christ."

"Okay, hold on." Connor stood up and started pacing. "You hooked up with a guy before you knew us."

"Yes."

"And continued hooking up with this same guy until like two months ago."

"Yes."

"And you claim you don't have feelings for him. That it was just sex."

"Yes."

"Shane, it's been six years."

"I know."

"You've been fucking him the whole time?"

"I mean, he's been fucking me, but I feel like that's not the important part."

Cliff laughed out loud while Connor squawked.

"Shane Hollander, you fucking dog! His dick must be something else to keep you coming back."

"Cliff, shut the fuck up."

"If it helps, we weren't fucking the whole time. I really tried to stop after the first couple of times, but-"

"The heart wants what the heart wants?" Cliff suggested.

"The heart does not want," Shane insisted. "He was just… there, I guess. He was convenient, and the sex really was great, so we didn't stop."

The couple exchanged a look.

"So what happened that made you stop?" Connor asked, settling back into his chair, resting his elbows on the table.

Shane thought back to Rozanov's house, how wonderful it felt until he'd fucked it all up.

"Last time we hooked up, something felt… different," Shane said. "More serious maybe, I don't know. He wanted me to stay the night, which we don't do." Not after that one time in Vegas, he didn't say. "He was sweet, and it felt like-" like he loved me "-like he wanted more. We both ended up saying things that we can't really take back, and I ran away."

Quiet settled over the table again, and Shane needed someone to say something.

Cliff was the one to break the silence. "Can I ask something that might sound awful?"

"Fine."

"Why can't you be something more?"

Shane worked his jaw for a moment. "I'm afraid of what it would do to us," he admitted. "I don't think I would know how to have something real with him. I think it would hurt our careers. I would have to come out as the first gay hockey player, and I'm almost certain it, and the two of us being together would ruin his life. I can't let that happen."

"So, you're gay then?" Connor asked softly.

It occurred to Shane just then that he'd never actually said that out loud before. He'd tried with women, and after the last time, with the couple in the club in Montreal, even he had to admit it to himself that he didn't like women.

"Yes," Shane whispered. "Yeah, I think I am."

Tears started rolling down his cheeks before he even realized that he was crying. Cliff immediately got up and went to find tissues.

"Hey, you're okay. You're safe here, you know that," Connor reassured him.

"And you already know you're not alone in the league, at least," Cliff pointed out, handing over the box of tissues.

"No one else knows about you guys though," Shane countered. "You kept up the image of being best friends with no boundaries for so long that no one would even think to consider the two of you being in a relationship." He paused and realized how he sounded. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. I'm not saying you should come out or anything-"

"We know, buddy, it's okay," Cliff said with a short laugh.

"It would be lonely if you were the only one visible," Connor said sympathetically. "I don't believe in coming out, I think it's dumb, so I never even considered it. Plus we've kind of gotten used to being us, acting the way we do in public."

"You could do the same you know, not come out," Cliff suggested. "You're allowed to just exist as you are."

Shane shook his head. "If I really want to do something, maybe even fix things with him, I would have to make a statement. Model minority, remember? I can't hide things or make mistakes without someone having an opinion about it."

"That's fucking stupid," Cliff stated.

"Yeah, I know. That doesn't get rid of the problem."

"Not to derail the conversation completely, but you just said you would maybe fix things with him. Are you serious?" Connor asked.

Shane groaned. He thought about Ilya, every kiss they shared, from the first hotel in Toronto, to the stairwell in his apartment, to the last time, in Ilya's house, on the couch, right before he'd fucked it all up.

"I… can't."

"You can't."

"No, I can't. I think I ruined it, and now he's already moved on."

"He moved on?" Connor said incredulously. "Six years, and he moves on within two months?"

"I don't believe it," Cliff said. "He's probably acting like he's moved on, but I bet if you reached to him, it would be a different story."

Shane dropped his head onto the table. "This is bullshit."

"Feelings are normal, buddy," Connor told him. "I promise, it's very normal to catch feelings for the guy you've been fucking, or getting fucked by, for your entire career."

"Trust me, he would know," Cliff said, smacking a kiss to the side of his head.

Connor shoved him off his chair. "All I'm saying is that maybe you should talk to him. It doesn't have to be next time we're in Montreal, I don't think we're going back there this season unless we both make it to the finals, but you've got his number. Call him, text him, whatever. You deserve to have someone who makes you happy."

"Fine, I'll think about it," Shane acquiesced.

"Good enough for me," Cliff said decisively. "Who wants dessert?"

~~~

Shane didn't text Ilya.

It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it, because he definitely had. He'd opened their text thread more than once since his dinner with Cliff and Connor, but he was going to see Ilya soon anyway, and he figured it would be better to have this conversation in person.

For the first time ever, they were going to be on the same All-Star team.

He nearly had a panic attack when he found out. He'd received the email confirming the teams, and then he received a second email, which he figured would confirm his captaincy.

Except for the fact that that didn't happen. Ilya was named captain, and Shane would be his alternate.

He hadn't even considered the possibility that he wouldn't be chosen as captain. It was improbable, he was Shane Hollander after all, but he stared at the A next to his name on the roster, and tried to come to terms with the situation.

The possibility he had considered was that Ilya might bring Rose Landry with him.

How would he get Ilya alone, away from his movie star girlfriend? How terrible would the sting of rejection be?

Shane had never dreaded All-Stars before in his life. He should have told them no this year.

He sat at the bar in Tampa, beer in his hand, because of course they didn't have ginger ale, and he thought maybe it was better if he wasn't sober when Ilya appeared next to him.

"Hollander," he greeted. His voice was flat, his face giving away nothing. "I didn't think you drank."

"It's a celebration," Shane lied. "I've always wanted to play on a team with you."

At least that was the truth.

"Not drowning your sorrows then?"

Shane glared at him.

"I mean, with me as your captain," Ilya tsk'd. "I could tell coach to push you to fourth line."

"You could," Shane allowed. "But I think we both know that's not going to happen."

Ilya laughed, a small huff of a thing with a ghost of a smile. "No, you are right. I am excited to play with you too. Enough ehhh, what is it, shop talk? Enough shop talk, is boring, just like your suit."

"You think my suit is boring?" Shane asked.

"Yes, very."

Shane had bought the suit for this, thinking he should probably try harder to impress than he usually did. Rose Landry always wore nice stuff, so Shane could too. He'd even hired a stylist since he didn't know what he was doing, but Ilya didn't have to know that.

"At least I'm not wearing whatever the hell that is," he said, motioning to Ilya's monstrosity of a red, Hawaiian shirt. "Your girlfriend let you walk out of the house like that, Rozanov?"

Ilya flinched imperceptibly, but Shane noticed, because Shane noticed everything about Ilya.

"I would have to have a girlfriend to care what she thinks," Ilya said quietly, like the only person he wanted to hear was Shane.

Shane stared at him. "So-"

"Cats and dogs!" Carter Vaughn shouted from behind them, throwing an arm over both of their shoulders. "Can you fucking believe it? All of us on the same team? Hollzy, I'd watch out if I were you, I wouldn't trust this guy as far as I could throw him," he said, pulling Ilya closer and shaking him a little.

"Respect your captain, Vaughny," Shane reminded him good naturedly. "Is this how you treat Hunter?"

"I'm just saying man, you've gotta watch for the quiet ones."

Ilya snorted and turned to the bartender. "Do you have water or black coffee maybe?"

"I'm just fucking with you Rozy, you know we're going to dominate. Let's go East Boys!" he whooped as he departed, leaving Shane and Ilya alone again.

"Hey, maybe we should-"

"I must make rounds as captain, talk to team," Ilya said suddenly, cutting him off. "See you tomorrow morning, Hollander."

"Sure, see you tomorrow morning," Shane responded softly.

Before he walked away, Ilya leaned into his space. It wasn't obvious, or in a way that could be misconstrued as anything other than him clumsily rising from his seat, but it was enough.

"I missed you, Hollander," he whispered. "We are okay, yes?"

Shane nodded, a small, quick thing. "We're okay," he whispered back, and then Ilya was gone.

~~~

They were, remarkably, better than okay. The next morning in the locker room, the energy felt electric. He found out that not only had Ilya not asked their coach to shift their lines, but to have Shane center the first line.

"You didn't have to do that, you're captain and one of the best centers in the league," Shane protested when he found out.

He had pulled Ilya aside, not wanting to challenge his captain, even at an All-Star game when nothing really mattered. It was about respect.

"You are also one of the best centers in the league, Hollander," Ilya reminded him. "And I play wing better than you, so I figured it was the best strategy."

"But you're captain," Shane tried again.

"And a good captain knows when to step back, use players to their strengths, make sacrifices when needed."

"I would have been okay with second line."

"Hollander."

He took a breath. "I've always wanted to know what it would be like to play with you instead of against you."

"Me too," Rozanov said. "I think it will be good."

"Better than good," Shane said.

~~~

The skills competition was nothing of note.

Shane beat a Minnesota defender in the Shot Accuracy competition. He was barely paying attention because he was still thinking about practice that morning. The actual game would be something to behold if practice was any indication.

He settled onto the bench and watched Ilya win the Breakaway competition with ease, and he knew he needed to do something, anything to get him off his mind if he was going to survive the weekend.

That evening he went down to the pool, book in hand, ready to relax in the Florida heat.

Instead his book lay abandoned on the table next to him as he watched Ilya play some game with a group of other players' kids. He was pretending to be a shark, and Shane was pretending to not be completely endeared to him.

Then, because the universe was not kind to Shane Hollander, he watched Ilya pull himself out of the pool, miles of skin and moles and muscle appearing above the water, his bathing suit plastered to his body, and Shane's mouth dried up.

And then when Ilya shook out his hair on Shane, placing his hands on his hips and gave him attitude?

Shane Hollander was a weak man.

~~~

After the game, which was predictably incredible, there was an after party.

He still felt like he was floating. He'd scored off of an assist from Ilya that was so beautiful he simply had to kiss him about it. He'd pressed a kiss to the side of Ilya's helmet, the way he'd done to his own teammates after a particularly good play, so he didn't feel the need to be self-conscious about it.

The smile on Ilya's face was worth it.

Now though, Shane didn't really want to be at this party. As much as he liked going out with his team, this group was loud in an unfamiliar way, and he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

Not to mention Ilya had disappeared early on in the night and never made a reappearance.

This was his last chance before he flew to Toronto first thing in the morning. He needed to talk to Ilya.

He found him sitting on the beach, watching the sunset. The lingering light bounced off of Ilya's hair, making him look ethereal.

"Found you," he said softly, sitting down in the sand next to him.

"You were looking for me?" Ilya asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Ilya gave him a look that Shane knew he deserved.

"I don't know what happened between you and Rose Landry, but for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry," Shane said, diverting the conversation.

"No need for sorry," Ilya dismissed. "She is a good friend, she is not going anywhere. We were just not…"

"Compatible?" Shane filled in.

"Maybe. What does this mean?"

"Like, you don't fit together that way."

Ilya huffed out a small laugh. "Yes, this is it. We were not compatible. But she will be in Montreal for a bit, and she is good for me I think."

"It's good to have friends," Shane agreed.

They sat in silence for a moment, the air between them tense.

"You should go back to hotel," Ilya said finally. "You probably have early flight."

"If you want, you can walk back with me. I'm sure you have an early flight too."

"Yes, to Columbus," Ilya said, making a face. "Maybe I want to spend the night looking at something beautiful before I have to go to such a horrible place."

He was staring right at Shane.

The silence settled again, but this time with a different kind of tension.

Shane was the one to break it this time.

"What room are you in?"

~~~

They walked back to the hotel separately, at Ilya's insistence.

Shane waited his allotted ten minutes before he followed behind him.

He knocked on the hotel room door softly, and it opened almost immediately.

"Come in," Ilya said softly, stepping to the side to let him in.

"Thanks." Shane crossed the threshold, and Ilya closed the door behind him. He walked to the bed and sat down, expecting Ilya to follow suit.

Instead, Ilya propped himself up on the desk across from him, arms folded, face blank.

This version of Ilya was so different than the one he'd seen just a few months ago. It almost hurt to look at him.

"We need to talk," Shane started.

"There is nothing to talk about," Ilya dismissed immediately.

"You and I both know that's not true."

Ilya sighed and dropped his shoulders so he was a little bit hunched over. "Fine. Say what you want and I will listen."

Shane took a deep breath. "First of all, I wanted to apologize. I was an asshole to you, and you didn't deserve that."

Ilya nodded without saying anything.

"It's just… it was different last time, right? I wasn't imagining that?"

Ilya rubbed a hand across his face. "What does it matter? You ran away."

"I know, and I will spend the rest of my life apologizing for that if I have to," Shane said honestly. "I freaked out, and I know that doesn't excuse my behavior, but I really am sorry."

"There is no reason to freak out, Hollander, we are nothing."

"Bullshit!" Shane snapped. "You and I both know that's bullshit."

"Is not," Ilya said with a shrug. "We get together, we fuck, is simple. Convenient, as you say."

The nod to their conversation in the bathroom in Las Vegas hit him like a slap in the face. "Don't be an asshole, I'm trying to say something here."

"Then say it."

"I'm gay," Shane blurted. It wasn't where he wanted to start, but it was better than nothing. "I've been trying to figure some things out, and all I know at this point is that I'm gay, and I want you in my life. I understand if you don't want that, but I think I really like you, Rozanov."

"You don't like me," Ilya protested.

"I do," Shane insisted. "I like you more than I ever planned to."

Ilya sighed deeply, but Shane felt like he was finally getting somewhere as Ilya pushed off the desk and came to sit next to him on the bed.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ilya asked.

"Because it's important to me that you know," Shane said. "I can't be completely honest about this with anyone else. Being gay is one thing, but this," he motioned between them, "this is another thing. No one would understand."

"Is why we are secret," Ilya agreed. "And can never be more."

"Would you want to be?" Shane asked. "If we could?"

"It does not matter. We can't."

"But would you?"

"Don't fucking do this, Hollander, I'm not-" he cut himself off and took a deep breath. "I would not be able to go back to Russia if we were something. Do you understand? I could not go home."

"Right, because of Russia," Shane remembered.

Ilya nodded. "My father is police, and my brother. I don't know what they would do to me, and I do not wish to find out."

"What about your mother?"

Ilya took a breath that sounded almost like a choked off sob. "Dead."

"Oh."

"I go back for her," Ilya said. "To visit her grave. To bring her flowers. There is nothing else for me there."

"Nothing?"

He thought for a moment. "My niece is there, and her mother, my brother's wife. They are good people, but no, nothing else."

"I'm so sorry, Ilya."

Ilya closed his eyes. "I wish there was more I could do. My father is not well, so I take care of him when I go back and hope he remembers that I am his son."

Shane's face must have done something to indicate his confusion, because Ilya clarified. "He has dementia. Has gotten worse recently, I think. He tries to hide it, but it does not work. I try to help from here. I send money, pay my brother to help, but-" he cut himself off and looked away, but not before Shane saw tears start to fall.

"Oh, Ilya." Shane swung onto his lap, taking his face into his hands.

"Sorry," Ilya sniffed, but Shane wasn't having it. He wiped away his tears, pressing kisses to his forehead before Ilya leaned back and brought their mouths together.

He was still crying. Shane could taste the salt of his tears where their lips met. He broke the kiss in favor of pulling him into a hug, rocking them back and forth.

~~~

That evening, Shane made sure to take him apart and put him back together again, and before he left, he kissed Ilya one last time. It was a soft, sweet thing that would have to hold them over until they saw each other again in Boston in a couple of weeks.

"Goodnight Shane," Ilya said, still laying on the bed as Shane was about to walk out the door.

"Goodnight Ilya," he responded with a smile.

They would see each other soon.

~~~

Shane texted Ilya the next time they played against each other in Boston.

To Rosie: Are you busy?

From Rosie: No, we are at the hotel

To Rosie: Come over?

From Rosie: We don't have time, the game is tonight.

To Rosie: Please? Just an hour?

From Rosie: This is a terrible idea.

To Rosie: That's not a no. Come over.

From Rosie: Fine.

~~~

Boston lost the game that night, since Ilya had scored a hat trick for his team. Shane was frustrated about it, and made sure to bring that energy to practice the next day, running his team ragged on defensive drills to make sure it wouldn't happen again.

He hadn't been making them bag skate like he had since before All-Stars, a fact that Connors and Marly noticed and teased him about in the days after they'd returned from the break, but that game certainly hadn't been up to his expectations.

Then Marlow dropped a metaphorical bomb in the locker room.

