Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Carter Vaughn

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Svetlana Vetrova is hockey royalty, Protective Svetlana Vetrova, Autistic Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Past Ilya Rozanov/Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Minor Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Bashing (Game Changers), Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Locker Room Misogyny, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Frottage, no beta we die like Roger Crowell should have, Rimming, Anal Sex, First Time

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-18 Updated: 2026-06-15 Words: 90,936 Chapters: 7/?

Sea Lion Woman

Summary

There was a burst of static, a gusty sigh. "Shanushka, you have the biggest 'bottom eyes' I have ever seen."

"That's not a thing."

"It is absolutely a thing, and that thing is you," she cackled, and he hung up the phone, ears so hot they should have been smoking.

--

Or, Shane meets Svetlana first, and it changes everything and nothing.

Notes

Title from the song Sealion Woman by Feist.

Chapter 1: June 2008-July 2010

Chapter Notes

Shane: *exists*
Svetlana: "welcome to the club of queer biracial hockey nerds, we are best friends now"

Warnings:
- canon-typical racism and homophobia in ice hockey
- some internalized homophobia/ableism

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

June 2008
Ottawa, Ontario

Shane met her after the last 67s practice of the season, just before summer break.

He was the last one on the ice, as usual. He heard the mocking whispers of his teammates as they slouched off to the locker room, their laughter and relief at having finished another season. He knew they thought he was a weirdo with no social life. It stung, but it wasn't like they were wrong, so he did what he always did: focused on shooting until his arms were sore.

Hockey was just easier than people. Skates, ice, stick, puck, net. Repeat.

His dad picked him up every day. It was part of the agreement they'd made back when Shane was thirteen and first started putting in extra hours at the rink. Shane's mom would drop him off for morning skates, and his dad would pick him up after evening skates, and that way they'd each get to spend some time with him.

The concourse was always long empty by the time Shane finished, cleaned up, and showered. The only ones left in the building were janitorial and rink maintenance, but they all knew him and let him be.

Which him left fifteen minutes—maybe half an hour, if he timed it right—just for himself, quiet, alone, breathing in the familiar smells of rink ice and sweat and mechanical grease. He picked the least sticky booth at the shuttered concession stand and pulled out his book.

He'd barely made it two pages before a shadow fell over him.

"You should read a different book," said an accented voice.

He looked up.

She was tall, and willowy, with warm brown skin and masses of auburn curls. She also looked like she'd stepped off the cover of a magazine. Not the soft pastel ones his mom liked to get at the grocery store, but the ones full of hostile runway models. She was also dressed like a model, like someone had given a teenager a credit card and taste.

He blinked up at her. "Uh. Why?"

Fuck, how was he supposed to talk to girls again? He'd practiced, looked up topics, and now he couldn't remember a single one.

Wait, did she think his hockey book was lame? Did she just come over to make fun of him?

"This book is full of errors," she said, looking bored and vaguely disdainful. Some kind of Slavic accent? "It was written by an American who did not know Soviet politics."

Shane's heartrate dipped back down to sub-100 in relief. He nodded eagerly. "Yeah, definitely. He also keeps mixing up Chernyshev's first and second stint as coach."

She looked at him suspiciously. "...Yes. And his citations are bad."

"Exactly!" Shane tapped the book with his knuckles. "There are plenty of nuanced interviews with former Soviet players, but every quote he used made them seem...kind of dumb? It might be a translation error, but it comes off as xenophobic—"

Fuck, had he been talking too long? He'd been talking too long.

He shut his mouth with a click, face warming. Hockey robot.

She sat down across from him, her head cocked like a bird. "What is your name?"

Shane wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and stuck out a hand. "Shane Hollander. Nice to meet you."

She shook it, eyes sharpening even further. "Ah. I saw you skate earlier, captain. Very nice hands. I am Svetlana Vetrova."

Shane's brows rose. "Vetrov? As in the Red Curtain? That Vetrov?"

"Yes."

"Wow." Shane leaned back. The cheap blue pleather squeaked under his weight. "What are you doing here? No offense," he added hurriedly.

Her lips twitched. "My father is a politician now. He has work at the embassy."

"Okay," Shane said, frowning. "But what are you doing here? It's after hours." The distant hum of the zamboni was low and soothing.

"I got bored. So I called the closest rink to ask about ice time, but your team had it booked. I decided to come watch anyways."

"Watch? We don't do open practices."

She shrugged. "They do if your last name is Vetrova."

He shook his head, huffing out a laugh. "Wow. That's ballsy." And something Shane would never have done in a million years. "So you play hockey? Do you play for the RWHL? What position?"

She smiled, something in her eyes warming. "No. I was a speed skater, but never competitive. Give me your cell phone."

"Uh, what?" Had she been flirting? Oh god, had he been unknowingly flirting back?

"Give it to me," she said impatiently, brows slanting down, and somehow he found himself fumbling his mostly unused Nokia out of his pocket and handing it over.

"You are interesting," she said, like that was a normal thing to say, fingers typing faster than he could see. "You will text me." It wasn't phrased as a question.

His phone buzzed in her hands. She squinted down at the tiny screen. "Your father is here. He says he made something called KD?"

Shane took his phone back, flushing. "Kraft Dinner," he mumbled. "Macaroni and cheese from a box." Something he could eat even when he really didn't feel like eating. His father had a sixth sense for knowing when he was having one of those days.

Her face softened, just a hair. "That is nice."

Shane nodded. He stood, grabbing his bag and holding out a hand to shake automatically. "It was good to meet you, Miss Vetrova."

She grinned, showing off sharp white teeth. "You can call me Svetlana," she said, shaking his hand again, more firmly this time. "I think we are going to be friends, Shane Hollander."

Svetlana had sent herself Shane's number. He figured that out after a few hours of anxious waffling about if she actually wanted him to message her, only to startle and almost drop his phone when she texted him first.

That was the first thing he learned about Svetlana Vetrova: she didn't say things she didn't mean.

Over the next week—the strangest week of Shane's life—he learned a lot more.

Svetlana was eighteen, held dual Russian-American citizenship, and had a wallet full of Canadian and American hundreds and a sleek black card. She also had the use of her father's personal driver for the eight hours a day he spent working with the embassy.

For reasons that entirely escaped Shane, she had decided to spend some of that time with him.

It wasn't like he was busy. He had a few weeks until training camp, and he needed to be careful not to over-exercise, so after his morning skate there was nothing stopping him from being whisked downtown and dragged into stores so expensive they looked like they charged you for breathing.

(He would never forget the pleased surprise on his parents' faces when he'd said he had plans with a friend for something other than hockey. He very specifically hadn't mentioned that this friend was a girl, or that her father was a famous Soviet goaltender, or that they would be chaffeured around in some kind of diplomatic car like in The Princess Diaries. Sometimes it was easier to just...not tell them things. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.)

To Shane's surprise, he and Svetlana got along easily.

She was entirely alien to Shane. She moved through the world like she expected it to get out of her way, and she manifested the expectation so strongly that the world usually did what she wanted.