"Did you hear? Rozanov didn't fly with his team to Nashville."

"What?" Shane asked as he walked out of the shower. "He flew separately?"

"He didn't go to Nashville at all," Marlow said.

"Did he get hurt last night?" Connors asked.

"Not that I know of."

"He didn't," Shane answered.

"I guess he could be sick," Connors suggested.

"He didn't seem sick," Shane said, choosing his words carefully.

"No one knows why, ESPN just said he didn't go to Nashville," Marlow told them.

Shane ignored the rest of the conversations happening around him as he reached for his phone. He had a feeling something terrible had happened, and he needed to talk to Ilya.

~~~

To Rosie: Are you okay?

~~~

Hours later, Ilya still hadn't answered. When Shane tried calling him, he was sent to voicemail.

Finally, later that night when Shane was in bed reading, his phone rang.

"Are you okay?" Shane asked in lieu of a hello.

"No," came Ilya's broken reply, "but I am home."

"Montreal?"

"No, Moscow."

Shane desperately needed to see his face, to make sure he was okay. "Can I FaceTime you?"

"Okay," Ilya said.

He answered the call, and Shane inhaled sharply. The man on his screen looked like a shell of a man where Ilya Rozanov used to sit. He looked tired and broken, with a pair of large, wire rimmed glasses perched haphazardly on his nose.

"You wear glasses," Shane said, like an idiot.

Ilya blinked at him. "Oh, yes." He took the glasses off, which Shane would not tolerate. "Sorry, there has been paperwork to fill out, I forgot I was wearing them."

"Put them back on, I like them," Shane said, smiling softly when Ilya obeyed. "You look handsome."

"I do not, I'm a mess. Today has been terrible."

"Is it-?"

"Yes, my father is dead," Ilya confirmed.

"I'm so sorry."

"What is everyone saying?" he asked instead of reacting.

"Nothing. Your team hasn't released a statement or anything, so no one knows what's going on."

"Good, I will be back by end of the week, and then people will know."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I was prepared for this," Ilya said. "I was trying to… get away even before this, but now, I do not know. My brother is going to be an asshole at funeral tomorrow, I know it, and I do not want it. I wish I was with you, I think, or anywhere but here."

"What can I do to make it easier?" Shane asked.

"This is good. Is nice, seeing you like this, in bed. Makes me remember going to sleep with you."

"Yeah? Is that all?"

"Maybe. Is possible I would remember more if you took off your clothes."

"Ilya…"

"Please?"

Shane sighed and took off his shirt, and Ilya did the same after propping his phone up against something.

"Can you put your glasses back on please?" Shane asked, and was thrilled when Ilya complied.

"Is this a thing for you, Hollander? You like me in glasses?"

"I like you in everything," Shane said, maybe a little too honestly. "I've just never seen this side of you before."

"The boring side you mean," Ilya teased. "Is why you like it probably, since you are so boring."

"Oh really? I'm boring? Maybe I'll just put my clothes back on and go to bed then."

Ilya whined in response, and Shane just laughed. He knew he had him, hook, line, and sinker.

~~~

Ilya called again the next day, once they'd gotten to their hotel in North Carolina.

He texted first, causing Shane to run out of the room so quickly that he knew Connor would make fun of him later, but he didn't care.

Shane settled himself in an empty stairwell, waiting for Ilya's call.

"How are you?"

"Okay. Not good. Probably bad," Ilya answered. "My family is at their worst, which means I think I am too. My brother is scared, I think. Does not know what to do, so he takes it out on me, and I fight back."

"That must be upsetting," Shane said.

"Yes," Ilya sighed. "But I think maybe I am upset about the wrong thing."

"What do you mean?"

"My father is dead, yes? But I am upset that he did not know me, or I did not know him. I don't know, English is too hard right now, I don't know what to say."

"I wish I spoke Russian," Shane said, and he realized he meant it.

"I think you could learn, be fluent immediately," Ilya deadpanned. "No accent, perfect. Bonjour."

"That's French, Ilya," Shane laughed.

"I know."

"Where are you?" Shane asked. It must have been late at night in Russia, and Shane swore he heard traffic in the background.

"I am out walking," Ilya said. "Needed to get out of the house."

"Do you want to talk to me in Russian?" Shane asked. "I won't understand you, but it might help if you want to get whatever you're feeling out in the open."

"Okay," Ilya said, and took a deep breath before he started speaking.

Shane let his words wash over him, not understanding, but feeling his grief, his pain, and a longing deep in his bones for something that he didn't even know what it was.

The Russian slipped off of Ilya's tongue smoothly, quickly, and Shane longed to be able to speak to him like this, so he wouldn't have to translate himself all the time.

He resolved himself to looking into the best ways to learn Russian later when Ilya switched back to English.

"Okay, I am done."

"Do you feel better?"

"Yes, I think so," Ilya sighed. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by teaching me Russian someday," Shane told him.

"Yes, but only useful phrases."

"Like what?"

"Like 'yes sir, please, more'."

"Fuck you," Shane snapped, without much heat.

"You mean 'fuck me'," Ilya corrected.

"What about, 'I wish you were here right now'?" Shane asked.

Ilya let out another phrase in Russian, and Shane grinned.

~~~

A week later, they were facing off against each other on the ice, once again in Montreal.

Shane approached him during warm ups to confirm their plans for the evening before skating back over to his bench where Connors gave him a look.

"What was that about?"

"Just offering my condolences," Shane lied easily.

"That was nice of you," Marlow said. "What'd he say?"

"He told me to go fuck myself."

"That guy's an asshole, I'm telling you," Connors said. "He's probably worse now that his dad died and his girlfriend apparently left him for another woman."

"Don't be rude," Shane chastised him lightly. "Let's just win the game, okay?"

"Fucking right!"

Both of his A's tapped his helmet, and they got set and ready to go for the game.

The first face off between him and Ilya was exciting. They crouched down across from each other, and the puck dropped. Shane couldn't even be mad that he lost the draw, smiling as Ilya ran away with the puck.

Then the unthinkable happened. Ilya glanced behind him in the neutral zone, smiling when he realized Shane was close behind. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't seen Marlow coming out of nowhere.

Ilya's body hit the ice with a sickening crack.

Oh god, Shane was going to be sick.

He ignored Hayden Pike trying to attack Cliff with the ferocity of a feral cat, instead focusing on Ilya's frame to see if he was breathing.

The medics came out onto the ice with a spinal board, and Shane couldn't stop himself from yelling at them.

"Please, can you tell me if he's okay?"

"Get back to your bench, Hollander! I'm not asking again."

"Please!" he screamed after them as they rolled him off the ice into a waiting ambulance.

~~~

They took him to Montreal General, he found out. He came by during visiting hours the next morning, early, before they would have to take off to go the next city. The playoff push was as brutal as always, but he needed to see Ilya with his own eyes before he left.

"Shane!" Ilya exclaimed excitedly as Shane slipped into his hospital room. "You are here!"

"I wanted to check on you before I left," Shane said quietly.

"I am okay, Hollander, I promise."

"You're not," Shane pointed out.

Ilya shrugged his good shoulder. "Is just broken collar bone and concussion. Will be fine by next season."

"Marlow really is sorry. He didn't mean to hurt you."

"Is okay," Ilya waved him off. "Is part of game, I did not see him coming."

"Do you have someone to take care of you?" Shane asked.

"I can take care of myself," Ilya said.

"Yeah, but it's easier with someone to help."

"Maybe I will ask someone. I have friends who might help," Ilya gave in.

"Good, thank you."

"I wish I could ask you," he admitted quietly.

"You know I would if I could," Shane said, brushing the curls off of Ilya's forehead. "I have this cottage in the middle of nowhere in Quebec. We could go there. It would be quiet, just the two of us and the lake."

"Sounds nice," Ilya said sleepily.

Shane thought about asking him to come anyway, once the playoffs were over and he was done for the summer, but he kept quiet. He couldn't ask now, they were too fragile. Maybe next year.

A nurse came in and interrupted them, giving Shane the perfect opportunity to slip out.

He would miss him, but he knew they would see each other again next year.

~~~

Then Scott Hunter kissed his boyfriend on national television.

Boston had gotten knocked out of the playoffs in the second round, which Shane was secretly grateful for since he didn't love playing with bruised ribs. He made the decision to spend the rest of the playoffs with his parents since he really did love watching the finals with his mom, who was convinced it was the Admirals' year.

She was right, obviously. She just hadn't predicted New York's Captain making out with a man on the ice, but really, who would?

Shane was reaching for his phone before he realized what he was doing. His group chat with Cliff and Connor was blowing up, but he ignored them, instead reaching for Ilya's contact.

"Shane-"

"Come to my cottage this summer," Shane breathed out. "Please come with me. We can have a week, maybe even two if you want, just please-"

"Shane, breathe," Ilya said softly.

He did.

"I will come. Give me a couple of days to plan, okay?"

"Okay."

"Shane?"

"Hmm?"

"I want to spend the summer with you, so yes, I will come to your cottage, and we can relax, yes?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. I will see you soon."

He hung up the phone, and Shane took stock of his body.

Scott Hunter had just changed everything, and somehow, he thought, maybe, just maybe, they could make this work.

Chapter End Notes

the real emotional devastation is coming with the next chapter, you don't even want to know the shit happening behind the scenes of this chapter. i'd apologize, but i'm not even a little sorry

update 07/18/2026: I had to change a little bit at the end of the chapter to prep for the last chapter, realized I fucked something up location-wise. nothing major, but if you notice something different, that's why

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

In which Ilya Rozanov feels like he has lost everything, but realizes that somehow, he might get everything he ever wanted.

Chapter Notes

hello children, I promise I am alive

i knew this was going to take a while, but life does like to make it harder for me to write right when I'm excited. I was actually planning to finish writing and also post this chapter on friday, but guess who didn't have power for two days? yeah, that was a lot, but anywhom, i'm back, this chapter is finished, and it is somehow more emotionally devastating than I was planning, so have fun!

also, I was not about to make yall read 500 words worth of google translated russian, so a lot of the italics are probably supposed to be in russian

oh, and before I forget: this is never something I thought I was going to have to say since i've been writing fanfic since I was in high school, but fuck ai. you'll never catch me using ai, and also don't feed my work into it. ai is the death of creativity, and i'd rather die than use it.

Ilya awoke to Rose already getting dressed.

"Oh, you're up!" She pulled her shirt on and sat down on the bed. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mm," he grunted, reaching for her.

She caught his hand, lifting it to her lips and kissing it lightly. "I'll take that as a yes," she laughed.

"Last night was good for you, yes?" he asked. He worried, sometimes, that he got too into his own head to please her, and that one day she would notice.

"I had fun," she said simply. "I know we're both going to be busy for a few days, but we should do dinner this week."

That sounded good. "Okay," he said softly.

She sat down on the bed next to him. "I have to get back to my hotel, but I'll text you." She leaned down to kiss him properly. "Have fun at practice."

He wouldn't, but she didn't need to know that. "Okay. Have fun on set," he returned.

"You're sweet," she teased, kissing him again. "I have to go, I can't be late."

"I know," Ilya said. "Go, I will see you at dinner."

~~~

Rose chose the restaurant where they'd met, reserving a lone table in the back corner where they wouldn't be bothered.

Ilya pulled out her chair for her, acting every bit the gentleman. She just laughed, teasing him all the while.

"You are literally the perfect boyfriend, how has no one scooped you up before?" she asked him, still giggling.

He ducked his head. "I don't know. Have been too busy, I think."

"Really?"

"Hockey takes up all my time," he said truthfully. "There was no one worth it to make time for."

Yes there was, he thought, swallowing around the lie.

Rose reached across the table to hold his hand. "Ilya, don't take this the wrong way, but you're too good at this to not have some practice. You're honestly telling me there hasn't been anyone? This whole time?"

"No," he lied.

She leaned back in her seat, and he couldn't help but feel like a bug under a magnifying glass the way she studied him.

"Ilya, I like you a lot, which is why I'm going to be honest with you and hope that you forgive me for it later, okay?"

He nodded.

"I think there was someone else before me, and I think you're still in love with them."

Ilya drew back like she'd slapped him.

"Maybe not in love, but at least have feelings for," she continued. "Like you're with me, but at the same time, you're not. It's like you want someone else to be here with you."

He took a deep breath and willed himself to not start crying. "It does not matter," he said. "It is over. I am with you."

"I know," she said softly. "But you'd rather be with someone else."

She was right, there was no denying it. He nodded slowly.

"This isn't working," she said, but there was no anger in it. No sadness or heartbreak, just pragmatic certainty. "I don't want to waste time on something that isn't going anywhere."

"I understand." He really did. He wasn't mad that she was choosing to break it off, it was his fault for not being able to get over his own arch-rival.

They continued eating in relative silence, but there was still an odd tension in the air.

"Is there something else?" Ilya asked finally, and he laughed a little when she groaned.

"Yes, but I can't figure out what it is," she pouted.

He thought about their relationship briefly, and could only land on one real issue, one that he was sure wasn't due to his lingering feelings.

The sex. It was technically fine, but that was all. It was barely passionate, just human bodies fulfilling a basic, primal purpose.

"Rose, I also need to be honest," Ilya started. "I think you do not like me."

"I like you!" she defended.

"No, is wrong. Is not about me, I think. Men in general, maybe."

"Are you suggesting I'm a lesbian?"

"I don't know, have you ever had sex with a woman?"

"No! Why would you even suggest that?"

"How do you know you do not like women if you do not try?" Ilya shrugged.

"How do you know you don't like men?" she bit back.

He raised his eyebrows, not dignifying her question with a response.

"You… like men?"

"I am bisexual," he confessed. "Is secret, but true."

"Wow, I can't believe I didn't know I'm usually great at figuring that shit out. I have had so many gay boyfriends, you don't even want to know how many times I've come out for them."

"And yet you have not tried women," Ilya replied dryly. "Shocking."

She threw her napkin at him. "Don't be an asshole."

"My job is to be an asshole," he pointed out. "I also do not lie. You do not like having sex with me. Is fine, yes, you get off, but you do not like it and you do not know why. Maybe you try something else, see if you like it."

"I wouldn't even know where to start," she protested.

He thought for a moment. "I may have a solution," he said slowly. "I have a friend who is coming here on vacation soon. She is beautiful, also likes women. I could introduce you."

"Ilya, I'm not going to take advantage of your friend."

"I am not saying you have to do anything. I will introduce you, that is all. Whatever happens after that is up to you."

She seemed to consider this. "Okay, fine, you can introduce me."

"Good, I will do this."

They finished their meal, and Ilya made a show of walking her to her car.

"I do not wish to stop seeing you, Rose Landry," Ilya told her as he hugged her goodbye. "You are good for my image, and you are a good friend."

"Then we keep seeing each other," she said. "Platonically of course."

"Of course," he said, kissing her cheek. "Goodnight, Miss Landry."

"Goodnight, Mr. Rozanov."

~~~

Svetlana Vetrova had been Ilya's best friend since practically before he could remember. They'd grown up together, both on the ice and off it. When she was not in Russia, she lived in Boston, honoring her father's legacy with the Bears by staying close to the city and the team.

Ilya knew it was not personal, but he missed her like a limb, so when she said she wanted to take a vacation in Montreal to come see him, he couldn't say yes fast enough.

She dropped her bags next to his front door, and endured him picking her up for a tight hug.

"I don't know why I ever visit you," she said, although he knew she was joking.

"You missed me," Ilya said simply.

"I suppose," she sighed. "Show me to my room."

He'd already made up the guest room since he refused to let her stay in a hotel so long as he had the space.

"I will give you time to unpack," he told her. "Then we will have dinner. Is it still okay if Rose Landry joins us?"

"Yes, your ex-girlfriend can come," she teased.

"She is my friend, just as you are, Sveta," he told her. "Be nice."