He couldn't understand it, would never hope to emulate it, but he did appreciate it. He appreciated the way she swept into rooms and pulled all the attention to herself, leaving him to relax in her shadow. He appreciated the firm way she took control of conversations with store employees and clerks and waiters, never leaving him floundering and awkward. She always listened when he spoke, and she never made fun of him when he struggled to say what he meant, and she knew more about hockey than anyone he'd ever met.

They went to museums, and book stores, and the botanical gardens, and clothing stores. They went to all the tourist spots Shane had grown up avoiding, walking around downtown Ottawa and riding bicycles next to the river. Svetlana loved trying new things, especially foods and drinks, and after watching her spit out a mouthful of poutine because she'd discovered in real time that she hated the texture of cheese curds, Shane found himself trying more and more things with her.

She didn't make him guess what she was thinking, and if she didn't want to talk about something or do something, she'd say so. For the first time in Shane's life, there was no subtext he had to struggle to read, and it was such a relief that it made him a little lightheaded.

She also seemed to have a preternatural sense for when he was done for the day but was too stubborn to say so.

"It's fine, really, I'm fine—"

"No," she said simply. "Timur, will you please take us back to the Hollanders' neighborhood?"

Shane rubbed his face. It was barely two o'clock, and he'd liked the cafe and the tasting menu they'd tried—all the portions were small, just a bite, so if he didn't like it, he didn't have to eat any more of it—and he was really looking forward to their plans at the space museum, but also—

But also maybe he was starting to feel that weird itchiness that meant he needed to be alone for a few hours.

Timur, the Vetrovs' driver (who may or may not have been some kind of KGB hitman in another life), gave Shane a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror. He too lived at the whims of Svetlana Sergeyvna Vetrova.

Shane was dropped off a few blocks away from home, so his parents didn't see him get out of a scary black towncar with Russian diplomatic plates. He sighed, walked home, and took a nap.

On Svetlana's last day in Canada, Shane was surprised to find himself swallowing back a complicated knot of sadness.

Had it only been a week? It felt like Svetlana's presence had reshaped his entire person.

Svetlana—decked out in a green pinstriped jumpsuit—brushed a hand over his cheek, smiling that soft smile she sometimes used around him. "Oh, my Shanushka," she said. "You have a phone. We will call and text."

"International is too expensive," he mumbled towards his feet. His parents already paid so much for his gear, and ice time, and travel costs. He wouldn't ask them for more, no matter how badly he wanted it.

"Then we will email," she said simply. "Don't send anything too illegal, all my correspondence is probably being read by some poor junior FSB agent. But I will let you know if I'm back in Canada."

He tried for a laugh, but it came out choked. "And I guess I'll let you know if I'm in Russia."

Her expression went strange. "Shane," she said quietly. "You should not go to Russia. Things are changing. It is not safe."

"Not safe? What? Will you be okay?" He didn't want to imagine anything happening to her, she was too bright, too good.

She stroked a thumb over his cheek, smiling sadly. "Not safe for men who like men. Especially not safe for men who are uninterested in women."

He jerked away from her hand. Dread poured down his spine, colder than ice, sharp and paralyzing. "What? What do you mean—"

"Shane," she said lowly, reaching up and scruffing him like a cat. Anchoring. "Promise me."

She was a hundred pounds lighter than him, but he couldn't move. His heart hammered in his throat. "I like girls plenty, why would you—"

"Promise me," she repeated, face hard, grip harder. "You will not go to Russia. Say it."

There was a terrible ocean of fear in her eyes, so similar to the ocean he often drowned in. "I promise," he muttered through numb lips.

She let him go, stepping back, the crystal mask of Svetlana Sergeyvna Vetrova clicking back into place.

"Thank you," she said, with a hint of a smile. "Talk to you soon, Shanushka."

He took a breath, feeling inexplicably like he'd been checked into the boards. "Yeah. Goodbye, Svetlana. Fly safe."

She frowned, studying him for a long moment. Then, like she was bestowing a great gift, she said, "You can call me Sveta."

He couldn't help but smile. "Okay. Sveta."

She patted him on the cheek, walked over to the car, and was gone.

July 2008

"Are you good at languages, Shane Hollander?" Svetlana asked, unprompted, on their first intercontinental phone call.

(He'd been sweating about that, but apparently the solution was for him to make a collect call to Svetlana, then let her handle the rest. His parents never said anything about random insane international charges on the phone bill, so whatever she was doing must have worked.)

"Um. Yes? Pretty good." It wasn't a lie. He hadn't grown up speaking much French at home, but he'd sailed through his immersion classes, and when he'd been drafted for Juniors, he'd been allowed to test out of advanced placement completely.

"Good," Svetlana said. He didn't know how she managed to project so much smugness from the other side of the planet, but she did. "Because I am mailing you a Russian dictionary and some better Soviet hockey books."

August 2008

Sometimes, playing with the 67s was everything Shane had ever wanted, and sometimes, simultaneously, it was a special kind of hell.

He wasn't the youngest on the team, but at seventeen he was the youngest on the first and second line, and some of the older guys really didn't like that he'd been given the A.

Of course, the guys his age or younger didn't particularly like him either, not when he didn't know how to respond to their jokes, or didn't know what video game they were talking about. Didn't know what to say and when to say it, didn't want to talk about girls and sex and all the wild partying they were going to do with professional athlete money.

It didn't help that Shane had been called up as an alternate for World Juniors starting at fifteen. Some of the 67s had played in the Major Juniors for four years and never gotten so much as a glance from a scout.

Shane swallowed it all down and trained. He was good at that.

(His mom called it compartmentalizing, said it was a useful tool, but only up to a point. He didn't tell her that he had been slicing up his time into neat categories since elementary school; his whole life was compartmentalized. Home, school, hockey. Repeat.)

But the truth was, Shane didn't need to be friends with his teammates.

He just needed to focus on hockey.

And when he wasn't focusing on hockey or schoolwork, he spent his time becoming increasingly aggravated with the Russian language.

Svetlana peppered Russian into their emails and texts, and every time, Shane sighed and pulled out the dictionary she'd sent.

Strangely, he was better at understanding spoken Russian than reading it. His brain fought the unfamiliar Cyrillic letters every step of the way, but when Svetlana said a word over the phone, sounding it out and crisping each syllable, he could assign it meaning. Then he would write it phonetically in the Latin alphabet on a piece of notebook paper, and then finally write it in Cyrillic, and somewhere along the line, it stopped being a chore and started being fun.

November 2008

Shane kind of wished Svetlana hadn't taught him so much Russian over the last six months.

Most of it was interesting or useful—food, basic questions, touristy stuff. They emailed and texted, and he could sight-read a few Russian words, but she still insisted on calls so she could correct his pronunciation.

But he really didn't need to know quite so many Russian curses and inappropriate phrases.

And he really, really wished he hadn't understood the words she'd just said.

"Sveta, oh my god, I'm never going to say that!" Shane hissed into his phone, a red-hot blush flooding his cheeks.