"I will be on my best behavior," she promised.

~~~

Rose was sitting next to him at the table, blushing furiously as Svetlana refilled her drink.

"Sveta, you are my guest, sit down," Ilya ordered.

"Then be a gentleman and tend to your other guest," she shot back. "Someone must take care of her, even if you won't."

"I can get my own drink," Rose squeaked, but they both ignored her.

"Sveta," he tried again.

"She and I both know you can be a gentleman when properly motivated," she said. "Is a shame someone broke your heart and now you have no manners."

"And you are properly motivated?" Rose asked before immediately turning an even deeper shade of red.

Ilya knew he needed to intervene. "You both hate me," he muttered. "I am so kind, I open up my home to you, and you are so mean to me."

"You know we love you, Ilyusha," Sveta cooed, pinching his cheek. "It is fun to make fun of you, it reminds me of home, of when we were children."

"Oh my god, what was Ilya like when he was a kid?" Rose latched onto a new topic of conversation like a leech, which he was grateful for, although he didn't appreciate the embarrassing stories Svetlana told her.

"He was adorable, and not unlike he is now. When we were teenagers, he had this ridiculous crush on our coach's son- Sasha says hello, by the way," she directed at Ilya, "but he wanted to do something sweet even though it was apparently 'just sex'," she rolled her eyes, "and somehow I ended up having to coax him down from a tree in the middle of the night."

Rose was laughing so hard, she was holding her stomach. "And how did Sasha react?"

"Ilya still will not say. My guess is not well, although they kept fooling around," she shrugged. "My Ilyusha loves deeply, even if relationships do not last. Is why your relationship did not last, because he is hung up on someone, yes?"

"Amongst other things, yes," Rose said.

He watched Svetlana take note of that and decide to come back to it later.

"This was a mistake to introduce you," he groaned.

"You need more people that care about you," Svetlana dismissed. "I am grateful to have Rose Landry by my side."

At that, Rose blushed again, and Ilya made up his mind.

"You are terrible. I am going to bed. Rose, feel free to stay. Sveta, ne trakhay yeyo na moyom divane, da?"

"Ya nichego ne obeshchayu," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. "Ya delayu to, chto khochu."

~~~

The next morning, Ilya found Rose sitting at his kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee.

He didn't say anything, just poured himself a mug and sat with her, comfortable in the early morning silence.

"How did you know?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.

"That I was bisexual? Or that you like girls?"

"The second one."

"I didn't," he said simply. "I guessed."

She groaned.

"Was I right?"

"You know you were."

Ilya laughed softly. "Yes, but I wanted you to say it."

"Fine, I like girls. Are you happy?"

"Are you?" Ilya countered.

"I don't know yet. Maybe," she said. "I think I am, but it's also weird, you know?"

He thought about the first time he hooked up with Sasha, all the way back in Russia when they were teenagers. How scared he felt, but also the curiosity. The wonder. How happy he felt once he knew.

"Yes, I know."

"Is it weird to say I think I really like her? I know we just met, but-"

"But sometimes you just know." Ilya knew the feeling well. "She will be good to you."

"We stayed up talked for hours," Rose sighed dreamily.

"And?"

"I didn't know sex could feel like that," she said, and then blushed. "Sorry."

He waved her off. "Is okay, you did not know you didn't like men. I'm happy I could help like this."

Rose nodded, seeming to accept this. Then- "She said she wants to keep me. Would it be completely insane to agree?"

He shrugged. "Is lesbian behavior, I think, but you will be good together."

She smacked his arm. "You're terrible."

He laughed, swatting back at her. "More coffee?" he asked, rising from his seat.

"Please."

He brought the pot over, as well as an extra mug since he thought he heard Svetlana stirring from down the hall.

"Good morning!" she chirped, kissing Rose on the cheek and accepting her mug from Ilya with a smile. "How is my zvozdochka today?"

"I am fantastic," Ilya said, making Rose laugh. "Definitely was not kept awake because of you two fucking."

"Ilya!" Rose chastised.

"I was not speaking to you, I do not care how you are," Sveta told him. "My zvozdochka is the most beautiful, you are homophobic for not wanting me to treat her well."

"Of course, how dare I?" Ilya rolled his eyes.

"Oh god, I just realized I'm going to have to make a statement about this," Rose sighed. "You too, Ilya, about the breakup, and I imagine we will both have to deal with the homophobia. I'm so sorry."

"Is okay. It will be bad, yes, but we will be okay," Ilya agreed. Then he paused. "Fuck."

"What?"

"I am going to ask something of you, it is selfish, but I will explain."

"Ilya, you're starting to scare me. What's wrong?" Rose set her mug down on the counter.

"Can we wait? Just until All-Stars. My coach, he thought you would be distracting. I had to… convince him you weren't. A breakup will make him think I am distracted again, that I cannot be trusted because I am too soft. If we wait to say anything until All-Stars, I have time to 'recover' before I am back in Montreal," he told them.

Svetlana let out a long string of curses.

"I'm sorry, forgive me if I'm misunderstanding, because frankly that's insane, but your coach thinks that women are a distraction for you? When half of your team is married with a mistress on the side?" Rose said, voice steadier - colder - than he'd ever heard it. "As far as I'm aware, I'm the only girlfriend you've had in your entire career."

"Before he came to Canada, we used to tease Ilya for being a bit of a slut," Sveta said. "We always wondered by he stopped when he came here. He never hooks up with anyone anymore, he barely even drinks, not even when he's in Russia in the off-season."

He blinked. Rose gave him a knowing look, but didn't say anything.

Sveta took a sip of coffee, studying him over the rim of her mug. "Ilya," she started. "I'm going to need you to tell me what your coach said to you your rookie season."

Against his better judgment, he did. He'd never told anyone what Theriault had threatened him with, not even Hayden after he found none of the others were given the same caliber of speech that he was. Yes, they'd been given warnings about behavior, that he didn't want to see anyone in the tabloids or doing anything unsavory, but his threats to them were bag skates, less ice time, maybe a suspension with multiple offenses, but nothing like what he'd been threatened with.

They hadn't been threatened with trades. With deportation.

Ilya knew it wasn't legal now, but at the time he hadn't known better. He'd bought into it, scared and in a country not his own, because if he ever wanted to get out of Russia for good, this was his option.

He also knew that Theriault turned a blind eye to most of the team's behavior. He'd apparently even stopped giving any version of the speech to rookies and trades a couple of years ago, not caring what they did as long as they performed well on the ice.

He explained the warnings he'd gotten when he tried pushing those boundaries exactly one time his rookie season, how he came to understand how real Theriault's threats were.

It was through no choice of his own that he life became hockey. He was only focused on performance, on the next game. Losses fell harder on him than it did the rest of the team, not just because he was captain, but because Theriault blamed him more than anyone else.

By the time he was finished, Svetlana was pacing the length of his kitchen, cursing under her breath.

"Holy fuck," Rose said quietly. "Why haven't you said anything to anyone?"

He shrugged.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Rose asked gently. "I promise it's important."

He nodded.

"When we were at dinner, the night we broke up, I said I thought you were still in love with someone. You're telling me you managed to spend enough time with someone to fall in love with them, all without Theriault knowing? How long were you keeping it a secret?"

Sveta paused her pacing to stare into his soul, clearly having figured something out. "It had to be a secret, yes? Because you could not be with a man like you could be with Rose."

He felt sick as he nodded again.

"Oh," Rose said softly. "Of course. Does anyone else know?"

"Hayden knows there is - was someone," he corrected himself. "Not that it was a man, but he has covered for me when I go to see him. But I cannot be out, not just because of Theiault, but because of Russia. I would not be able to go home."

"You hate Russia," Sveta pointed out. "Your father and your brother are terrible people. No one would blame you for not going back."

"But my mama is there, and is not like I do not care for Alexei's wife and daughter. Then I would need citizenship here if I want freedom," he said. "Is terrible, but is reality."

Svetlana grabbed the notepad he kept on his kitchen counter for grocery lists and uncapped a pen she seemed to produce out of thin air. "Okay, we need to make a plan," she said decisively. "First we need to get you out of Montreal, then the rest."

"Could you request a trade?" Rose asked. "You're worth a lot to that team, I bet they could get a lot for you."

"I want to have control over where I go," Ilya said. "I know I could make requests, but Montreal is under no obligation to honor them."

"Which they will not if they get a good enough deal," Sveta acknowledged. "So we wait until free agency. The season after this could be your last in Montreal if you can wait."

"I have to wait," Ilya said. "There is no other option."

"Okay, then we wait," Sveta agreed. "But then where will you go?"

"Where does the guy you're in love with live?" Rose asked. "We could get you closer to him, see if he gives you a second chance?"

"He won't, but he lives in Boston," Ilya said. "I do not want an American team."

"No good for Russians now, especially if you want to stay," Sveta agreed. "So, Canadian team. Eastern conference so you still go to Boston more than once a year to see your man because even if you say he won't, I say he will take you back, so that leaves Toronto or Ottawa."

"Ottawa," Ilya said immediately. "Toronto's coach is almost worse than Theriault if rumors are true. I will go to Ottawa."

"That could be interesting," Rose said thoughtfully. "Shane Hollander is from Ottawa. Historically they've been a terrible team, but I bet you'd come in and turn them around, become the hero in Shane Hollander's hometown. I bet he'll hate that."

Ilya's face must have done something to give him away, because Rose suddenly sat up straighter.

"Rose-"

"Oh my god, you fell in love with Shane Hollander."

Svetlana dropped her pen.

"Wait, holy shit, I'm right, aren't I?" She was practically vibrating out of her seat. "Your Boston Boy is Shane Hollander."

"His name in your phone…" Svetlana said slowly. "You mysterious Holly that you would text over the summer…"

"Shane fucking Hollander!" Rose nearly shouted. Then, quieter- "Ilya please say something, I'm worried you're going to pass out."

"I fell in love with Shane Hollander," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "Is true. Does also not matter, since we are nothing now."

"Fuck, you got dumped by Shane Hollander," Rose realized. "Ilya, I'm so sorry."

"Is fine."

"It's not," she insisted. "You got your heartbroken from a man you still have to see several times a year."

"Including at All-Stars next month," Svetlana pointed out. Ilya gave her a withering glare. "What? It is true. The East vs. West game is big news, especially when East has the two best top line centers in the league. Even if you make captain, I bet he will keep top line center, and you will play wing or second line."

"You are being mean," Ilya huffed.

"I am not!"

"You are, but that's not the point. You have to talk to him!" Rose insisted. "It's the perfect opportunity."

"I don't want to talk to him." He was pouting, he knew, but he didn't want to talk to Hollander, not after he had made it abundantly clear how he felt about him.

"You're so annoying, Jesus Christ," Sveta groaned. "Do you miss him?"

He didn't respond. She knew him well enough to understand.

"Ilyusha…"

"It does not matter!" he insisted, not for the first time. "He left, do you understand? I wanted to give him more than just sex, even if is not realistic for us, and he left me."

The kitchen was dead silent except for his own heavy breathing.

Rose was the one to break the silence. "You don't want to get hurt again," she acknowledged softly. "That's okay, reasonable even, but you are going to see him soon, and you have to figure out how to deal with it. I don't care what you do, you can put up all the walls you want, you can ignore him completely outside of when you have to for the sake of the game, but make a plan. And Ilya-"

"What?" he asked tiredly.

"If he wants to work things out with you, hear him out. You never know what might happen."

~~~

The weeks leading up to the All-Star game felt like some of the busiest of his life. Svetlana made him a list of things to do, breaking things into sections so it wouldn't overwhelm him.

Russia was the easiest part. He had already set up a trust fund for his niece, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his father passed, and after that he wanted to be rid of his brother. There was no paperwork to fill out to disown him, although that would be easy enough to sort by cutting him off financially. He considered reporting his behavior, if only he wasn't so concerned about his sister-in-law and his niece.

So, he made a phone call.

"Ilya?" Karolina answered after a few rings. "Can you not reach Alexei? He should be downstairs, I can get him for you."

"No, I am calling for you," Ilya said. "Can Alexei hear you?"

There was a rustling on the other end of the line. "No, I do not think so. What is this about, Ilya?"

"I need you to promise me he will not find out about what I'm about to tell you."

"Okay? Ilya, you are scaring me."

"Do not be scared. Everything will be okay," he reassured her. "My father is dying, and when it happens, I am cutting Alexei off."

She took a sharp breath.

"I know how he is, this will destroy him, and I don't want you or Eva to go down with him. I have a trust for her that she can access when she turns 18, and I want to make sure you are taken care of as well in case you leave him."

"Ilya…"

"I know, I know. He will make it difficult for you. I will pay for a lawyer to make it easier, but you don't deserve how he treats you. He wastes all of his money on drugs and gambling and other women rather than being a faithful husband and a good father. Will you please consider it?"

There was a beat of silence where he was afraid she'd hung up on him. "I will consider it," she said. "Thank you, Ilya. You are a good man."

He wasn't, but he appreciated her saying so. "Goodbye, Karolina. Call when you can."

The call ended, and he took a deep, shuttering breath as he checked that off his list.

There wasn't much else he could do on the Russia section of his list until the next time he was in Russia, so he was forced to move on to a different part of the list.

He'd gotten the email confirming his All-Star captaincy the day prior, and after staring at his computer screen for an unknown amount of time, willing the information to change, he gave up and called Sveta, who told him to accept it and get it together.

There were days where he barely felt like he was a good captain to Montreal, so the prospect of being a captain to a team where he barely knew the other players was terrifying. Hollander would have been a better choice, but he'd been chosen as his Alternate, so he'd have to hold it together through the weekend.

~~~

By the time he stepped off the plane in Tampa Bay, Ilya's walls were already up. He was here to play hockey, not ruin his own life by having feelings for Shane Hollander.

Rose's statement hadn't gone up yet, but he knew it was drafted and ready to go, most likely later that day. He had one drafted as well, although his was much shorter, stating that they'd broken up but he held no ill will towards her, and that they would remain friends.

Hers was also bit longer because she'd made the decision to come out at the same time, and was requesting privacy for herself and her partner, something Sveta was insistent on so she could return to Russia without risk, at least for now.

It made him feel more at ease knowing it was taken care of, so that he could just be Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Legend this weekend.

He made it to his hotel room so he could shower, change, and unpack before he went down to the hotel bar to show face around his team.

Included in which, of course, was Shane Hollander.

Maybe it shouldn't have surprised him that he seemed to be drawn to him like a magnet, his eyes finding him immediately, instinctively in the crowded bar. He was sat alone at the bar, a drink in his hand, and Ilya made up his mind to go over to him and greet him as a teammate, nothing more.

He hadn't expected Hollander to match him blow for blow as he tried and failed to be an asshole. He also didn't expect Hollander to hit all the right buttons to break down his defenses.

"Your girlfriend let you walk out of the house like that, Rozanov?" he asked, motioning to Ilya's admittedly very ugly shirt.

Ilya winced, and immediately hoped that Shane didn't notice. There was no point in lying, everyone would know soon anyway.

"I would have to have a girlfriend to care what she thinks," Ilya said. No one else was around, but Shane was the only one who needed to know just now.

Any response he had planned was interrupted by Carter Vaughn making his own very loud appearance, giving Ilya an easy out once he walked away.

Still, seeing Shane again softened something in him.

"I missed you, Hollander," he whispered, leaning in so no one could hear what he said. "We are okay, yes?"

Shane nodded, barely perceptible. "We're okay," he whispered back.

He made his rounds around the room, talking to each of his players like a good captain should, bolstering their mood going into the weekend's competition, all the while he felt himself crumbling at the seams.

~~~

Ilya went early to practice in the morning. He wanted to talk to their coach before the rest of the team showed up to talk strategy before the game the next day. He'd been thinking about it since he'd received the email, and knew that Hollander deserved the top line center spot more than he did, but Ilya didn't want to play on the second line. He wanted to play as Hollander's wing, because he knew they would work beautifully together.

He also knew that Hollander would have opinions about it, and was not surprised when Hollander pulled him aside as soon as he finished giving his captain speech before practice. Classic Hollander, not wanting to challenge someone openly, even when he would have every right to do so.

It took time to reassure him that Ilya wanted this, that it was better for them, that they would be magical on the ice together, but he did it nonetheless. Practice was the most fun it had been in years, running drills alongside Hollander.

From an outside perspective, it was like they weren't even rivals. The Western conference team didn't stand a chance.

~~~

It was arguably some of the best hockey Ilya had ever played.

Not that his hockey was ever bad, but when he played against Hollander, he always felt like he played his best. He hadn't expected playing with him to make him even better.

He'd given Hollander an assist without even thinking about it because it was so natural, like he could feel where he was on the ice without having to look. Shane's goal was flawless, a top shelf goal that West's goalie had no chance of stopping.

What he hadn't expected was for Shane to celebrate by giving him a kiss on the side of the helmet, the way he had done with Marlow or Connors in Boston. He could feel himself smiling so wide it threatened to split his face.

Gospodi, he wanted to kiss him.

There's been an after party that he found himself leaving earlier than he wanted to, but everything was just too much. The weekend had been better than he'd expected, between their conversations and the competition and every little moment in between. He'd particularly savor the moment when he got out of the pool after playing with the children of the players who'd come along and taunted Hollander, who just looked at him openly, without shame, and Ilya realized he would never not need Shane Hollander.