"Oh, my sweet Shanushka," she crooned in Russian, voice tinny and slightly delayed. "One day you will meet a nice boy, and you'll want him to fuck you, and now you can beg in three languages."

That was the other thing. The liking guys thing. The looking at them, wanting them, sometimes so much he felt sick with it.

He'd protested, obviously, but whenever he did, Svetlana had pretended she didn't hear it. So eventually he stopped and let her believe what she liked. That was a big part of being friends with her.

(And if Shane sometimes looked at his autographed poster of Admirals' rookie Scott Hunter before he fell asleep, well—that was between him and the hockey gods.)

"I am literally never going to tell someone 'please fuck me harder,'" he hissed, double-checking that his bedroom door was closed and locked. "Anyways, why do you think I wouldn't be doing the fucking?"

There was a burst of static, a gusty sigh. "Shanushka, you have the biggest 'bottom eyes' I have ever seen."

"That's not a thing."

"It is absolutely a thing, and that thing is you," she cackled, and he hung up the phone, ears so hot they should have been smoking.

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ

Sveta
Shanushka send me a list of your clothing and jewelry sizes
I know your mother has them all on file somewhere

Shane
What? Why?

Sveta
So that I will have them, obviously

Shane
You are the weirdest person I know.

Sveta
That just means everyone else is boring
Send them

Shane
You're the worst.
Check your email.

Even with his newfound ear for Russian, Shane's mouth didn't seem to want to form the right sounds. The worst part was he knew when he got it wrong, but he couldn't figure out how to fix it.

Svetlana did her best to speak clearly and correct his pronunciation where she could, but they just didn't have that much time to talk. Moscow was seven or eight hours ahead depending on the time of year, which meant Svetlana was still in class when Shane woke up and going to bed when Shane finished at the rink. They caught a spare half an hour when they could, but it wasn't enough for Shane to learn a new language.

Until the day a librarian found him lurking sadly in front of the small section of books in Russian (all far too advanced for him) and introduced him to the wonder of language lessons on CDs.

With the CDs and the accompanying workbooks, he had hours to listen and practice his pronunciation and awful conjugation alone, where no one could hear him mess up, where he could work at it, the same way he worked at hockey. If his parents seemed surprised when he suddenly started wearing headphones when he exercised, they didn't comment.

Early December 2008

Shane got off the phone with Coach Hebert and stared at the wall.

He didn't really want to be captain for World Juniors, but it wasn't like he could turn it down. Could he?

Fuck, he was going to get so much shit for this. Some of the older guys were eighteen, nineteen, grown men already signed to MLH teams or waiting in the lower leagues. He was sure they'd love some snot-nosed kid taking the C.

But what else was he supposed to do?

He wanted—needed—to play.

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ

Sveta
[Attached Images]
Milan is boring without you
Come next year?

Shane
Sorry, Sveta, I have this pesky thing I do called hockey?

Sveta
You should quit and become my trophy husband
Travel the world, carry my shopping bags, try new foods with me

Shane
I don't think I'm pretty enough for arm candy, Sveta.
And I have to win some more trophies before I can be a good trophy husband.

Sveta
You are an idiot if you think you're not pretty, Shane Hollander
Adorable
Beautiful
Cute
Lovely

Shane
Are you just going through every Russian adjective to make me learn more of them?

December 26th 2008
Regina, Saskatchewan

The first time he saw Ilya Rozanov in person, it was a bitingly cold January day in Saskatchewan, and Rozanov was lighting a cigarette directly in front of a no-smoking sign.

"Ilya Rozanov?" Shane said, holding out a hand. "Shane Hollander."

Rozanov eyed him warily, then shook it.

For a split-second, Shane thought about telling him he shouldn't be smoking there. Then he thought about Svetlana's laugh if he ever said that to her.

"You are an amazing player to watch," Shane said instead, in stilted Russian that he definitely hadn't practiced in front of the mirror.

(He may have also studied a few of Rozanov's games in preparation for the tournament. And watched a grainy interview or two, except everyone spoke too fast for Shane to understand, sometimes with different inflections from Svetlana, and there were no subtitles.)

Rozanov's brows shot up. He took another drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke. "You speak Russian?"

"A little. A friend is teaching me." A friend who would have eviscerated his pronunciation.

But Rozanov just smirked. "Not bad, for Canadian," he said in heavily accented English.

"She is strict—" Shane made a noise of frustration. "Tutor? Teacher. What is word?"

"Teacher," Rozanov supplied.

"Teacher," Shane repeated with relief.

He'd never spoken it with someone who wasn't Svetlana or the men who ran the Russian deli in his neighborhood. The syllables felt more clumsy than usual in his mouth, and he knew he was mixing up some declensions, but Rozanov seemed to get the gist.

Shane wouldn't have minded more of a chance to practice, but they both had hockey to play. "I have to go," he said. "My team waits."

"Is waiting."

"Is waiting," Shane corrected dutifully. He held out his hand again, suddenly awkward. "Good luck."

Rozanov gripped his hand again, something in his eyes that Shane couldn't read.

It wasn't until Shane was a few meters away that Rozanov called out, "You will not be so nice when we beat you."

Shane looked back, pulse thudding at the challenge in Rozanov's tone.

"That will not be," Shane said, grinning.

Rozanov sighed. "You mean 'That's not going to happen.'"

Shane laughed—they'd reached the limit of his Russian. "So you agree?"

Rozanov visibly bit back a smile, shaking his head and taking another long drag off his cigarette. "See you in final."

Rozanov's tone was matter-of-fact, and Shane didn't dispute it. With the way the tournament was seeded, it would all end in Russia versus Canada.

January 2009

Okay, now Shane actually regretted how much Russian he knew.

He would have absolutely preferred to not know all the awful things some of the Russian players were saying about the Canadians in general and him in particular.

He was stretching on his knees near the red line when a Russian winger sprayed ice into his face, muttering a slur. Shane wiped his face clean, jaw clenched, and was considering the merits of 'accidentally' high-sticking the man at some point when a shadow loomed over them both.

Rozanov clamped a hand over the back of his teammate's neck and forced him to look up. Then Rozanov said something in low, furious Russian that made the man pale and back off with a hasty, "Yes, Captain."

When the winger was gone, Shane raised a brow. "What did you say to him?"

Rozanov smiled humorlessly. "I say I will mail him back to the KHL in pieces if he does not shut his mouth." His face turned serious. "I'm sorry about him. About them."

Shane sighed. "It is not your fault."

"No," Rozanov said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "No, but it is my responsibility." He switched back to English. "Do not say you understand," he added quietly, voice flat. "Do not tell them. They will use it against you."

Shane gritted his teeth around his mouthguard, nodded, and channeled every ounce of frustration into hockey.

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
[BREAKING]: Russia beats out Canada 4-1 in World Juniors final, USA takes bronze.

Still out of breath, Shane watched the Russian team's cellys in silence. Then he rounded up his teammates and corralled them into line for the handshakes.

As captains, Shane and Rozanov went last. Rozanov gripped his hand for an extra moment. "See you at the draft."