He was ruined.

He sat on the beach, watching the sun set below the horizon, just breathing. He had to get it together. He'd be leaving for Columbus in the morning, and then he'd be far, far away from Shane Hollander, at least until they were in Boston in two weeks.

He listened as a new set of footsteps made their way towards him.

"Found you," Shane Hollander proclaimed to no one but him and the open water.

"You were looking for me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Ilya just looked at him. Why, Shane Hollander, would you come crawling back to me? he wondered.

"I don't know what happened between you and Rose Landry, but for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry," Shane said, changing the topic.

He could almost laugh. "No need for sorry. She is a good friend, she is not going anywhere. We were just not…"

"Compatible?" Shane filled in.

"Maybe. What does this mean?"

"Like, you don't fit together that way."

This time Ilya did laugh. "Yes, this is it. We were not compatible. But she will be in Montreal for a bit, and she is good for me I think."

"It's good to have friends," Shane agreed.

They weren't saying anything, was the problem, not that they really could while they were technically still in public, but Ilya realized he didn't want to say anything, not because he didn't love him, but because he was terrified of what he might say if given the opportunity.

"You should go back to hotel," Ilya tried to push him away. "You probably have early flight."

"If you want, you can walk back with me. I'm sure you have an early flight too," Shane pushed back.

"Yes, to Columbus," Ilya said. "Maybe I want to spend the night looking at something beautiful before I have to go to such a horrible place."

His mouth and his heart had apparently run away without his brain, given that he couldn't stop looking at Shane. No sunset could compare to him, and Ilya knew he would do anything he asked.

Which, obviously, because God hates Ilya Rozanov, Shane asked.

"What room are you in?"

~~~

Ilya forced them to walk separately. It wasn't out of any sense of plausible deniability, what it might look like if they walked back together, but it was about self preservation.

He needed a few moments to himself, to build up his walls so he couldn't get hurt again. He'd been doing a terrible job of keeping them up all weekend, so this was his last chance to save his heart from Shane Hollander.

He started strong, letting Hollander into the room with barely a word and not sitting next to him on the bed. Instead he stared impassibly at him, letting Shane come to him.

"We need to talk," Hollander said.

"There is nothing to talk about."

"You and I both know that's not true," Shane insisted, and Ilya sighed.

"Fine. Say what you want and I will listen."

There was a pause, like Shane needed a moment before he spoke.

"First of all, I wanted to apologize. I was an asshole to you, and you didn't deserve that."

At least that was true, Ilya could agree.

"It's just… it was different last time, right? I wasn't imagining that?"

He could feel himself giving in, so he covered his face like that would make this any easier. "What does it matter? You ran away."

"I know, and I will spend the rest of my life apologizing for that if I have to," Shane said. "I freaked out, and I know that doesn't excuse my behavior, but I really am sorry."

Ilya wanted to believe him.

"There is no reason to freak out, Hollander, we are nothing."

He didn't even believe himself.

"Bullshit!" Shane snapped. "You and I both know that's bullshit."

"Is not," Ilya said. "We get together, we fuck, is simple. Convenient, as you say." Maybe referencing that conversation from years ago in Vegas was a low blow, but it found its mark neatly as Shane visibly recoiled at the reminder.

"Don't be an asshole, I'm trying to say something here."

"Then say it."

"I'm gay," Shane said like it was a confession. Ilya had to stifle a laugh. "I've been trying to figure some things out, and all I know at this point is that I'm gay, and I want you in my life. I understand if you don't want that, but I think I really like you, Rozanov."

"You don't like me," Ilya protested.

"I do," he insisted. "I like you more than I ever planned to."

He felt his resolve crumbling. Why did Hollander make him feel like this?

He gave up on not being close to him, finally going to sit next to him on the bed.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it's important to me that you know," Shane told him. "I can't be completely honest about this with anyone else. Being gay is one thing, but this," he motioned between them, "this is another thing. No one would understand."

"Is why we are secret, and can never be more."

"Would you want to be?" Shane asked. "If we could?"

Yes. "It does not matter. We can't."

"But would you?"

"Don't fucking do this, Hollander, I'm not-" I'm not worth it, he almost said. "I would not be able to go back to Russia if we were something. Do you understand? I could not go home."

"Right, because of Russia."

"My father is police, and my brother. I don't know what they would do to me, and I do not wish to find out."

"What about your mother?"

Ilya wanted to cry. "Dead."

"Oh."

"I go back for her. To visit her grave. To bring her flowers. There is nothing else for me there."

"Nothing?" Shane asked.

Not really nothing, but too little to stay. "My niece is there, and her mother, my brother's wife. They are good people, but no, nothing else."

"I'm so sorry, Ilya."

Ilya closed his eyes. "I wish there was more I could do. My father is not well, so I take care of him when I go back and hope he remembers that I am his son."

Hollander's face screwed up in confusion, so Ilya showed him mercy by explaining. "He has dementia. Has gotten worse recently, I think. He tries to hide it, but it does not work. I try to help from here. I send money, pay my brother to help, but-"

The tears started falling, and there wasn't anything he could do to stop them. He turned away, not wanting Shane to look at him. This was a side of him no one was supposed to see, especially not Shane. He felt weak, childish even.

What he didn't expect was for a weight to settle on his lap. For Shane to cup his face in his hands and wipe away the tears. He felt lips press against his forehead, and he only cried harder.

God he loved him. All Ilya wanted was to hold him and be held in return. It wasn't about sex, it had stopped being about sex a long time ago if Ilya was being honest with himself.

He let Shane rock them back and forth, not comprehending his soft murmurings, instead just letting himself float.

Eventually he pulled back, looking Shane in the face as he did so.

This was something he was allowed to have, he realized. He didn't need to be afraid anymore.

Kissing him felt familiar and brand new all at the same time. It felt, terrifyingly, like coming home.

~~~

Two weeks later, they were playing in Boston. The Voyageurs arrived at their hotel only a few hours before they needed to be at the arena, but it was like Shane knew exactly when Ilya had a free moment, because as soon as he sat down, his phone buzzed.

From Holly: Are you busy?

To Holly: No, we are at the hotel

From Holly: Come over?

Ilya groaned and went to grab a sweater out of his suitcase.

To Holly: We don't have time, the game is tonight.

From Holly: Please? Just an hour?

He slipped on his shoes.

To Holly: This is a terrible idea.

From Holly: That's not a no. Come over.

He bid Hayden goodbye and walked out the door.

To Holly: Fine.

~~~

Ilya's phone had been buzzing with calls from his brother all day. He had been ignoring them since the plane touched down, at the hotel, in Shane's apartment, even in the locker room where he finally shut off his phone all together. He needed to focus on the game.

Montreal won, with Ilya having scored a hat trick that not even Theriault could find an issue with.

Nothing could ruin his mood.

He turned his phone back on, and within minutes, it rang again.

Alexei.

"Chto?" he snapped into the receiver.

~~~

Twenty-four hours later found him in Moscow with Svetlana by his side. She'd been the first phone call he'd made after Alexei told him their father was dead.

He told her she didn't have to come, but she insisted, because someone should be there for him.

In truth, he was grateful he wasn't going alone. He was prepared to cut off his whole family, to never return to Russia after this was all said and done, so to have someone by his side was a relief.

Since the moment the plane had touched down, he'd been working. There was paperwork to do, trust funds to safe guard, his father's will and testament to settle. There would be a funeral, a burial, and a lunch the next day where he would tell his brother they were no longer family.

It would be a few days until everything took affect. It would be enough time to get his affairs in order, to say goodbye to his home. To his mama.

He was so focused on what needed to be done that his phone had sat ignored all day. He remembered it when he finally took a break.

It was late at night, or early in the morning depending on how you wanted to look at it. His body was still operating like he was in Montreal, so he hadn't slept properly. It must have been nighttime there, because he finally felt the need to go to sleep, even with the sun threatening to rise in Moscow.

He checked his phone, expecting messages from his team and his coach, maybe even Rose, but he was most shocked to see a text and a missed call from Shane.

From Holly: Are you okay?

Ilya thought about just texting him back, but more than anything he wanted to hear Shane's voice, so he called him back.

"Are you okay?" Shane asked without saying hello.

"No, but I am home."

"Montreal?" Shane asked.

"No, Moscow."

There was a beat of silence where Shane must have been figuring out what to say. "Can I FaceTime you?" he ended up asking.

"Okay," Ilya said.

The call came through, and he answered immediately, taking in Shane's dark bedroom.

"You wear glasses," Shane said, like it was the most important thing he could think of in the moment.

Ilya had forgotten he was wearing them. He'd gotten them a couple years prior, a consequence of one too many concussions probably, but no one else knew he wore glasses.

"Oh, yes." He took them off. "Sorry, there has been paperwork to fill out, I forgot I was wearing them."

"Put them back on, I like them," Shane said. "You look handsome."

"I do not, I'm a mess. Today has been terrible." It could have been worse. He'd started on enough of the paperwork that it wasn't overwhelming, but grief is a tricky thing, even when you hate your father.

"Is it-?"

"Yes, my father is dead," Ilya confirmed.

"I'm so sorry," Shane said, sounding honest.

He didn't want to think about it. "What is everyone saying?" he asked to distract himself.

"Nothing. Your team hasn't released a statement or anything, so no one knows what's going on."

"Good, I will be back by end of the week, and then people will know."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I was prepared for this," Ilya told him. "I was trying to… get away even before this, but now, I do not know. My brother is going to be an asshole at funeral tomorrow, I know it, and I do not want it. I wish I was with you, I think, or anywhere but here."

"What can I do to make it easier?" Shane asked.

"This is good. Is nice, seeing you like this, in bed. Makes me remember going to sleep with you."

"Yeah? Is that all?"

"Maybe. Is possible I would remember more if you took off your clothes."

"Ilya…"

"Please?"

He needed this. He needed to see him, to remember what it was like to be able to lavish his body with attention, to make them both feel good. With Shane, he had purpose. He had value, even if it was just for sex. That could be enough to replace love.

On the other side of his phone, Shane took off his shirt. His body looked softer in the shadow of his lamp, and Ilya could almost feel him underneath him.

Ilya took off his glasses so he wouldn't knock them off when he took off his own shirt, smirking when Hollander was obviously breathing harder.

"Can you put your glasses back on please?" Shane asked.

"Is this a thing for you, Hollander? You like me in glasses?" Ilya teased. It was adorable to see the man get flustered.

"I like you in everything," Shane said, and oh, now Ilya was blushing. "I've just never seen this side of you before."

"The boring side you mean," Ilya said. "Is why you like it probably, since you are so boring."

"Oh really? I'm boring? Maybe I'll just put my clothes back on and go to bed then."

Ilya knew he was whining, but he realized he didn't care. All he wanted was Shane, in any way he could get him.

~~~

The funeral was exactly as depressing as he expected it to be. It was a quiet affair, with Alexei, his wife, and his niece, alongside him, Svetlana, and his stepmother, Polina, who'd actually made the effort to show her face.

They all knew she just wanted their father for his money and reputation, which she used to establish herself in society and wouldn't associate with any of them anymore, but it certainly would have seemed odd to her socialite friends if she didn't attend her husband's funeral.

There were also a few close friends of his father in attendance, not that Ilya knew their names. They all looked the same to him.

Their meal was eaten in silence, not the silence of grief, but of a family who didn't know anything about each other.

Finally, when Ilya couldn't stand the silence anymore, he rose and stepped into the next room, knowing his brother would follow. There was no door, only a beaded curtain that rustled behind Alexei as he walked through.

"You are avoiding me," Alexei confronted him.

"I have been busy," Ilya returned. The truth, not that his brother knew anything. Ilya was the responsible one, making sure arrangements were made while Alexei drowned his sorrows in cocaine.

"I don't care. You need to tell me the plan."

The plan, oh, Ilya could laugh. "You want to know the plan? Fine, let I will tell you the plan. Now that he is dead, I am not needed. You will never hear from me again."

Alexei slammed him into the wall, and Ilya grinned. It was sharp, feral even. This was the man he knew, violent, terrible, just like his father.

"But the money-"

"You will get no more from me," Ilya told him. "You will get what father left you, and I will leave you my apartment once I have left in three days, as a mercy. You can sell it, fuck your mistress in it, I do not care."

"We are brothers, Ilya."

"No, we are not. Not anymore. You will get no more money from me, you will not hear from me, and if you try to contact me ever again, I swear on our mother's grave that I will ruin your fucking life, do you understand?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ilya, you cannot-"

Just then, the curtain opened again, and Svetlana entered the room, regarding his brother coldly.

"Be quiet. you do not want to upset your family," Sveta said casually, like she was making an observation instead of warning Alexei.

"Great, now the lesbukha is involved. Perfect for a pidoras like you who abandons his family, probably to go give everything to someone in America who will just use you, because no one wants you, just your money and your fame."

"Like you?" Ilya sneered. "I pay for your whole life, your drugs, your whores, your wife, your daughter. You are scared because you are nothing without me."

"So you admit you are abandoning me. Abandoning them too?"

Ilya did laugh now. "I am not so cruel. Your daughter will be taken care of, and your wife is a grown woman who can take care of herself. It is you who is weak. And because of that you will not fight. You will walk away. You will never have to deal with me again. Do you understand?"

Alexei's mouth tightened like he was sucking on a lemon, clearly wanting to argue, but thinking the better of it before rejoining the wake.

He breathed in the moment, panic and relief and adrenaline settling in his bones, making him dizzy. Sveta was his saving grace, reaching out to steady him, to straighten his shirt where Alexei had ruined it.

"I never deserved you," he whispered.

"No, but you have me. Just like you have your Holly," she said, conspiratorially.

"I love you."

"I love you too. You know I will be here, whatever you need."

He nodded, and she left, allowing him a moment to pull himself together. All he had to do was survive the afternoon, and he would never see his brother again.

~~~

He spent the rest of the day packing up what little he had left in his apartment. He only lived in Moscow over the summer, so most of his life was in Montreal, but there were some things he kept around from his childhood that needed to be packed up and shipped to Canada.

It was mostly small things, like photos and letters from his mama, trophies from the hockey games of his youth, even some lingering articles of clothing that he kept in the apartment just in case, so it was no challenge, and by nightfall, it was done.

There was only one last thing to do.

~~~

To Holly: Are you alone?

From Holly: Yeah.

To Holly: Can I call you?

Shane picked up on the third ring. "How are you?"

"Okay. Not good. Probably bad," Ilya answered. "My family is at their worst, which means I think I am too. My brother is scared, I think. Does not know what to do, so he takes it out on me, and I fight back."

"That must be upsetting," Shane said.

"Yes," Ilya sighed. "But I think maybe I am upset about the wrong thing."

"What do you mean?"

"My father is dead, yes? But I am upset that he did not know me, or I did not know him. I don't know, English is too hard right now, I don't know what to say."

"I wish I spoke Russian," Shane said.

"I think you could learn, be fluent immediately," Ilya joked. "No accent, perfect. Bonjour."

"That's French, Ilya," Shane laughed, the sound coming softly over the phone, but it made Ilya smile.

"I know."

"Where are you?" Shane asked.

Ilya looked down at his mother's grave. "I am out walking," he said. "Needed to get out of the house."

"Do you want to talk to me in Russian?" Shane asked. "I won't understand you, but it might help if you want to get whatever you're feeling out in the open."

"Okay," Ilya said. He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and began.

"I only came to Russia because I needed to. I needed to take care of my father, I needed to deal with my brother, I needed to say goodbye to my mama. After tomorrow, I will never set foot in my home country again because there is nothing left for me here. It has taken everything from me. My father and my brother took my money like it was theirs, always saying 'more, Ilya, more, more, more,' like it was all that mattered. I guess it was, to them. I sent what I needed to, to keep my father alive, to keep my brother taking care of him. I hated that I couldn't do it myself, but I am also grateful that I did not have to. He did not know me, he never will, and I do not know how I feel about that. He did not love me, and I do not know if I loved him. He certainly did not love my mother."

He took a shuttering breath, and continued.

"He is buried with his parents, like he wanted. The tomb is perfect, I made sure. I am grateful he is not near my mother. He never would have been, given how she died, but I am grateful anyway because I can visit her without seeing him. She was the last person who loved me, I think. The last good thing I have here, although I suppose there is Svetlana. I love her, and she loves me, but even she has others now, and I am alone. I came here because-" he shook his head, even though Shane couldn't see "-I came here to say goodbye. Because I will never see her again, although I carry her everywhere. Once I leave, I will never come back. Russia is not safe for me anymore, especially since-"

He choked on a sob.

"Especially since I am in love with you, and I can't love you and stay here. I worry sometimes that you will find out, and that you will hate me because of it, and then I really would lose everything. You, Montreal, Russia, and then where would I go? To prison? I cannot say I wish I had not fallen in love with you, because you are the best thing that ever happened to me. My heart was won from the first time we met, and I should have known you would ruin me, but I love you anyway." He wiped the tears from his face, and smiled ruefully down at his mother's headstone. "I think she would have loved you. I wanted you to meet her, but..." he trailed off. "It does not matter now, I suppose."

He let the silence settle around him for a moment. "Okay, I am done."

"Do you feel better?" Shane asked.

"Yes, I think so." He realized he wasn't lying. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by teaching me Russian someday," Shane told him.

"Yes, but only useful phrases."

"Like what?"

"Like 'yes sir, please, more'."

"Fuck you," Shane snapped at him, but Ilya knew he was smiling.

"You mean 'fuck me'," he corrected.

"What about, 'I wish you were here right now'?" Shane asked.

"I wish you were here too," Ilya responded in Russian, just to be annoying.

Shane was almost certainly telling him off, but Ilya wasn't listening.

Instead, he knelt down over his mother's headstone. "Goodbye, mama. I will see you when that day comes," he whispered, so only she could hear. It would be the last time he would see her, for what would hopefully be a long, long time.