Shane knew how to be polite, knew the value of good sportsmanship, even when he was fuming about a loss. But he'd also just spent sixty minutes of ice time pretending he didn't hear every slur directed at himself and his teammates.

"See you there," he agreed, and got a flash of grim satisfaction at the looks of shock and trepidation from the nearest members of the Russian team.

Yes, Shane thought, in a voice that sounded a lot like Svetlana. The projected top draft pick heard you, and he will remember your faces and names.

Coach Hebert called the Canadian team off the ice, slapping their shoulders in commiseration, telling them he was proud of them, saying they'd have better luck next year.

And then the door swung shut behind the Canadian team, leaving Shane with only the bitterness of the loss.

Four hours later, after the medals ceremony and the reception, there was a knock at his motel room door.

His parents? No, they'd gone back to their hotel after dinner, when he'd begged off in favor of a night of watching replays and wallowing.

His teammates then? Shane really didn't want to talk to them right now. He was lucky he'd drawn the single, but he was still their captain, however little good it had done them, and that meant he needed to be available if one of them needed a pep talk or a sympathetic ear. Fuck.

He hauled himself off the creaky bed and opened the door.

Svetlana stood on the narrow windswept concrete walkway that ran between the motel rooms and the parking lot, wearing a dress that looked painted-on. Behind her, a green sports car hummed, motor still running, entirely out of place.

He gawped at her. "Sveta? What are you doing in Canada? Why didn't you—"

"Go get dressed," she said, throwing a garment bag at his chest. "We're going out." She walked into his motel room, sat on the bed, and pulled out her phone.

He obeyed. It was the only way to survive Svetlana.

In the washroom, Shane unzipped the garment bag and immediately rolled his eyes. Then he got dressed.

The jeans were tight to his skin, and the deep blue shirt was cuffed around his biceps, and he definitely wasn't going to wear the thin gold chains and rings she'd included, but overall it was—okay. No tags, no strong detergent. Nothing scratched, nothing felt strange against his skin. And the pressure of it all was almost like a hug, like armor. Or hockey pads.

Outside, she looked him over once, nodded approvingly, and drove them to a club. Possibly the only one in Regina, considering fewer than 200,000 people lived there.

"Sveta, I'm only seventeen," he hissed as they approached the entrance, ignoring the line that snaked around the corner. The pounding music was already making him tense, making him wish he was still moping around the motel in sweatpants.

She gave him a look. He shut up.

His palms were damp, and he kept looking over his shoulder. This was such a bad idea. He was a big guy, and hockey had made him dense with muscle, but there was no way in hell he could fool some bouncer into thinking he was nineteen. Too much baby fat, not enough facial hair. If he got arrested, it could ruin his chances of drafting—

Except the bouncer didn't even try to ID Svetlana, just waved her through, and then somehow they were both inside.

Inside was better and worse than he feared. It was loud, but no one was touching him, because Svetlana moved with a bubble of personal space that people automatically respected, and he had somehow been allowed to exist in that bubble. Still, she reached back without looking and took his hand, tethering them, and he was more relieved than he'd like to admit.

She led him up a flight of stairs and into a roped-off section labeled VIP, and he relaxed a smidge.

It was better, up there. Much quieter, far fewer people. There was a balcony and railing looking out over the dance floor, and the flashing lights were somewhere below them, leaving only faint reflections off the mirrored ceiling tiles. There was also another bar, with a beautiful woman in red serving drinks.

"Want a drink?" Svetlana asked, nodded towards the bar.

He shook his head, then hesitated. "...A ginger ale?" he asked, cringing at how lame it sounded even as he said it.

Svetlana didn't blink, just nodded and slipped off towards the bar.

Shane wandered over towards the balcony and looked over the railing, the music's bass thumping through his chest.

Okay, the club wasn't as bad as he'd thought. It was nice to be around so many people without the pressure of interacting with them. It was nice to remember that most of these people didn't give a shit about hockey.

It was also interesting to watch a club like this, from above. He could see people moving in a delicate pattern that they seemed to follow instinctively, like bees in a hive. He wondered if he'd ever be able to tap into that kind of innate shared experience anywhere except the ice.

"Shane Hollander," said a rumbling voice, and Shane risked a look up.

Ilya Rozanov stood at the top of the stairs, dressed like a movie star in a white singlet and slacks, a gold crucifix glinting at his throat. He was staring at Shane, brow wrinkled in confusion, a glass of clear liquid in his hand.

Shane bit back his initial surprise and mild indignation. Of course Rozanov—underage, in a foreign country—could get into a club without a problem. Was it some kind of Russian superpower? Were they taught it in school?

No, it was probably simpler than that; Rozanov looked the part. He held himself like an adult, confidence and self-assurance adding years. No one would have guessed he was a month younger than Shane.

"Rozanov," Shane said with a nod, pulse thudding with the bass. "Hi."

Rozanov's eyes dragged up and down for a long moment. Then he smirked, settling into a spot beside Shane at the railing. "I am surprised. It is not your kind of place, yes?"

"It is not," Shane admitted, raising his voice a little to be heard. "I came with a friend." God, his Russian probably sounded awful, especially compared to Rozanov's English skills.

Rozanov's brow quirked. "Friend brings you to club and leaves you?"

Shane bristled at the implied criticism of Svetlana. "She is getting drinks."

Rozanov raised his free hand in surrender. "Sorry. What ar—"

"Ilyusha!"

Rozanov turned just in time for Svetlana to crash into him at full tilt.

Rozanov—Ilyusha?—caught her, startled, then began to laugh, and it transformed his face into something young and boyish and happy. "Sveta? What the fuck—" The rest of his sentence was too fast for Shane to catch.

Shane swallowed. Svetlana had occasionally mentioned someone named Ilyusha, a friend from Moscow. The diminutive for 'Ilya,' he realized, stomach sinking.

Svetlana scowled, and Rozanov immediately eased back. "I tried to call," she said in English, smacking his chest. "But some asshole did not answer his phone."

A grimace flickered over Rozanov's face. He said something else in Russian, but the only word Shane caught was 'father.'

Whatever Rozanov had said, the annoyance slid from Svetlana's face. She kissed his cheeks, thumbing a bit of lipstick away. "Oh, Ilyusha. Okay. Well, you are here now. And you won! Congratulations."

Rozanov's eyes flicked to Shane's, and he straightened up. "Sveta, this is—"

Svetlana scoffed. "You think I don't know my Shanushka?" She handed Shane the ice-cold can of ginger ale that had somehow survived her throwing herself into Rozanov's arms. Shane popped the tab and took a grateful sip.

Rozanov gawped, face almost comically shocked. "You know—"

"She is—friend who brought me," Shane said haltingly. "How do you know Sveta?" It was getting increasingly difficult to parse Russian with all the noise.

Somehow, Rozanov's brows rose even further at the nickname. "We are friends from childhood," he said finally.

"What Ilyusha is not saying is that we fuck sometimes," Svetlana said drily, sipping her own drink.

Shane choked a little on his ginger ale, coughing and wiping at his burning nose.

Rozanov looked at the ceiling. "Jesus Christ, Sveta."

"What? We do." She took another sip of her drink, then handed it off to Shane. "Ilyusha, I'm going to dance, keep an eye on him. Shanushka, hold onto this."

Shane took it, palm over the top of the glass the way she'd taught him. Rozanov's dark eyes tracked the movement.

"Sveta—" Rozanov began, something unreadable in his tone, but Svetlana was already slipping off downstairs, melting into the crowd, leaving Shane and Rozanov alone at the railing again.

Finally, Rozanov sighed and looked back out over the lower level. "So, Hollander. Sveta is your friend? The one who teaches you Russian?"

Shane nodded. "Mostly over the phone."

Thankfully, Rozanov just seemed confused, not annoyed. "How did you meet?"

"Her father was in Ottawa for work last summer. She insulted my book and then told me we were friends." He shrugged. He really didn't know how else to explain the force of nature that was Svetlana Vetrova when she wanted to do something.

Rozanov threw back his head and laughed. "That is Sveta," he said fondly, shaking his head. "I will go down with her," he said, tilting his head towards the lower floor. "Will you come?" There was something in his eyes, something bright and curious.

Shane shook his head, smiling lopsidedly. "Too loud." He raised the drinks in his hands. "I'll wait up here."

Rozanov smirked. "Okay. See you in June."

"Goodbye, Ilya Rozanov," Shane replied, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. He tried to put the Russian inflection on it, two syllables instead of three, but wasn't sure he succeeded.

Rozanov—Ilya—stared at him, gaze lidded and strange. "Until next year, Shane Hollander." He downed his drink in one, flipped the empty glass upside down on a nearby tray, and prowled downstairs into the mass of bodies.

Neither of them had mentioned the game, and Shane realized he'd completely forgotten to be upset about the loss.

May 10 2009
Ottawa, Ontario

Shane celebrated his eighteenth birthday on a saturday afternoon, blowing out the candles on his sugarless chocolate cake and trying not to think about the fact that neither of the school friends he'd invited had been able to make it.

He got it, it was the end of junior year, nearly finals, everyone else was busy thinking about college applications, searching for scholarships, massaging their schedules for last minute GPA boosts, and yet—

He'd known Mike and Bryant for three years. They'd sat together at lunch every day. Couldn't they have come over for an hour?

Some bits of wax had dripped down the candles.

"Oh, sorry, kiddo," said his dad, taking a clean spoon and scooping away the wax. "There, all better."

Shane smiled his thanks and ate around the places the wax had touched.

After dinner, he stuck around the house, watching a movie with his parents and working on a puzzle for a bit before he got itchy and decided to go for a run.

Except when he opened the door, there stood Svetlana, in a sunset orange dress and pashmina. She looked startled, her hand raised to knock.

"Sveta? What are you doing here?" he breathed, a little concerned he was hallucinating. "Aren't you supposed to be in the Maldives?"

Svetlana just smiled. "All a ruse so I could surprise you." She held out a large flat box with a bow. "Happy birthday, Shanushka."

He took the box, abruptly blinking back tears. "Sveta—"

"Open it," she ordered.

He pulled back the lid and frowned, confused.

It was a suit, a nice suit, fabric wonderfully soft and his favorite shade of blue. The silk lining was patterned with interlocking birds, wings spread, feathers delicate and pale.

It was a nice gift, a lovely gift really, but it hardly warranted a trip across the Atlantic—

"Underneath," she said, smirking.

Well, that wasn't suspicious.

He gingerly lifted the suit out of the way—

—and slapped the fabric back down, the whole box rattling, as he blushed so hotly he could feel it radiating off his skin. "Sveta!"

Svetlana cackled, hands on hips. "I knew you would never buy for yourself while you lived at home," she said, grinning like a tiger. "You're welcome. Have fun."

Shane put the lid back on the box, careful not to crush the frightening array of sex toys and lubes and condoms that lurked underneath the suit.

"You're a menace," he hissed. God, what if his parents had come to the door? He whipped around to check, but the tv was still on and there was no movement from the living room. He relaxed fractionally.

"Come on," Svetlana said, checking her watch—it was probably a real Rolex, or something equally ludicrous—and tapping her foot. "Go change. We're going to a gala."

"You—I—what?"

She crossed her arms and leveled him with a look. "Do you want to come watch me scare old white men and eat fancy food and make fun of rich idiots? I promise you will not have to talk to anyone except me."

Shane thought about his day. About eating cake with just his parents and feeling oddly bruised. About wanting to go for a run but not wanting to be alone with his thoughts. About going to bed early because he always did. About staring at his ceiling, at the poster of Scott Hunter, wanting so many things and having no way of getting most of them.

He looked down at the box in his hands, then back up at Svetlana. "Give me a few minutes."

She smirked even as he shut the front door in her face.

"I thought you were going on a run, sweetie," said his mom from the living room. "Did I hear someone at the front door?"

"Svetlana," he called back. "She came to surprise me for my birthday. I'm, um—I'm going out with her for a bit. If that's okay?" He cursed silently; he was eighteen now, he didn't need to ask if it was okay, that was the whole point.

"Oh, that's nice! I didn't know she was in town."

He could hear the questions bubbling up in her tone: Were they really just friends? Was this a date? Could she and Shane's father finally meet her? But to Shane's eternal gratitude, she restrained herself, just this once.

"Me neither," he said truthfully, and went upstairs to change, holding the box in both hands like a live grenade.

(When he'd first told his parents that his mysterious summer friend was a Russian girl named Svetlana Vetrova, fabulously wealthy daughter of a famous Soviet player, they'd been confused, but ultimately supportive. Over the last year, between the regular phone calls and messages, it had mostly morphed into a kind of baffled acceptance.)

Shane locked his bedroom door the moment he was inside, then put the box down on his bed, pulled out the suit—miraculously unwrinkled—and stuck the lid back on, shoving the box under his hockey bag and praying nothing broke.

Then he got dressed and said his goodbyes to his parents, and before he knew it, he was locking the front door and walking down the drive.

Svetlana took the silk tie from his hand and clucked her tongue. "You will need to learn to tie these one day, Shanushka."

He smiled at her. "Why would I, when you're always there to help me?"

"This is weaponized incompetence," she said tartly, climbing into the driver's seat of the sports car she'd rented. "I do not accept this from men."

Shane climbed in, laughing, feeling like someone had opened up his ribcage and poured sunshine into all the empty spaces.

Shane woke up in his underwear in full daylight, with a bony arm flung over his hip. He stared groggily, confused, until he spotted the immaculate nail polish.

Svetlana.

He eased out from under her arm and stumbled into the washroom. He stole some of Svetlana's toothpaste and mouthwash to hold him over until he got home. He really wanted to take a shower, but he didn't have any extra clothes with him, so it would have to wait.

The lump under the duvet groaned, twisting. "Too bright," Svetlana mumbled.

Shane closed the blinds, and she made a relieved sound.