~~~

He was back in Canada a few days later, and the whole room was treating him like broken glass.

They all learned their lesson after one particularly harsh round of bag skates, although he didn't mind that Theriault seemed to tone down his vitriol with him in light of current events.

Maybe that was just because Theriault's favorite child, Comeau, had been injured while Ilya was gone.

He tried hard not to be excited, but in light of the injury, it meant that when they played against Boston the very next week, his line was back to J.J. and Hayden.

Hockey was fun again when he was playing with people he liked, who he knew he clicked with.

Hockey was even more fun when he was on the ice with Shane Hollander.

It didn't matter if they were playing with or against each other, it was just plain fun.

He knew they had plans after the game. Ilya was going to cook him dinner and then fuck him into the mattress. Maybe they'd act like a normal couple again.

All he had to do was play a hockey game.

He knelt for the first face off, aware of Pike on his left and Boiziau on his right. His eyes flicked up to meet Hollander's across the circle, grinning when he realized Shane was looking back.

The puck dropped, and Ilya won the face off, passing quickly to J.J as he took off across the ice. The puck was passed back to him in the neutral zone, and he glanced behind him to see how close Hollander was.

Later, when he would regain consciousness and would be allowed to use his phone again, he would watch the footage of Cliff Marlow colliding with him. It was a perfectly legal hit, Ilya just hadn't seen him coming. It wasn't anyone's fault, not really.

But there, in the middle of the ice at Bell Centre, Ilya's body hit the ice, and everything went dark.

~~~

He was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious.

Maybe he was dead, and this was the afterlife: dark and muted, with very little awareness.

In truth, Ilya would be okay with being dead. He'd already lost so much, his mama, his father, his home. He barely even liked hockey some days, Montreal had taken all the joy out of it.

He still had Shane, but sometimes he felt like he was living on borrowed time as one of his American teammates had once said. Like Shane would realize he wasn't worth it, would walk away to find a more respectable man, a man without all the baggage Ilya came with. He had never once deserved Shane Hollander, so maybe it was better if he died before he lost him too.

Plus, if he died, he could see his mama again. He'd only just said goodbye to her grave, but it was nice that he didn't have to wait.

He heard her voice, in his strange, between consciousnesses state. It was the only clear thing he could hear.

"Ilyusha. Wake up."

~~~

He woke up as they were rolling him off the ice on a stretcher. He was cold, colder than he should be probably, and everything hurt.

He heard someone yelling after him, "Please!," they shouted, as Ilya's vision went black again.

So maybe he wasn't dead yet.

~~~

The next time he awoke, he was in a hospital bed. A nurse came in a couple of minutes later to tell him what had happened.

Bad hit on the ice. Broken collar bone. Concussion.

The break was clean, which meant no surgery. He'd probably be healed in a month or two if everything went to plan.

The nurse promised to write everything down, and to inform his emergency contact when she arrived.

He was on a pretty heavy dose of pain medication, which he knew because he couldn't really feel anything, despite everything the nurse told him about himself.

It made him feel loopy, disconnected from his body. Sometimes he didn't know if he was awake or asleep.

He thought he was dreaming when Shane walked through the door. He quickly realized that he was real.

"Shane! You are here!"

"I wanted to check on you before I left," Shane said, still standing a good distance away.

Ilya held out his hand, wanting Shane to come closer. "I am okay, Hollander, I promise."

"You're not," Shane argued, but he came closer, which was exactly what Ilya wanted.

Ilya tried to shrug before he remembered his arm was in a sling. "Is just broken collar bone and concussion. Will be fine by next season."

"Marlow really is sorry. He didn't mean to hurt you."

"Is okay. Is part of game, I did not see him coming."

Ilya melted a little when Shane ran his thumb across his face.

"Do you have someone to take care of you?" he asked.

"I can take care of myself," Ilya lied.

"Yeah, but it's easier with someone to help."

"Maybe I will ask someone. I have friends who might help," Ilya admitted. He knew the hospital had called Sveta in Boston, that she would call Rose, and they'd both come and see him once Sveta had landed. He imagined they would probably even insist on staying with him for a bit, even if he said he didn't need the help.

"Good, thank you." Shane was staring at him, biting his lip like he wanted to say more.

Ilya certainly wanted to say more. He wanted Shane to stay with him, and he told him as much.

"You know I would if I could," Shane told him. His hand migrated from his cheek to his hair, where he brushed a runaway piece off of Ilya's forehead. "I have this cottage in the middle of nowhere in Quebec. We could go there. It would be quiet, just the two of us and the lake."

"Sounds nice," Ilya said sleepily. He didn't want to fall asleep with Shane there. He wanted to keep him, to spend time with him. Their night had already been ruined, and Ilya wanted to make it up to him.

He never got the chance to even try before his nurse returned. He vaguely remembered her making some joke about Shane smothering him with a pillow, and Shane glaring at him like he was begging him not to make a joke about smothering him with his perfect thighs and ass.

He knew better, knew they had to be careful, so instead he said goodbye, and slowly slipped back into sleep once the nurse was done taking his vitals.

~~~

Montreal didn't make it into the playoffs without him. That wasn't really a surprise. He was their best player, the heart of the team, of course they didn't play well without him.

It was a surprise when Boston was knocked out of the playoffs in the second round by the New York Admirals of all teams.

He was watching the final game of the series with Rose and Sveta by his side. He didn't pay any attention to them, instead focusing on how Shane was playing hurt.

"Do you think his ribs are broken?" he asked Sveta, who was at least sort of watching while she cuddled with her girlfriend.

"Bruised," she answered decisively. "Shane Hollander is not so stupid to play with broken ribs in the playoffs."

"It's sweet that you're worried about him," Rose said. "Have you talked to him recently?"

Once he'd been allowed to use his phone, he'd texted Shane, thanking him for coming to the hospital.

Shane had texted back, saying that it was no trouble, and then apologized that Ilya might not hear from him during their playoff run.

They'd both been through this before, although they hadn't talked about it. Playoffs were a different kind of busy, one where focus couldn't be broken. No distractions, no hookups, nothing.

That night, after the girls had gone to bed, Ilya texted Shane.

To Holly: How are your ribs?

From Holly: How do you think?

To Holly: They hurt, but not as bad as the loss?

From Holly: Exactly. How's your head?

To Holly: Better. I'm sorry about the loss, you should have gone all the way again.

From Holly: Scott Hunter has been on fire though. Now that it's over, I think maybe he deserves this.

To Holly: Old Man Hunter deserves nothing. Will be nice for him though if he wins the Cup. He will be the octogenarian to win Cup. The league will be celebrated for diversity.

From Holly: Where the fuck did you learn the word octogenarian?

To Holly: The New Yorker.

From Holly: You read the New Yorker?

To Holly: No. The New Yorker is boring.

From Holly: You like boring.

Ilya smiled. He loved boring.

~~~

The Stanley Cup Final came down to New York vs. San Francisco. They'd gone all the way to game seven, which meant the game was in New York, and Scott Hunter's chances were looking better than Ilya wanted to admit.

He was once again camped out on his couch with Sveta and Rose, who were both as into the game as he was for a change.

Nearing the end of the third period, New York was up by two, and not even the announcers could jinx it when they said Scott Hunter had finally done what he came to do.

Ilya was about to text Shane when the unthinkable happened. The impossible happened.

Scott Hunter brought a man out onto the ice and kissed him.

His living room was dead silent with shock.

Then his phone rang.

He stepped out of the room for privacy before he answered.

"Shane-"

"Come to my cottage this summer," he heard Shane say breathlessly. "Please come with me. We can have a week, maybe even two if you want, just please-"

"Shane, breathe," he ordered.

There was a sharp inhale on the other side of the phone, which made Ilya breathe too.

"I will come. Give me a couple of days to plan, okay?"

"Okay."

"Shane?"

"Hmm?"

"I want to spend the summer with you, so yes, I will come to your cottage, and we can relax, yes?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. I will see you soon."

Ilya hung up the phone, and immediately started making a list of things he needed to do. He had responsibilities in the off-season. He was invited to the NHL awards, not as a nominee this year, but to announce an award, which meant he would need to be in Las Vegas for a short period.

Scott Hunter would be there, he realized. He would need to speak to Scott Hunter.

Then he didn't want to go straight from there to the cottage. He would need to go home first, pack a bag, and then he could go. He would need to tell Sveta that they would have to wait on their plans, which mostly involved finding him a new agent and talking to an immigration lawyer.

What an exciting summer he had been planning to have.

Now though, now he could spend time with Shane. Now, he could have the best summer of his life. Now, Shane wanted him around.

Maybe, just maybe, they'd be able to be something real, all thanks to Scott Hunter.

Chapter End Notes

okay, i forgot there is some russian in this chapter, so here's your cheat sheet, and please forgive the google translate

ne trakhay yeyo na moyom divane, da? - Don't fuck her on my couch, okay?
Ya nichego ne obeshchayu - I make no promises
Ya delayu to, chto khochu - I do what I want
zvozdochka - star
Chto - What
lesbukha - lesbian (slur)
pidoras - faggot

guess who's going to the cottage!!!

update 07/18/2026: same as last chapter, I had to change a little bit at the end of the chapter to prep for the last chapter, realized I fucked something up location-wise. nothing major, but if you notice something different, that's why

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

The Cottage

Chapter Notes

OH MY GOD. IT'S THE FINAL CHAPTER.

i would like to preface this by saying that I cried Several times during the writing of this chapter, so do with that what you will. it is somehow both the raunchiest and the sweetest thing I've ever written. i don't know

also, this is a dual pov. rather than splitting up the chapters the way I have been, I decided it was best to go back and forth since they're together the whole time. I'm very happy with how it turned out

as I type this note, it is roughly 2:30am, and i need to go to bed because I have to fucking work in like seven hours, but I've been working really hard these last few days to finish this fic because I got hit with a fuckload of inspiration and I knew I could if I just sat down and did it, so here we are

thank you everyone for coming on this journey with me. I've been writing fic for the better part of a decade and this one still managed to surprise me. can't wait to see what's next

Shane had done everything possible to get the cottage ready.

He'd driven up a few days before Ilya would be there to make sure the place was clean and nothing had malfunctioned in his absence.

So, the hot water heater was on, the refrigerator was stocked with groceries, and yeah, maybe he'd bought extra bottles of lube to stash around the house, but he wanted to be prepared.

There were plenty of clean sheets and towels too. Like he said, he was prepared.

He knew he was overthinking this. That Ilya wouldn't care if there was a speck of dust on the mantle, or if one of the chairs at the dining room table was slightly out of place.

They were going to relax together for at least two weeks. They were going to be domestic, and Shane wasn't going to freak out about the fact that this was boyfriend behavior because they weren't boyfriends.

They were… something. Fuck buddies felt too impersonal, and friends with benefits didn't feel right either. There wasn't really a name for it, Shane was frustrated to realize. There was no neat little box that he could fit their situation into.

For years, it had been Hollander and Rozanov. This week, they would just be Shane and Ilya.

Shane checked around the house one last time to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. He wasn't, obviously, he'd been meticulous in his planning, but it never hurt to double check. Finally, he grabbed his car keys, and walked out the door to go get Ilya.

~~~

A car pulled into Ilya's driveway, and Ilya had to suddenly pretend that he wasn't waiting at the door like a dog waits for their owner.

Today was the day that Shane would pick him up to go to the cottage. Ilya had insisted he could drive himself, but Shane insisted right back that it would be easier to come and get him since the cottage was in the backwoods of Lanaundière, and he didn't want Ilya to get lost.

So Ilya had acquiesced, and a couple days after he returned from Las Vegas, here was Shane, showing up in his driveway.

His suitcase had been packed since the night before, something he rarely did, even when he would pack for Russia. He'd even woken up early and double checked his packing list, not wanting to be embarrassed if he left something behind.

Then he'd set the suitcase by the door and tried to busy himself with other tasks.

So far, he'd cleaned out his fridge, swept and mopped the floors, cleaned the bathroom, and make his bed with fresh sheets so he wouldn't have to do that when he came back. Now, he was sitting on the couch, which was conveniently in full view of his driveway, and he was considering breaking out the ladder so he could dust the light fixtures on the ceiling when Shane pulled up.

He was opening the door before Shane could even get out of the car.

"You're here," he said, ridiculously. He couldn't think of anything else he could say that wasn't embarrassing though, so it was fine. Shane was here, at his house, looking handsome as always in his button up shirt and sunglasses.

Ilya felt like maybe he was going to pass out.

"I said I would be," Shane laughed. "Need help with your bags?"

"No, you should get back in the car. Your ribs still hurt, yes?"

"Barely," Shane grumbled, but allowed Ilya to prod him back towards the vehicle.

He tossed his bag in the back before climbing into the passenger seat.

Ilya looked out the front window back towards his house as Shane started backing out of the driveway. It all seemed so surreal.

Here he was, in the passenger seat of Shane Hollander's car, on his way to his remote cottage where they would get to spend real time with each other. It wasn't just about the sex for once, it was about something more.

Before he could start overthinking saying yes, thinking about the possibility that maybe Shane wouldn't really like him when they got to spend an extended amount of time around him, he tried to make conversation.

"Is this a Jeep?" he asked, looking around the car.

Shane scoffed. "It's not a Jeep. It's British, good in the snow. I keep it in my parents' garage for when I come back home."

Ilya hummed, and watched the trees alongside the road pass them by.

"It's not too long of a drive. Shouldn't be longer than an hour unless we hit traffic," Shane rambled on, like he was trying to fill the silence. "Let me know if you need to stop for anything though. I already picked up groceries for us, so that's not something we should have to worry about. We'll just be able to… relax."

"Is that what we are going to do? Relax?" Ilya teased.

"I mean, I think so. I hope so. We'll finally have longer than just a few hours-"

"Thank you for inviting me," Ilya interrupted, saving Shane from himself.

"I'm glad you're here," Shane said, and oh, the butterflies in Ilya's chest erupted.

"I think I was… scared, maybe," Ilya confessed. "But I am glad I'm here too."

Shane glanced over at him before refocusing on the road. "We don't have to be scared here. The cottage is super private, my only neighbors are my parents who won't be at their cottage until later this month, so we'll be completely alone."

"There is no risk of them stopping by?"

"I told them I needed a silent retreat with no one else around so I can recenter myself after this past season, so even if they do decide to come early, they wouldn't come see me."

Ilya couldn't help but laugh.

"What? Why is that funny?" Shane asked.

"I think maybe you are the only person that could say that and have people believe you," Ilya told him, and he couldn't help but plant a kiss on the only part of Shane that he could reach, which happened to be his hand.