"I told you you'd regret drinking that much champagne," he said, pulling on his suit pants and undershirt. At least he'd hung up his suit last night before falling asleep.

A hand fumbled its way out of the nest of blankets and flipped him off.

He laughed. "Come on, get up. You have to drive me home, I have ice time reserved this afternoon." It was barely ten in the morning, but he had a strict routine he needed to get through before then.

"You are an evil man, Shane Hollander," Svetlana moaned into the pillow, then levered herself upright.

Shane covered his eyes and turned around. "Sveta!"

"What?" she grumbled. There was the sound of a zipper, then the rustling of clothing. "You have never seen tits before?"

"You were wearing more clothes when we fell asleep," he said exasperatedly.

"I told you, I get hot at night." There was another zipper sound. "Okay, I am decent. I need pancakes."

Before Shane could even process that abrupt subject change, his phone rang.

It was his mom.

Shane winced, then accepted the call.

"Hey, mom," he said, sitting down on bed. "Did you get my text last night? Sorry, I didn't realize the party would end so late."

But after the gala, Svetlana had been tipsy, on her way to drunk, and Shane hadn't been confident driving her manual rental, so they'd caught a cab. By the time they'd gotten back to her hotel, it was nearly 2AM, and he was ready to drop.

"That's fine, honey," his mom said. "We just wanted to know what time you two would be here for lunch."

Shane paused. There were a lot of assumptions in that sentence. "Mom—"

"I think your father and I have been pretty patient, don't you agree?"

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. "I mean, yes, but—"

"Nope, no more buts. We're going to meet her sometime, and it'd be best if you introduced us. Is she there now?"

He looked up at Svetlana, dressed in designer jeans and a tee-shirt, leaning against the wall and watching the conversation with interest.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Good," his mom said. "Put her on the phone?"

Shane gave in. He handed the phone to Svetlana, who looked delighted, then he opened the sliding door and went to sit outside on the little balcony.

He stared out at downtown Ottawa. It was mostly government buildings and offices, but there were also parks and trees and bits of nature poking through. A few streets away, church bells rang.

He was eighteen. He didn't feel any different, except for all the ways he did.

From inside the hotel room, he heard Svetlana talking, and then muffled laughter. The door slid open behind him.

"Come on, Shanushka. Yuna says your dad will make pancakes for lunch."

The minute Yuna and Svetlana started speculating about conference matchups and cup odds, it was all over. Svetlana could charm blood from a stone.

When they finished eating, Shane fled down to the den, taking long slow breaths.

He was glad they'd met. He wanted the people who were important to him to know each other. And Svetlana was important, in a way he couldn't really describe. She was the first person who'd looked at him and seen something worth more than hockey. Svetlana was herself, all the way down to the bone.

Shane's dad stepped into the den, house slippers shuffling on the tile, and handed Shane a ginger ale from the garage fridge.

"She's a real firecracker," Shane's dad said, because sometimes he talked like he was from the 40s. "I appreciate you letting us meet her. I know we were a little pushy about it, but we just want to be a part of your life. Especially now that you're all grown up."

Shane swallowed and gave his dad a hug. "You are a part of my life," he said, voice muffled by his dad's shirt. "A big part. Always."

Shane's dad kissed the side of his hair like when Shane was little, during the period where Shane's dad had grown a beard and little Shane had hated the way the bristles felt against the skin of his face. The beard hadn't lasted, and Shane was taller than his dad now, but the head-kisses had stayed.

"We love you, kiddo. You're a good egg."

"Okay, okay," Shane said quickly, before he could start crying. "Mom and Sveta are being too quiet, we should make sure they're not murdering each other."

"Or plotting world domination," Shane's dad muttered, and Shane laughed.

At Yuna's insistence, Svetlana only went back to the hotel to pick up her suitcase.

Then she drove straight back to the Hollanders' house and set up in their spare bedroom for the remainder of her week in Canada. She spent her days loafing around Shane's childhood home, snapping photos of his baby pictures, critiquing his backhand at the rink, and eating so much Tim Horton's that he was genuinely worried about her blood sugar.

In the evenings, she would drive Shane out of the city and retract the roof of the rental—which Shane hadn't even realized was a convertible—and as they left the light pollution behind, stars would spill out over the night sky.

June 2009
Los Angeles, California
The MLH Draft

Shane wanted to die a little.

Instead, he held up his jersey and two fingers—he reminded himself he was signing with Montreal, the team he'd always wanted, the team he'd dreamed of playing for, with an annual base contract worth a million Canadian dollars plus signing and performance bonuses—and tried to ignore the sinking feeling of failure at coming second.

It got worse when the photographers made him smile, because he knew it looked like melting plastic next to Ilya Rozanov's ecstatic face.

Then there was the party, where Shane had to smile more and talk to people politely and show interest in their lives and not look like he wanted to throw up and cry. At least his parents were there. His mom diverted as much attention as she could, and when she couldn't, she prompted him gently towards the right response.

He fought the urge to tell his parents how sorry he was. He wanted to apologize for making them fly out here, all the way to Los Angeles, just to watch him lose. He gritted his teeth and smiled and tried to turn his disappointment into resolve, into determination, and only failed a little.

The only bright spot was that he'd gotten an exciting text earlier in the week.

"Shanushka!" Svetlana stepped out of the crowd, grinning, dressed to kill. She swept him into a hug and pressed three feather-light kisses to his cheeks. "I am so proud of you," she said, eyes crinkling, and something in him eased.

"Thank you, Sveta," he said, sincerely. "I'm glad you're here."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Tonight is about you." Then she turned to his parents and pulled them each into a brief hug of their own. "Yuna, David, it is so good to see you again."

"Good to see you too, sweetie," Shane's mom said warmly. "You look amazing."

Svetlana beamed. "Thank you. Do you mind if I steal Shanushka away?"

"Oh, well, there's some more people I wanted him to meet—" Yuna began.

But David laid a hand on her arm. "Honey, I think Shane's done enough for tonight. He should get to celebrate with his friend, they hardly get to see each other."

Yuna paused, then yielded. "You're right." She squeezed Shane's shoulder. "Have fun, sweetheart. Both of you. We'll see you tomorrow."

Shane let Svetlana lead him up towards the buffet tables, away from the corporate sponsors and team managers making deals.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," she said, building a little plate of chicken and grapes. "LAX was a nightmare. Who designed such a terrible airport?" She thrust the plate at him. "Eat that."

He looked down. "What? Sveta, I—"

"I'm sure you have not eaten all night," she said, taking another plate for herself and filling it with pâté and cheese and crackers. "It is fine, they're all used to athlete diets. And the chicken is barely seasoned, everyone here is white."

Shane snorted before he could help himself, shaking his head fondly, and took a bite of chicken. It was actually pretty good.

"Have you seen Ilyusha?" she asked, and there was something in her voice that made him look at her. Her face was as inscrutable as ever, but there was a tightness in her eyes he didn't like the look of.

Shane shook his head. "Earlier, for photographs. Not here."