He ended up holding onto his hand for the rest of the drive, just because he could.

~~~

When they pulled up to the cottage, Shane snuck a look at Ilya, taking in his reaction. He knew his cottage didn't fit the definition of what most people considered to be a cottage, but he'd had it built to his specifications, and he loved the place more than anywhere else in the world. It was important to him that Ilya loved it too.

He put the car in park and got out to grab Ilya's bags. Predictably, he protested, arguing about Shane's ribs, which really were mostly healed. It's not like he'd been the one of the two of them to break his collarbone.

"You're my guest, let me," he insisted, shouldering the bag so he could reach for his keys. He dropped the bag by the door, watching as Ilya made his way further into the space.

"I knew you were Mr. Real Estate, but this is… wow." He was staring out at the lake that was visible from the back window.

"I had this built," Shane corrected, stepping into the dining room with him. "I wanted a place of my own near my parents that I could come in the off-season. I can give you a tour if you'd like, or maybe make us some lunch? Whatever you want. Like I said, I got groceries, I even made sure that I had Coke for you to drink, although the water here is good too. I have a well on the property. But whatever you want, we can start there."

"Whatever I want?" Ilya asked as he approached Shane with the energy of a predator.

Shane didn't move, letting Ilya invade his space. "Mhmm."

When Ilya ran a hand along his cheek, he resisted the urge to shiver, and when Ilya finally kissed him, the static in his brain finally went away.

It was slow, deep, possessive, he realized when Ilya grabbed his chin.

He backed them towards the couch, cursing his decision to design his living room like a conversation pit as he almost tripped down the stairs. He turned them around so Ilya landed on the couch first with Shane on top of him.

Shane knew he was acting needy, but he didn't care, not when Ilya had one hand shoved up his shirt and the other was working at the button of his pants.

If he was honest, the sex was secondary to everything else. He was reveling in the way that he got to be this close to Ilya. Anyways, if they were going to have sex, he wasn't going to last.

He told Ilya as such.

"Neither will I, I don't care. We have two weeks, we will have other chances," Ilya shrugged.

"I know, but I want it to be good for you. Not just rushed hand jobs on the couch, you know?"

Ilya groaned, but he took his hand out of Shane's pants. "You know it is all good for me, yes? Everything is good with you."

Shane bit back a smile. "Yeah?"

"Yes, now can you get off me before I decide to jerk you off again?"

This time, Shane let out a laugh. "Okay, but one more thing before I do."

"Fine, what is it?"

"I want to do more like what you just said. The whole time we're here, I want us to be honest with each other. Say what we really think, and maybe how we really feel, you know?"

"Okay," Ilya said softly. "I will try."

"Good, thank you," Shane said, finally getting off of him.

He reached out his hand to pull Ilya up off the couch, intent on giving him a tour of the rest of the house.

"So there's two guest bedrooms downstairs," Shane stared to explain.

"I will need one with a king-size bed," Ilya jumped in.

"They all have king-size beds."

"And a view. Lots of natural light."

"They all have that too."

"And a, what is it called? An en-suite bathroom?"

"Well there are three bathrooms in the whole house, including one very close to the guest bedrooms, but only one en-suite, and unfortunately, that room is mine." He lead Ilya by the hand into his room. "I'm sorry sir, we'd love to accommodate you, but unfortunately it's just not possible. I hope you can understand-"

Ilya shoved him down onto the bed and crawled on top of him.

"Sir, I'm just a bellboy, you can't treat the staff like this!"

"I think I know how the staff likes to be treated after all these years," Ilya growled.

He had Shane pinned to the bed, and he let out a sigh of relief as he melted into the mattress. Ilya finally kissed him, first on the mouth before he shifted to his neck, and Shane almost let himself be overwhelmed by it before he realized that he hadn't lowered the shades on the windows.

"Wait, wait, wait," he breathed, nudging Ilya off of him. He grabbed the remote for the shades off of his bedside table and hit the button, listening for the gear that lowered them.

Ilya just stared at him from where he was sat on the edge of the bed. Then he grabbed the remote from Shane and found the reverse button. He pushed Shane against the open window as sunlight spilled back into the room.

"You are so beautiful like this," Ilya whispered, and Shane wanted to say the same back. Something about the sun seemed to make him so much brighter, but suddenly Ilya was kissing down his neck again, dragging his teeth along the sensitive spot behind his ear, and Shane lost every thought in his head as he dropped to his knees and pulled Ilya out of his pants.

~~~

After Shane had sucked him off, Ilya made Shane come on just his fingers. It was like he said, they had two weeks. They would have other chances later.

Shane had insisted on showering first. He was more sensitive to the cum drying on his skin than Ilya was, so he didn't mind. He even took a short nap, which he hadn't been planning on, but he knew now that wanted to be woken up by Shane kisses every single day for the rest of his life.

Once he had showered and changed, he wandered out onto the patio where Shane had placed himself in front of the grill and was now making dinner.

Ilya couldn't resist wrapping himself around Shane and kissing his shoulder as he watched him cook.

"Do we need eight burgers?"

Shane shrugged as best he could with Ilya there. "The recipe was for eight."

"You could have cut it in half," Ilya pointed out. "Are you bad at math?"

"You know I'm not, I just didn't think about it," Shane admitted. "It'll be fine."

They would certainly have leftovers. Despite both of them managing to eat two, there was only so much even hockey players could eat.

"Normally I'd take the rest to my parents," Shane said, giving up midway through his second burger. "But they're not here, and if they were, that would totally ruin the whole silent retreat thing."

"Is nice that you are so close to them," Ilya remarked.

"I mean, I've always been close with my parents. They're good people."

Ilya didn't let his pang of jealousy show. "Would you tell me about them? I know their names, Yuna and David. I saw your mom once, she looks like you, so I assume you get your boring from your dad, but I want to know what you think about them."

Shane grinned, and Ilya's chest hurt with it. "They're great. I mean, my mom is kind of a lot, she's always been involved in my career, but I don't mind it. She's better with people than I am so it works out. She and my dad were both huge hockey fans when I was growing up, so they pushed me into it I guess. My dad even played in college, he went to McGill."

"Ah, not so boring then."

"I don't know, he grew up a Centaurs fan, so definitely still a little boring, but he was born and raised in Ottawa, so my mom let's it slide."

Ilya hid his smile at the possibility he would play for Shane's dad's favorite team.

"Your mom is still a Montreal fan, yes?" he teased.

"Fuck off, I can't believe you remember that," Shane said. "She probably is, but she wouldn't talk to me about it if she was. It's home team loyalty more than anything I think, but she was irritated when I got drafted to Boston because that meant I wouldn't go to Montreal."

"They sound like good people," Ilya told him. "Do they know?"

"About you?" Shane's face screwed up in confusion.

"No, about you," Ilya pushed.

"No, they don't."

"Would they not be good about it?"

"I don't know. I think they would be, but it's not something we've ever talked about, so I just haven't. Maybe I would have, if things were different, but no, they don't know."

"Oh, so this is my fault."

"No, but if I tell them about me, I want to tell them about you too," Shane said, like it wouldn't destroy him. "You're an important part of this, but I don't think they would react well, and that's scarier than coming out to them, because I want them to like you as much as I do."

Ilya blinked tears out of his eyes and took a deep breath. "Shane-"

"Are you finished?" Shane gestured at his plate.

Ilya nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Shane cleared away both of their plates, leaving Ilya spiraling at the table.

~~~

As the sun set, Shane gathered what they needed to make a bonfire in the firepit he'd had installed in the backyard. There was plenty of wood, so while Ilya watched, he built up a decent sized pile of logs and got a fire going.

"We just sit here and look at it?" Ilya asked as Shane dropped down into the seat next to him.

"Yeah, that's kind of the point."

Ilya raised an eyebrow at him.

"Whatever, it's supposed to be relaxing. It's a thing people do in the summer." Shane settled into his seat, leaning into Ilya's side, who despite his skepticism, wrapped an arm around Shane and pulled him closer.

It didn't last long before Ilya's phone buzzed, and he leaned back to check it. He smiled softly at the message before putting his phone back in his pocket.

"Sorry, it was just Rose."

"Rose Landry?"

"Yes. She wanted to check in, make sure I have not been murdered at strange cabin in the middle of the woods," Ilya joked, but Shane didn't laugh. "What? You are jealous?"

"No," Shane defended. "I'm not jealous."

"Shane, she is a lesbian."

"She still fucked you," Shane grumbled.

"She did not know she liked girls, she hated my dick enough to make her realize. I seem to remember you having an opposite reaction to me fucking you, which is why I'm sitting here in front of this boring fire. She is just a good friend, helped take care of me when I was hurt and makes sure I do not die at the hands of a Canadian she does not know."

A loon called out from somewhere across the lake, and Ilya flinched.

"Unless you are planning to murder me, what the fuck was that?" Ilya exclaimed.

Shane laughed. "A loon?"

"A what?"

"A loon. It's a bird."

"It sounded like a wolf, like it could kill us. Should we go inside?"

"It's just a bird! It's maybe the size of a duck, they're not a big deal. Why are you so scared?"

"Am not scared, but I do not like this stupid Canadian wolf bird."

Just to be an asshole, Shane cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a bird call of his own, echoing the loon.

Ilya glared at him. "You speak bird now?"

"Boston's best kept secret isn't our defensive strategy, it's my fluency in bird," Shane joked.

"You're annoying."

"You like it," Shane teased. "Come on, I'll protect you from the scary bird."

Ilya accepted Shane's affection easily, which he tried not to look too thrilled about. Soon enough, he was lying down with his head in Shane's lap, with Shane running his fingers through his hair. He was breathing so evenly, Shane wondered if he'd fallen asleep before Ilya shifted to give Shane a better angle on his head.

"Can I ask you a question I don't think you'll like?"

Ilya hummed.

"Have you talked to your brother lately?"

Ilya let out a huff. "No."

"Really? Not even after-"

"My brother knows better than to speak to me," Ilya said. "We have an understanding."

Shane was reminded of how terrible Ilya's family was. "I'm sorry. I just thought since he's your only living family that maybe… but I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I know they were all terrible to you."

"My mother was not," Ilya corrected. "My mother was great. She was was smart and funny and beautiful."

"Just like you," Shane said, and Ilya caught one of his hands so he could bring it to his mouth and kiss it.

"She was also very sad, and I think I am like her in that way too, sometimes," he said quietly. "Not exactly, I do not plan to kill myself, but I understand why she did I think."

All of the air felt like it had been sucked out of his lungs. "She committed suicide?"

"My father said it was an accident, like you can accidentally swallow a whole bottle of pills," Ilya scoffed. "But he was not the one who found her. I did."

"How old were you?" He felt sick just asking.

"Twelve."

He sat in horror for a moment before Ilya spoke again. "I don't want you to think she was weak. She wasn't, she was so strong. She dealt with my father for as long as she could, but even the strongest people break when the world is terrible enough to them. Like it was to her. I do not blame her, I blame him. I love her very much."

Another loon called out, and broke the moment as Ilya swore, and then laughed. His smile was everything to Shane, who couldn't help but smile and laugh with him.

"Do you want to go inside?" he asked.

"No," Ilya said. "Not yet."

~~~

Waking up with Shane Hollander was Ilya's new favorite thing to do. He woke with the sunrise, having not closed the window shades the night before, and the early morning sun made him look golden in Ilya's arms.

Shane made a discontented noise, like the change in Ilya's breathing from sleeping to awake had disturbed him.

"Good morning," he said, burying his face in Ilya's chest.

"Go back to sleep," Ilya said, curling around him. God he liked him so much.

And when they finally did get up, Ilya barely left his side, wrapping around Shane as he made them breakfast, hooking their ankles together under the table, and now pressed side by side on the couch as they played video games.

Shane had pulled out a copy of NHL 14 that had Ilya's photo on a cover, a fact that delighted Ilya knowing that he had it.

"You are so obsessed with me that you bought the version of the game with my face on it," Ilya said, grinning uncontrollably.

"I don't have any photos of you," Shane defended, and Ilya needed to kiss him for it.

"No, is sweet. Are you ready to lose?"

"What?" Shane squawked. "No, absolutely not."

It only devolved from there.

"You can't pick Boston!" Shane insisted.

"Who says I can't?" Ilya argued. "Everyone thought I was supposed to play for Boston, now I can."

"Fine, then I pick Montreal." Shane said, pressing buttons on his own controller.

"Good choice," Ilya praised.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Shane told him.

"I am you," Ilya shot back, already starting to pay attention to the game.

Shane didn't let him get very far. Instead, he swatted the controller out of Ilya's hands, pausing the game.

"What the fuck? You are cheating now? You have two Stanley cups and must cheat at video games?"

"Stop talking shit and play then," Shane taunted, unpausing the game from his own controller to start the game.

Ilya couldn't let that stand. He knocked Shane's controller out of his hands and pinned him to the couch.

"Hey!"

"You wanted to play dirty," Ilya said. "Two can play at that game, yes?"

"You bastard, let me up!" Shane struggled against his grasp.

"I don't think is what you want," Ilya said, nodded down at the now obvious bulge in Shane's shorts. "You want to play a different kind of dirty, hmm?"

There was a flush high on Shane's cheeks that gave him away. "Fuck."

"Okay. I will go get lube, you stay right there," he told him, kissing him once before getting up.

"No, no, wait."

"What?"

"There's a bottle of lube in the coffee table," Shane admitted. "You don't have to go to the bedroom."

"Naughty boy," Ilya teased, opening up the drawer to find the aforementioned bottle and a few condoms. "Where else did you put things hoping I would fuck you there?"

He dragged Shane's shorts down and tossed them over the back of the couch. With his other hand, he warmed up the lube he had squirted on his fingers before he opened him up.

Shane was making sweet, needy little noises as he added a second finger, then a third.

"How do you want me, lyubimyy?" Ilya asked. "Do you want me to fuck you here, just like this?"

"I want-" Shane panted when Ilya withdrew his fingers. "Fuck!"

He rolled them over so he was straddling Ilya. He rolled the condom on without looking and guided Ilya's dick to his hole before sinking down.

Both of them stilled for a moment, adjusting. Ilya rested his hands on Shane's hips and willed for him to move.

When he did finally start moving, he rolled his hips slowly, like he was savoring it. He supposed they could do that now, but Ilya was so turned on that it hurt, and all he wanted to do was trust up into him as hard as he could from his position.

Shane did get faster, holding on to the back of the couch for leverage, and Ilya realized he could stay here for hours and not be tired of it.

They probably would have if not for the fact that his phone rang.

Ilya knew he had to answer it. He'd set his phone so only certain people would be able to contact him for the foreseeable future. The list was small, only Rose, Svetlana, and Hayden, because he knew they only called about important things.

His phone was on the cushion next to him, and he could see the caller ID. It was Hayden.

"Shane. Shane!" Ilya said urgently. "We have to stop. I have to answer the phone."

He slowed to a stop, but still stayed sitting on Ilya's cock. "What?"

"It's Hayden, I have to answer. His wife just had a baby."

Shane rolled his eyes, but started to get off of him as Ilya answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Oh my god, Rozy, I'm so sorry for not calling sooner dude. I mean, what a summer."

"Hayden, is okay, Jackie just had a baby, you do not need to call when you are busy."

Shane had paused where he was getting off of Ilya's lap just then. Ilya gave him a look, trying to get him moving again since his tip was still buried in Shane's ass, but there was something in his face that made him stop. He tried to focus on the sound of Hayden's voice.

"I know, I know, I can't even believe it. Four kids is such a handful, but I love them so much."

"How is the littlest one? Amber, yes?"

"Oh, dude, she's amazing. You'd think newborns get less cute the more you see them, but I think she's the cutest one. Did you see the pictures I sent?"

"Yes, I saw. She is adorable," Ilya admitted, moving his hips in an attempt to finally dislodge Shane. "And how is your wife? I know Jackie's last pregnancy was hard, and I wanted to make sure she is okay?"

Just then, he realized what Shane's plan was, because suddenly the man was dropping back down onto his still hard cock like he wasn't on the phone with one of his best friends.

He cursed silently. "Hold on, Hayden, Sveta is calling. I will tell her I will call her back."

He muted the call. "What are you doing?" he asked breathlessly.

Shane grinned. "Is it not obvious?"

"I cannot fuck you while I'm talking to Hayden."

"Who said anything about fucking?" Shane asked. "I want you inside of me, and I can keep you warm until you're finished."

"Shane."

"I promise I won't move," he said. "Talk to Hayden, you can fuck me after."

Ilya narrowed his eyes at him. "Fine."

He unmuted the call. "Sorry, you know Sveta. She worries."

"Like you're not the same way. I swear you two were like twins separated at birth or something with how similar you are. Speaking of, Jackie is fine. There was a rough spot near the end, but since we got knocked out of the playoffs, I was there to help, and we've had family coming in to lend a hand. You remember Mark?"

"Her middle brother?"

Shane tucked his face into Ilya's neck and wrapped his arms around him. His breath against his neck caused Ilya to shiver.

"Her middle sister's husband, sure, so close enough. He's got our freezer stocked with enough food to last us through the winter I think."

"Ah, the one responsible for last Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, him."