Svetlana blew out a breath and ate a piece of cheese and a grape.

"Is something the matter?" Shane asked. "Is he okay?" He had seemed fine earlier. More than fine in fact, aglow with victory and attention.

Svetlana gave him a long, calculating look.

Shane let her. He was used to getting that look from her, and he never knew what she was looking for, but so far she'd always seemed to find it.

"His father is named Grigory Rozanov," she said finally, when she'd found what she needed. "He's an asshole. Do not talk to him if you can help it."

Shane blinked. "Uh. Sure. Okay."

She nodded at him decisively and took his arm. "Let's go."

They found Rozanov on the balcony, where the Raiders' GM spoke with an older man with pale, blank eyes. Svetlana's fingers tightened around Shane's bicep.

"—needs discipline," Grigory Rozanov was saying in thickly accented English. "He can be—how you say? Lazy."

Shane's stomach sank. Rozanov's face didn't change, but he looked like he was very far away. Shane knew that feeling all too well.

The GM laughed awkwardly. "I find that very hard to believe, the way he plays!"

Rozanov met the GM's eyes. "I promise to work very hard for you," he said quietly, firmly.

"I have no doubt you will, son," the GM said, then clapped him on the shoulder affably, nodded goodbye, and left.

Svetlana's grip was like iron.

"You listen," said Grigory Rozanov, in a low, furious tone. "You listen. You don't speak. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," said Rozanov, eyes fixed on the middle-distance.

Thankfully, Grigory Rozanov must have decided he had better things to do than continue to berate his son, because he threw back his glass of champagne and walked away without another word.

Svetlana marched over and pulled Rozanov into a hug.

It took him a moment to hug back, pressing his face into her curls, tension seeping from his frame. "Sveta."

"Ilyusha," she said with a grin, smacking a kiss to his cheekbone. She said something Shane didn't understand, then said, "I'm so proud of you, I love you. And happy birthday."

Rozanov's eyes were suspiciously bright. He gave her a tiny, private smile. "Thank you, Sveta. I love you too."

Shane felt abruptly like he was intruding. He tapped Svetlana's elbow gently. "I'm gonna go get some water," he murmured.

Rozanov's eyes latched onto his. "Leaving so soon, Shanushka?" he said teasingly, and something about the diminutive out of his mouth made Shane's cheeks burn.

Svetlana smacked a hand against Rozanov's chest. "Do not bully him," she ordered. "He's my friend."

But the word she used for friend was unfamiliar, formal, not something she'd used with Shane before.

His brow wrinkled. "What does that mean, Sveta?" It was one of the first things he'd learned to ask in Russian.

She sighed in her continual frustration with the English language. "It is—like friend, but different from the English word. More. It means you are mine. Ours." She used the regular Russian word for 'ours,' svoi, but her tone was different.

"Like pet," Rozanov said with a sly grin, lounging against a pillar. "Sad little puppy in rain."

Shane recoiled. "What?" His heart pounded in his throat.

That familiar cold feeling crashed over him like a tidal wave.

His ears were ringing. Someone was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. He was suddenly hyperaware of them, how they stood like a polished matched set, speaking a language he barely knew, childhood friends, able to communicate with the tiniest of facial expressions.

The last year and a half—every phone call, every email, every text, those few rare days spent together—had it all been a joke?

Did they talk about him when he wasn't there? Complain about how strange he was, how antisocial he was? Shane had told Svetlana things, serious things, things he had never told another person. Had Rozanov been on the other end of some of those late-night phone calls, holding in his laughter?

Poor little Shane Hollander, so weird, so stupid, so fussy, so neurotic, so gay—

"I'm leaving," he said numbly, and fled, ignoring Svetlana's calls from behind him.

The angry red numbers of the hotel alarm clock read 11:52PM.

Shane couldn't sleep.

Anxiety that usually sat low and steady in his stomach had flooded up past his ribs, into his throat, pressing behind his eyes until he couldn't stand it a moment longer. Exercise would help, it always did.

The hotel gym was blessedly empty. He got on one of the bikes, turned on music at the BPM he normally biked to, and tried to lose himself in it.

It didn't work, because barely five minutes later, Ilya fucking Rozanov sat on the bike beside him and began to pedal.

Anger flared in Shane like a lightning strike.

Rozanov turned up his bike's resistance. Shane did the same.

Then they were racing, bodies heaving, the confines of the gym filling with their panting and the smell of clean sweat.

Afterwards, collapsed on the mat, Rozanov looked at him for a long time, that same searching gaze that Svetlana got, but in a slightly different font.

Shane let him look. The exercise had settled him a little, taken away some of the shame and fear and left him with a baseline of disappointment and dread.

Everything was ruined, wrong, but there was nothing he could to change it. He just had to endure it. Story of his life.

"Big day," Rozanov said finally. "Was it everything you wanted?"

Shane remembered the instant devastation when Rozanov's name was called first. "Almost."

Rozanov pulled a face. "Sorry," he said, a little singsong.

"No, you're not," Shane said sharply, amazed at the man's audacity.

Rozanov sat with his muscled thighs spread, panting, big body glistening with sweat. There was something undeniably masculine about the way he held himself, about the ease in his limbs, the bob of his throat as he gulped his water and then shook the bottle in Shane's face. Taunting, maybe, but not mocking.

Shane might be on the verge of a mental breakdown, but he damn well wasn't going to be dehydrated.

He took swigs from Rozanov's bottle until he felt less like he was about to rattle apart. Then he took another at Rozanov's breathless urging. Their hands touched, and Shane couldn't tell if the heat was adrenaline or anger or arousal, and that made it all worse.

Rozanov was the one to break the silence.

"The word Sveta used. Friend. It does not mean ownership," he said. "You are not a pet. I am sorry. It was a bad joke. Bad chirp."

Shane bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. "...Really?"

"Yes. Yes. Really."

Shane looked down. "Then what—what did it mean?" He hated how small his voice was.

Rozanov sighed. "There is no English word. It is a word for friend, yes, but it means more. Trust. Inside circle?"

"Inner circle?"

"Yes. It is important, when someone calls you this. You are one of Svetlana's people now. She cares for you." Rozanov hesitated. "She and I are this way with each other. Friends."

"Plus the fucking," Shane couldn't help but snark.

Rozanov cracked a grin. "Plus the fucking."

Shane rubbed his sweaty face and let some of the anger and frustration and fear of the day drain away. "Russian is very different from English," he admitted quietly. "It's hard."

Rozanov leaned back against the mirror, shrugging. "English is more hard."

"Harder," Shane corrected.

"Yes, many people beg me for this." Rozanov winked.

Shane blushed and prayed he was sweaty enough to hide it. "Sveta said—it was your birthday?"

Rozanov nodded. "Yes. Last week. Eighteen."

Shane smiled. "You're younger than me."

Rozanov rolled his eyes and took another drink of water. "By one month."

Shane looked at him, startled. "How do you know when my birthday is?"

"Sveta would not stop talking about it. Who do you think went with her to pick out suit?"