"He seems like a good man, taking care of his family."

Shane shifted, likely under the guise of getting more comfortable, but Ilya had to stifle a groan.

"It's been good, having everyone around. But enough about me, how's your summer? Have you been feeling okay?"

In all honestly, Ilya felt a little light headed since all of his blood seemed to rush south when Shane rolled his hips once, just to tease.

"Fine. No more headaches. Everything is good. Quiet for a change since I was able to get out of Montreal."

"Fuck you, dude, some of us have families and can't fuck off to the middle of nowhere to go on vacation."

Shane rolled his hips again, and Ilya couldn't stop himself from letting out a small gasp.

"Everything okay over there?" Hayden asked.

"Yes, fine, just ran into a side table I forgot was there," he lied.

"Right, you're at some cabin right? I always run into furniture in rentals, it's like they know exactly how to make you stub your toe."

He couldn't breathe. Shane wouldn't stop fucking moving and he couldn't breathe. It wasn't enough to make either of them cum, just drive them crazy. Shane had given up on being quiet himself, letting out soft, content moans at he fucked himself slowly on Ilya's cock. He needed him to stop. He wanted more.

He needed to get Hayden to shut the fuck up.

"Maybe you can send me the link to the place if you like it? I owe Jackie a vacation away from the kids once Amber is old enough to be left with her grandparents," Hayden was saying.

"Yes, maybe," Ilya choked out. "I think I have to go, there is a strange noise coming from somewhere. Might be someone breaking in, like a strange man from the forest."

"Oh shit, dude, yeah go check that out. Text me later to let me know you're alive and haven't been killed by Bigfoot's cousin or something."

"Yes okay. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and let it fall to the floor as Shane started rolling his hips faster and faster. "Fuck, Shane."

"Yeah? You want this? You want me to take what I want while you just sit there?"

Ilya whined. It was pitiful, he knew, but Shane seemed to get the message.

"You're so sweet for me, so good. I bet you want to roll me over and fuck me, right? Come on, you can do it. Fuck me."

He found the strength in him to lift Shane off his cock, turn him around, and bend him over so Shane had to brace himself on the coffee table while Ilya fucked into him hard and fast.

Now it was Shane's turn to lose his words, moaning with every thrust.

"This is what you wanted, yes? You needed my cock so bad that you'd let me fuck you while someone listened? You're lucky Pike cannot think for himself and would not know to listen for the sound of you going stupid on my cock," Ilya growled.

"Fuck, Ilya, I need to cum. I'm gonna-" he cut himself off with a load groan.

Ilya fucked him harder, nailing his prostate with every trust. "Do it. Cum for me, milyy."

When Shane came, he dragged Ilya over the edge with him. He shuddered through his release, and once he stopped shaking so hard, he pulled Shane back into him, so they were half laying on the couch.

For a moment, they just breathed together, taking it all in. Then Shane started giggling.

"What?" Ilya laughed with him.

"Fuck, I don't know. That was so hot. I didn't think it would be, but fuck that was so hot."

"You are trouble," Ilya told him, and Shane just grinned.

"You like trouble," Shane retorted.

"I like you," Ilya corrected. "Even when you're trouble."

Shane grinned. "Come on, let's get cleaned up. I think the game is a lost cause now."

~~~

"You built an ice rink for your summer house."

Ilya didn't say it like it was a question because it wasn't one. They were standing right in front of Shane's synthetic ice rink, Ilya could see that was exactly what he'd done.

"Sure, why not?" Shane asked.

"You are obsessed with hockey," Ilya informed him.

"What's the point of doing something if you don't like doing it?" Shane asked.

The rink was one of his requirements when he had the house built. He knew himself well enough to know he would miss hockey in the off-season, and would at least want to have the option to play by himself, or with anyone else that might come out to visit. Only his dad had come over to shoot pucks with him a few times, but he still had a few extra pairs of skates and sticks in various sizes lying around just in case.

"I also like hockey, but I do not have a rink in my house," Ilya pointed out.

"So I take it you don't want to play?" Shane asked, already reaching for his own skates.

"Ugh, Hollander, you are so boring. Yes, I will play with you."

The synthetic ice never felt quite the same as a standard rink, but it was close enough. The puck slid back and forth between them easily, so instead of focusing on their play, they were talking.

"Do you ever think about what's next for you with hockey?" Shane asked.

Ilya shrugged. "Sometimes. I'm a free agent next season, so I've been thinking about that."

"Are you thinking about not re-signing with Montreal?"

"Maybe. Probably."

"Where would you go? Not an American team."

Ilya made a face, and Shane laughed. "No, not an American team. Do not worry, you will still be safe from me in Boston. Somewhere else Canadian. Will be easier to apply for citizenship so that I do not always have Russian passport."

Citizenship. The word hit like a gong in Shane's head. Ilya wanted to apply for Canadian citizenship.

That could change everything for them.

The thought was wiped from Shane's head in an instant as Ilya shot a beautiful goal over Shane's left shoulder. He fished the puck from the goal, and reset himself to get revenge.

~~~

One of Ilya's favorite things about getting to spend extended amounts of time with Shane wasn't the sex, it was the downtime. There was something that thrilled him about moments like this where they got to sit with each other in complete silence, both of them scrolling on their phones.

A photo came across his Instagram of Sveta and Rose, since Rose had hard launched their relationship shortly after they had come back from Russia. It seemed as though Sveta was on the same page that he was, that they were never going back to that place ever again.

It was easier for her, with her dual citizenship. She hadn't hesitated when Rose asked her to stay.

He wasn't jealous, not really. He was happy for her, she deserved someone like Rose. He just wished it was so easy for him. That he had citizenship to fall back on that would not be so quick to kill him if Shane asked him to stay.

"Your ex-girlfriend looks happy," Shane said suddenly.

Ilya stifled a laugh. "Oh, you follow Rose on social media?"

"No. Yes. Mind your own business," Shane said, kicking him lightly.

"So you did not internet stalk her while we were dating?" Ilya asked.

"Shut up," Shane groaned, a light flush appearing on his face even in the lamplight of the living room. "You know her girlfriend?"

"I set them up," Ilya told him. "Svetlana is my oldest friend, I knew she would treat Rose well. Was a little upsetting for me since I cannot marry her for American citizenship anymore, but she is happy, so I am happy."

Shane blinked owlishly. "What?"

"Sveta has dual citizenship, we discussed getting married once so I would not have Russian passport, but I was drafted to a Canadian team, and Canadian citizenship would be better for me anyway, so I decided I would stay here. Now she has pretty American girlfriend, and does not need me. Now I apply for citizenship without marriage, is probably better anyway."

"You certainly wouldn't have to lie," Shane observed, and Ilya noticed he had a dark look on his face, like he was angry. "You should get married because you love someone."

Ilya shrugged. "I would have done it for the passport. Is practical, but yes, I would prefer to marry someone for the right reasons. Maybe I will someday." He wrapped a hand around Shane's ankle, grounding both of them. "Not yet, and not for passport, okay?"

"Okay," Shane echoed.

"For now, I apply for citizenship and plan to move to Ottawa. Much more boring, yes?"

"Ottawa?" Shane asked, like suddenly nothing else mattered. "You're planning to move to Ottawa?"

"Maybe, yes," Ilya confirmed. "Ottawa is nice, yes?" It was a callback to one of their very first conversations at the draft. Now, he'd been in every city where there was a hockey team. He knew Ottawa was boring, he knew their team was terrible, but Shane was from there. He knew Ottawa better than maybe anyone.

"It's my favorite place in the whole world," Shane told him.

"Plus I've heard there is this one slow fucking hockey player from there, I don't know if you know him," Ilya teased. "He has beautiful freckles and a weak backhand."

"Hey!" Shane protested.

"Very weak, you understand. He is boring and drives a boring car-"

"A very normal, very safe car."

"I think of him all the time, and maybe, if I live where he is from, he might think of me too," Ilya said like it was a confession.

Shane was looking at him with open adoration, and Ilya felt like he was choking on it.

"You should move to Ottawa," Shane said. "You don't need to marry anyone yet. Just move to Ottawa, and we'll figure it out."

~~~

Ilya wanted to move to Ottawa. Ilya wanted to apply for Canadian citizenship and move to Ottawa.

The thought had been bouncing back and forth in Shane's head for hours, preventing him from sleeping. He eventually gave up on sleep entirely, sitting with his back against the headboard, staring at Ilya's sleeping frame.

There were complications, obviously. They were still division rivals. Ottawa was further from Boston than Montreal was. It would be hard to make something real work, but Shane was determined to find something that would work in their favor.

"You are thinking too loud," Ilya murmured sleepily. "Why are you awake?"

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Shane asked.

"No, but something is wrong, yes? You cannot sleep."

"I don't know. I don't think so. I'm just thinking."

He leaned over Shane and turned on the lamp on his bedside table. "Tell me."

Shane sighed. "It's stupid."

"Is keeping you awake, is not stupid," Ilya corrected.

"I'm thinking about you being in Ottawa," Shane admitted. "I get that, it's a good plan and I don't want to change it, but I'll still be in Boston. We'll be even further apart than we already are. If we want to take this seriously, if we want to see each other more, we'll have to figure something out."

"Okay, so what are you thinking?"

"My contract is up a few years after yours. If you're not in Montreal anymore, they should have the cap space for me-"

"No," Ilya said, immediately sitting up, visibly more awake. "You cannot move to Montreal."

"What? Why not?"

"You think I want to leave Montreal for fun?" Ilya asked. "That I would not stay if I didn't think it was killing me? Promise me you will not go to Montreal. Please," he begged.

Shane frowned, but didn't push. "Fine, I won't go to Montreal, I promise." He reached for a new plan. "What if-" It was a terrible plan. It was paper thin at best.

"What if?" Ilya prompted.

"I'm from Ottawa. My parents still live there. It wouldn't be that weird for us to 'make peace' if you moved there," he said. "We're getting older anyways, the rivalry is tired. Let younger players have their moment, and we can find something else to do. I go home to visit my parents on breaks and long weekends sometimes. We say we got to know each other better, became friends, maybe start a charity or something. Something we both care about, obviously, so it's not complete bullshit."

"Hollander, this is so much. Is the middle of the night." Ilya rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"I know, but we should think about this. I want to find a way to spend more time with you, maybe even in public and have it not be so crazy. We tell the media we've always respected each other, and that mutual respect led to us discussing mutual interests that we could base the charity around."

"Mutual interests like sucking each other's dicks?" Ilya asked, and Shane smacked his shoulder.

"Shut up. You know it's a good idea. Then after we retire, after you're a Canadian citizen, we can come out, and it won't shock people the way it would now."

"You'd want to be together then? You think that far ahead?" The look on Ilya's face was indescribable.

"I would. I do," Shane said. "For you, of course."

Ilya looked away then, and Shane realized he was crying. He cupped Ilya's face in one hand and turned him so he could see him clearly. He swiped his thumb under his eye, wiping the tears away as Ilya leaned up to kiss him.

He pushed Shane back into his pillow as he leaned over top of him, planting kissed everywhere he could reach. Kisses were landing on his chest, his shoulder, his neck, his mouth, and he realized that Ilya was saying something after each and every one.

"Ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu."

He didn't know what it meant until Ilya pulled back to look at Shane, tears falling freely now. Ilya rested their foreheads together and took a shuddering breath.

"I love you," he said, and Shane's heart skipped a beat.

"Holy shit."

"I mean-" Ilya looked scared, and Shane hated that he made him feel like that.

"I love you too," he said, and Ilya collapsed onto his chest. "Oh my god, I love you so much. It's been killing me how much I love you. Does it kill you too?"

"No," Ilya said. "It's been keeping me alive."

They held each other like that through the night, with Shane finally falling asleep with Ilya's weight on top of him.

~~~

There was a carton of cigarettes in the front pocket of his suitcase. Ilya hadn't meant to bring them, knowing Shane wouldn't want him to smoke, but he'd brought them to Vegas and had never unpacked them.

Now, sitting on the dock watching the sunrise, Ilya was grateful that he'd forgotten. It had been a long night, and the nicotine was comforting.

It didn't shock him that Shane came out to look for him. He hadn't been able to sleep after his late night confession, but he did he best not to move for as long as he could so Shane would sleep. He knew it was only a matter of time once he got up that Shane would be up too.

Shane didn't say anything about the cigarette. He just handed him a cup of coffee, draped a blanket over his shoulders, and sat with him for a while.

Once the cigarette had burned down to the filter, and their mugs were empty, Shane kissed him on the cheek and rose to his feet, holding his hand out for Ilya to take.

"Come on baby," he said softly. "Let's go back to bed."

Ilya followed him, he would always follow him. Shane guided him back to their bed, pulling Ilya down on top of him as he fell onto the mattress.

"I want you to fuck me," he said. "I want you to fuck me like you love me."

"I do love you," Ilya said, reaching for the lube on the bedside table.

He opened him up slowly, gently, savoring Shane's quiet moans. Once he was satisfied that Shane was open enough, he reached for the bedside table again to pull out a condom, but Shane caught his wrist.

"What if-" he bit his lip, like he might stop himself. "What if we didn't use one?"

Ilya was surely losing his grip on the English language. "What?"

"I mean, I'm clean, so if you're clean, we don't really need to use a condom, do we? I want to feel you."

Ilya was going to pass out. Actually, he might have already done that, and now he was in the middle of a really nice dream.

"Fuck, Shane." He dropped the condom and kissed him deeply. "I'm clean. Can I please fuck you?"

"Fuck me," Shane begged.

Ilya pressed inside, and he had to breathe deeply as he bottomed out. Everything felt hotter, more sensitive, more perfect than Shane already was.

"You're not real," Shane sighed. "Sometimes I think I made you up, but here you are. You're real. You're mine."

"I'm yours," Ilya agreed.

"How did we get here?"

"Because we were very stupid, very irresponsible children once in Saskatchewan," Ilya said. "And you introduced yourself to me, and I fell in love."

"And we fell in love," Shane corrected. "Will you fuck me?"

As stupid as it sounded, Ilya finally understood what it meant to make love. It wasn't fast, they had nowhere to be. All they had was each other, and that was all that mattered.

He rocked into Shane slowly, hitting deep inside him the way he knew Shane liked. He let himself get lost in it as Shane pulled his hair and guided his head wherever he wanted it. He sucked on Shane's thumb, then his nipple. When Shane pulled him up for a kiss, he sucked on his tongue too.

His mind went blissfully blank as they came together.

They both laid there in silence for a while, basking in the moment before Shane finally spoke.

"Can I ask what your mother's name was?"

Ilya looked over at him. "Irina," he answered. "Why?"

"I was thinking about the charity thing. Maybe we start a hockey school, or a summer camp. We could give the money away to mental health organizations, maybe specifically focused on depression and suicide prevention. We don't have to, it was just an idea."

Ilya smiled softly. He loved him so much. "She would have loved you," he told him. "Like I love you."

"Say it in Russian please?"

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya said slowly, over pronouncing every word so Shane would understand.

He listened to Shane repeat it back, slowly, clumsily, and he wanted to hear him say it every single day for the rest of his life.

~~~

Shane watched from the dock as Ilya floated in the lake. It had been a slow morning, a perfect morning really, and he was content to watch the man he loved as he splashed around.

Ilya swam up to him and tugged on his ankle. "How do you like the water?"

"You're in it," Shane pointed out.

"Yes, but I want to know how you like it," Ilya said. "You spend time on this lake, you must have opinions. Best time to swim, best place to do yoga…"

Shortly after the place was finished, ESPN had asked to film a spot about something important in his life, and Shane had chosen the cottage. He had definitely done yoga on the dock as a part of it.

"You asshole, you watched that?"

Ilya grinned and wiped some of the water off his face. "I needed help sleeping. Was like boring nature documentary for hockey players."

He jumped up on the dock and stood over Shane so water dripped all over him.

"Jesus Christ!" Shane yelped, jumping to his feet. "What if my phone was in my pocket?"

"Your phone is on the table inside," Ilya said. "It kept ringing this morning, did you not hear it?"

"I was focused on more important things," Shane told him, and passed him a towel. "Come on, dry off and we can get started on lunch."

Ilya rubbed the towel over his head. "What do we have?" he asked as they walked back towards the house.

"Pasta from last night, or hotdogs."

"Hotdogs," Ilya decided.

"They'll need to defrost a bit," Shane point out.

"Is okay," Ilya shrugged. "That means we have a little time."

"Oh?" Shane turned around only to catch Ilya staring at his ass. "Time for what?"

Ilya pressed him up against the glass of the door, kissing him deeply and squeezing at the back of his ass and thighs. "I don't know, maybe we could…"

He trailed off suddenly, his eyes focused on something over Shane's shoulder. "Ilya? What's…"

Shane glanced behind him and froze. His dad was standing in his kitchen, holding a phone charger and staring at the two of them like he'd seen a ghost.

"Oh fuck."

He untangled himself from Ilya and slid the door open as his dad turned around and ran out the front door.

"Dad!" he shouted after him. "Dad!"

It was too late. He reversed out of Shane's driveway just as Shane reached the front porch.

Shane stood there until the sound of gravel under tires was gone, and then he walked back inside.

Ilya stood standing in the middle of the dining room, like he didn't know where he was supposed to be. Logically, Shane knew he'd be freaking out too, and he'd figure that out later, but he needed a moment to process the fact that his dad had just watched him make out with his archrival.

He had a lot of questions. He needed to go over to his parents' house. He needed to figure out what this meant for him, for Ilya.

He needed Ilya.

Shane knew what he looked like. He was pacing around his kitchen like a madman until he finally stopped in front of Ilya.

"Shane?" Ilya asked softly. "Are you okay?"

"This, what just happened, is my worst fucking nightmare," Shane said with a steadiness that was shocking to him. His hands were shaking as he gestured towards the door. "My parents weren't supposed to be here for at least another week, I never thought-" he turned around and leaned over a chair so he didn't fall over. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"You could go talk to him," Ilya suggested. "You said their place is right down the road, yes?"

"What if he doesn't want to talk to me?" Shane asked. "And my mom- Fuck, what about my mom?"

"They will talk to you," Ilya insisted softly.

"They're going to realize that I've never really talked to them properly," Shane realized, and immediately felt sick. "My whole life has been a lie, I've done nothing but lie to them for years."

"Do you really think that's true?" Ilya asked. "You hide a big part of yourself from them, yes, but is that really a lie? Does that make everything else a lie too?"

He turned back to Ilya. "That doesn't matter, Ilya. I've lied about this, which means they'll always wonder what else I've lied to them about. This is my actual fucking nightmare, Ilya."

Ilya reached out quickly and pinched the inside of his elbow.

"Ow! What the fuck was that for?"

"To prove that you are awake. Yes, there is a bad thing happening, but it is a thing you can fix."

Shane let himself be dragged into a hug, and let Ilya hold him while he breathing evened out.

"I don't know how to fix this," he admitted. "I'm so scared they'll hate me. Or maybe they won't, but they'll hate you, and that's just as bad."

"Maybe he didn't recognize me," Ilya suggested, which got a small laugh out of him.

"Would you come with me?" he asked. "I want you to meet them. I know it's not ideal."

"Of course I will come," Ilya said. "We will change, and then we go."

"Just give me one more minute like this," Shane said, burying his face in Ilya's shoulder.

He kept taking deep breaths as they changed. Ilya had to shower the lake off of him so Shane was ready first and was waiting for him at the car when Ilya walked out wearing a Voyageurs t-shirt.

"Do you think that's going to help?"

"Might win over your mother, yes?"

"Get in the fucking car."

Ilya laughed, big and bright, and something settled in Shane's chest. Yes, his heart was beating faster than was probably healthy, but this man made him so happy, and he hoped his parents would forgive him for that.

Shane pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. He stared at the cabin he practically grew up in, and felt like a man walking to the gallows.

He turned and looked at Ilya. "You don't have to come in."

Ilya just barked out a laugh and got out of the car, walking around to the driver's side to open Shane's door and help him up.

He didn't knock as he let them both in. He figured they were past that now.

"Hey, it's me," Shane called into the house.

Shane's dad stood in the living room, staring at them. "I left my phone charger at home," the older man started. "I couldn't find the one that fits into my phone here, so I figured I must have left it at your place. I shouldn't have showed up like that, you didn't even know we were here."

"It's okay, dad. I'm sorry, you shouldn't have found out that way."

"Found out what?" His mom walked into the room to see the three of them standing there, her gaze flitting between her husband and her son before landing on Ilya. "Why is he in my living room?"

"I'm gay," Shane told them. "I wanted to tell you sooner, probably after he left, but that's not important. This is Ilya. Rozanov."

"Yes I can see that, Shane," his mother said, still staring at Ilya. "Why is he in my living room?" she repeated.

"He's my…" he trailed off. What exactly were they? They probably should have clarified that before now, but it was too late now.

"Lover?" Ilya whispered in his ear, so his parents wouldn't hear.

Shane glared at him before turning back to his parents. "We've been seeing each other."

"Don't you hate him?" his mom asked.

"I never hated him," Shane told her. "I know everyone thinks the rivalry is personal, but it's not. I actually love him."

His dad inhaled sharply.

"I wanted to introduce you properly, but I guess this is what's happening now. Could we sit, maybe?"

Yuna disappeared into the kitchen to get them all drinks as David led them into the dining room.

"I'm sorry, this must be a surprise," Shane started.

"I mean, not really," Yuna said, sliding into the chair across from him. "Well, I guess in some ways, yes, but we did wonder if maybe you were gay."

"What?"

"We thought it was certainly possible," his father placated. "We just weren't expecting the guy you would bring home to be Rozanov."

Ilya arched an eyebrow, and Shane elbowed him in the side in an attempt to communicate to him to behave.

"Please call me Ilya," he said, in lieu of anything else.

"Ilya," David corrected.

"It's a long story," Shane said, ducking his head.

"So? How did you meet?"

"We met in Saskatchewan in 2008, you know that."

"Yes, but how did this happen?" his mom clarified.

Shane looked at Ilya, debating how much they should really tell.

"Wait," his dad started. "The All-Star game. Your chemistry-"

He couldn't hold back his laugh. "No, it was before that."

His mother suddenly looked like she'd seen a ghost.

"Mom?"

She stared at Ilya. "2010. I met you in an elevator in Toronto."

Ilya looked alarmed.

"What? You never told me about that," he addressed Ilya.

"Wasn't important. And I thought you would freak out. Maybe kick me out of your hotel room, and then where would we be?"

"Not having this conversation in my parents' dining room probably," Shane muttered.

"That was before your rookie season," Yuna said quietly. "You've been in love since your rookie season?"

"No!" they exclaimed at the same time.

"God, no," Shane said. "That's a more recent thing for us, I think."

"We were just…" Ilya stopped talking.

"Just?" his mother pressed.

"Just…"

"Oh, right."

"What?" David looked around at them confused. "Just what?"

"Seeing each other," Yuna told him, and immediately stood up to escape the conversation. "I should have grabbed something harder than coffee, please excuse me."

She returned a few moments later with new glasses and a bottle of vodka that Ilya took so he could read the label.

"This is good vodka," he said before he opened the bottled and poured each of them a glass.

"I try to buy the Russian stuff," his dad said, which clearly pleased Ilya.

"I cannot find this brand in Montreal. Maybe I will have to visit Ottawa soon."

Shane's chest felt like it was going to burst open at the idea of Ilya being in Ottawa. God, he loved him so much.

"Maybe he could visit you guys, so you could get to know him better," Shane suggested.

"Maybe," his mother hummed. "It's just, were there no nice men in Boston?"

"Mom!"

"I'm just saying."

"Maybe there were, I don't know. I never really wanted anybody else, so the guys Connors tried to set me up with would never have worked out."

"Does anybody else know?" his dad asked.

"That I'm gay? Yeah, Connors and Marlow both know. Connor figured it out when I was a rookie, and if he knows, Cliff knows."

"And about Ilya?"

"No, nobody knows."

Ilya shifted in his seat.

"What?" Shane turned his attention to him.

"Is not true. Rose and Svetlana know," he admitted guiltily.

"Excuse me?" Shane heard his voice raise in pitch.

"I did not tell them," Ilya rushed out. "Rose figured it out. It was when Svetlana and I were talking about me moving to Ottawa. She knew there was a man I was in love with who lived in Boston, and then she said something about Ottawa being your hometown and it would be funny if I moved there and I guess I was very bad at hiding my feelings, so she knows, as does Sveta. They will not say anything, they know what could happen if they do."

The room settled into shocked silence as they all processed what he said.

"Where does Rose Landry figure into all of this?" David asked. "I mean, if you've dated women in the past-"

"Ilya likes both," Shane interrupted.

"Rose Landry does not. Lucky for her, I had a single friend and did not mind being broken up with because I was already in love with someone else." Shane looked over to catch the open adoration in Ilya's eyes. "I have only been in love with one person."

"Me too," Shane said. "Only one."

Silence settled over the table again, only marginally less tense this time. Yuna suddenly got up and left the room. The back door slammed shut behind her, and Shane looked at his father who started to go after her.

"No, I should go talk to her," Shane said, and his dad sat back down. "I'll be back."

He followed after her. Her back was turned to the house, so when the door shut behind him, she startled and glanced back at him.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't."

She nodded, and they stood together in silence before Shane started speaking again.

"I feel like I should be apologizing to you," he started.

"You don't have to-"

"Yes, I do. I should have done better. I should have fallen in love with someone who wasn't him. I think maybe I could have tried harder to be something else, but I didn't want to. Not because it was easy, because god knows it wasn't, but because he was inevitable."

"You would fall in love with the only person who could challenge you in your field," she laughed, but it came out broken.

He knew she was right. "I still should have told you differently. Sooner too probably."

She shook her head. "No, honey, it's okay."

"It's not."

"It is," she insisted. "I'm so sorry you felt like you couldn't tell me, but I understand why you didn't. I love you so much, and I'm sure, with time, I'll love him too. I'm so happy you found someone who loves you as much as he does."

"He really does, mom," he said, his voice cracking. "I can't fucking believe I found him."

"I can," she said, pulling him down into a hug. "All a mom ever wants for her kid is that they find someone who cares about them, and I'm so happy you found him."

I'm happy I found him too, he thought, and he let the tears keep falling.

After a moment, his mom held up her hands. "Okay, enough."

They both took a deep breath and collected themselves.

"Tell me the plan."

~~~

Ilya sat across from David after their partners left the room. He didn't speak, he didn't know if that was allowed.

"Alright," David sighed. "They're probably going to be a minute. Do you like puzzles?"

He asked so casually that it caught Ilya off guard. "What?"

"Puzzles. Like jigsaw puzzles. Do you like them? I have one that I've been working on in the living room, and I figured we might as well do something while they talk."

"Okay," Ilya agreed.

He sat on the floor while David sat on the couch, much like a child would do with his father. Ilya tried very hard not to think about the kind of picture they made.

They worked silently, diligently as Ilya sorted the pieces into groups by color, and David put them in their places. He probably would have kept doing it for the rest of the afternoon had Shane and Yuna not come back inside.

Yuna and Shane, Ilya would come to learn, were very much alike. They loved a plan, and it seemed that Shane had already caught her up to date on everything they'd talked about.

"We need to cover our bases, so to speak," she said, sitting down next to her husband. "My first priority would be to draft a statement in case something leaks, you'll need to clarify timelines, that you haven't been throwing games for each other, which I assume you haven't been," she glared at Ilya, who shook his head. "No one cheated on anyone, that kind of thing. I'll let your agents handle that since they're better at that than I am, but I want to focus on your sponsorships. I can quietly reach out to the premium brands, make sure that you've got people in your corner if someone drops you."

"Mom," Shane tried to interrupt. He had tugged Ilya up off the floor and into a chair that fit both of them, which Ilya was grateful for. He wasn't confident in his ability to face off against Yuna alone.

"We need to be prepared, there's a lot to think about here."

"I'm not planning on coming out or anything," Shane told her. "Not yet. All we want right now is a future together."

She nodded once. "So," she turned her attention to Ilya, "you'll play for Ottawa."

"Yes," Ilya confirmed.

"It's not exactly closer to Boston," she observed. "You have no loyalty to Montreal?"

"Mom!"

"They drafted him! It's a fair question."

"He's trying to be loyal to me," Shane grumbled, and Ilya kissed him on the cheek for his trouble.

"I have no loyalty to Montreal," he told her. "My plan would have been to leave Montreal at the end of next season no matter what. I cannot stay there."

All three of the Hollanders looked at him in confusion.

"Mrs. Hollander-"

"Yuna," she corrected.

"Of course. Yuna, I will apologize in advance, because I know they were your favorite team, but everything you think you know about Montreal is wrong. I have felt trapped their since my rookie season because they felt comfortable threatening my existence in Canada. I think I became less than the person I used to be because I was the face of the organization. I could not step out of line without consequences. It was not just management who threatened. It was in part, yes, but Theriault used players against me. Drafted terrible men who will not listen to reason and make anyone who is different suffer. Is why I told Shane he cannot go to Montreal. It will take away a love for hockey and replace it with something else, and I cannot let that happen."

The room was silent.

"Well, at least I know you love him," Yuna sniffled. "I suppose I'll have to find a new team to root for, but that's a problem for another day. Shane, remind me when your contract with the Bears is up?"

"In four years, at the end of the 2020-2021 season," Shane said.

"Okay, that means one year with you still with your current teams, and three with Ilya in Ottawa. We'll need the first year to establish the friendship angle and the charity, and then just two more years after that before Shane can move to Ottawa."

They both stared at her.

"What? It's not a bad plan," she shrugged.

"We'll think about it," Shane said finally. "It could be a possibility."

"Can we talk about contingency plans in case someone gets outed now please?" Yuna asked, clearly exasperated. "It seems like it might be a bigger problem for Ilya than Shane, legally speaking, so I want to know how we're going to handle it."

"My friend Svetlana is helping me apply for citizenship," Ilya said. "That is mostly sorted I think. She gave me a to-do list for when I am back in Montreal. I will need to find a new agent, someone I can trust."

"You should use Shane's. She's great."

"I'll email Farah next week and see if she's open to taking new clients," Shane said. "She's great."

"We also have to figure out how to help you survive the locker room for the next year," David pointed out. Shane had told him that he played hockey, so he was no stranger to the culture. "Have either of you talked to Scott Hunter?"

"No," Shane said.

"I did," Ilya nodded. "After NHL awards in June."

"And?" David prompted.

"I didn't tell him anything," Ilya clarified. "Mostly congratulated him and called him brave. He changed things, at least for me. Even if I had told him, he would not be able to help. New York is New York. He was surrounded by his team still, they're good people there. Made me reconsider joining American team, but I think Ottawa is best."

Next to him, Shane practically folded himself in half to put his head in between his knees.

"Shane?" Yuna asked.

"Shane? Is everything okay?" Ilya rested a hand on his back.

"Fine, just freaking out. Give me a minute and I'll be okay." His answer was muffled, and Ilya felt terrible that a lot of this was because of him.

He leaned down next to him and rested a hand on his back. "Hey, everything is okay, yes? Your family is here, your boyfriend is here. We are good here."

"My boyfriend?" That got Shane's attention. He turned his head to face Ilya

Ilya felt his smile practically splitting his face in half. "Yes, I think so, probably." He couldn't help but lean over and kiss him once, softly, perfectly appropriate for in front of his boyfriend's parents.

It was terrifying, but Ilya had never been happier. If this was his life, he could get used to it.

He could hear the Hollanders speaking to each other in the background, so he forced himself to look back at them.

"How about this," Yuna started, like she hadn't been on the verge of tears a moment before. "We do dinner later this week. You can host this time, maybe a little barbecue? I'll get your dad to bring the chicken you like. I think it will be good for us to talk more once everyone's emotions aren't running so high."

"I think that's a great idea," David backed her up.

"Fine, but text first this time," Shane said.

"We can just make plans for a day and time, say Thursday, 5 o'clock?" Yuna proposed.

"We'll text," David confirmed. He rose from his seat to show them out. It was clear that they all needed a little time after the day they'd had. "Drive safe, boys."

"Thank you for vodka and puzzles," Ilya said as they walked down the driveway.

"We love you!" Yuna called after them.

"We love you too," Shane called back.

The car doors closed behind him, and as they drove away, Ilya watched Shane as they turned into the late afternoon sun.

Shane didn't even look over as he reached for Ilya's hand.

"Thank you," Shane said. "For coming with me, I mean. I think they liked you."

"I liked them," Ilya said. "And is obvious they love you very much. If they like me even half as much, I think I will be happy."

"They're going to love you. Just like I love you," Shane said with conviction.

"I love you too," Ilya returned.

They pulled back into the driveway of Shane's cottage, and he kissed him soundly before they got out of the car.

It really had been just the perfect day.

Chapter End Notes

I'm sure I will have much more in depth thoughts about this fic at a later date, but for now, farewell. I hope you've liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it