Shane really, really hoped Svetlana hadn't told Rozanov about the rest of the gift. He fidgeted with a loose thread on the edge of his shorts.

Fuck, it was late. He still needed to shower and get ready for bed. He had an early flight back to Ottawa with his parents.

"Talk to Sveta," Rozanov said, when Shane stood to leave. "Please."

Shane nodded. "I will." He hesitated. "Good night, Ilya."

Ilya smiled. "Good night, Shane."

Shane showered before he checked his phone. There were a dozen texts, two voicemails, and an email, all from Svetlana.

It was well past midnight. Shane flopped on the bed and called her anyways.

She picked up on the first ring. "I'm sorry, Shane," she said in a rush. "We talk so much, I forgot you are not fluent. I did not mean to—"

"Sveta," Shane interrupted, throat thick. "It is okay. I'm sorry for running away like that." He rubbed a hand through his damp hair. "I ran into Roza—into Ilya, he explained. And apologized."

Svetlana was quiet, breaths a little shuddery. "You are...okay?" she said finally, nervously.

Something about the obvious strain in her voice made that last little thread of fear resolve inside him. "I'm okay," he confirmed.

He knew Svetlana. He didn't always understand her, but he knew her.

He knew she was proud and confident and wore clothes and makeup and jewelry like armor. Knew she paid attention to her friends and paid insults to her enemies. Knew she didn't like turnips but would eat her weight in pickled radishes. He knew she wanted to be a lawyer, wanted to live outside Russia, wanted to adopt every feral street cat she saw. Like she'd adopted him.

And her friendship had always been so surreal to him that in the first real moment of doubt, he'd panicked. Afraid that all his deepest fears had come true in one heart-stopping moment. Another byproduct of his brain's faulty wiring.

"We are okay," he added, because he knew she needed to hear it. "I am not angry, Sveta. I'm glad to be your friend. I'm one of your people, and you're one of mine. My friend." He used the same word she had.

She let out a long breath. "Yes. Okay." She sniffed. "I love you, Shanushka."

"I love you too, Sveta," he said back, smiling even though no one could see it.

September 2009
Ottawa, Ontario

Shane's last year of high school flew by.

His signing bonus hit his bank account, and just the sight of all those zeroes took his breath away. He spent some of it on a car, even though Montreal supposedly had pretty good public transit, and being able to drive himself to school and the rink was both a relief and a little sad. He'd liked those precious minutes with his parents, liked the routine of it, the way it made him feel settled. But he would have to build new routines when he moved to Montreal, and it was better to start now.

School got better and worse. Better because he'd finished most of his graduation requirements and the dean had agreed to count his rink time as independent study P.E., meaning he could leave at noon every day.

Worse because people stared at him a little more in the hallways now. He'd gotten taller over the summer and packed on a lot of muscle during training camp, and suddenly people moved out of his way. Girls whispered when he went by, sometimes giggling and blushing, sometimes just looking at him hungrily. He didn't always know what they wanted—did they want his body? His future MLH money? Fame? Status?

The little glances from other boys were even more difficult to parse. Did they want to be him or fuck him? He wondered if they even knew.

Since he left every day before lunch, he didn't have to sit with Mike and Bryant anymore. Instead he ate his meal prep in a booth at the rink and tried not to think about what a relief it was.

Hockey was all that mattered, and he finally had time to focus on it.

Over Christmas, Svetlana mailed him increasingly bizarre Russian snacks to try, and then on New Years, she called him from a party as the clock struck zero in Moscow. He called her back eight hours later at midnight in Ottawa, vindictively pleased to hear her hungover and cursing his ancestors.

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ

Sveta
See you soon!
Don't worry about clothes, I will bring them

Shane
I am looking forward to it!

Sveta
Your Russian is so cute
I'm going to pinch your cheeks like a proud grandmother

Shane
...did I mistranslate that?

Sveta
No

January 2010
Zurich, Switzerland
World Juniors

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
The pictures you sent are beautiful, honey. Maybe we could all go for a vacation there someday? I know the food is a little heavy for your tastes, but I'm sure we can find something.

Shane
I'd love to come back with you guys. And it turns out there is actually non-cheese food here, lol. I really like their muesli, and there's this vegetarian restaurant by the hotel called "tibits" that I've eaten at basically every day.

Mom
Glad to hear it! I'm so happy you're having a good time <3

Shane's last Worlds came with a rough tournament table, games crammed close due to weather delays. He muscled Canada through to the finals with his nutritionist-approved meal plan and pure spite.

It was, of course, Russia versus Canada.

Shane skated lazy circles after his warmup, eyes fixed on the Russian team, checking for injuries, noting weaknesses, recalculating the odds, and all the while keeping an ear out. But the Russians just...chatted. They talked like teammates, chirping and arguing and giving each other shit.

Whatever Ilya had said or done to them in the last year, his teammates had clearly learned to keep their mouths shut.

Shane shrugged it off. They were still assholes, but at least they were quiet assholes.

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
[BREAKING]: Canada clinches gold over Russia in World Juniors final, Sweden takes bronze.

Ilya scowled at Shane over center ice as they shook hands. "Good game."

Shane just grinned. "Good game. See you later."

None of the Canadian team invited Shane out to celebrate afterwards, but that was okay. He already had plans.

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
Congratulations sweetheart!! That was an amazing game, your dad and I are so proud of you <3 <3
Have fun celebrating, say hi to Svetlana for us!

Shane
Thanks mom, I will!

Svetlana swung by Shane's hotel room at seven, decked out in all black, garment bag in hand, and immediately kicked out his astonished roommate, a D-man from Vancouver who snored like a chainsaw.

When Shane was dressed, she looked him over carefully. Then she unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

It did feel better, not so restrictive around his throat or wrists, but it also made him feel bare. Vulnerable.

"Trust me," she said, smiling slyly. "The boys will not know what hit them."

Shane pointedly ignored that. He double-checked that his room key was in his wallet, and they stepped out into the hall.

The hallway had changed in the ten minutes since Svetlana had arrived.

There were suddenly a lot of open doorways filled with Canadian men and boys trying for casual and missing by a mile. Some of them were half dressed for a night out, and some were already in their pajamas, and all of them gawped as Shane and Svetlana passed.

"Holy shit, dude," one of the younger boys whispered. "Who is that?"

Another voice added, "And what the fuck is she doing with iceblock Hollzy?" There were a few laughs.

Shane gritted his teeth and pushed the elevator button.

Svetlana leaned into his shoulder, her perfume light and floral. "Put your hand on my ass."

He tensed, looking down at her. "What? Why?" His heart was pounding, and not in a good way.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened, and they stepped forward.

"Just do it," she murmured. "Or I will have to put mine on yours. It wouldn't be a chore." She winked.

Shane sighed and shook his head. Then he put an arm around her waist, steeled himself, and slid his hand down to cup her ass.

It was a great ass, objectively, and Shane tried not to focus on the fact that it did absolutely nothing for him.

From behind him, there was an explosion of whispers, a low whistle that cut off midway, and then the elevator doors closed behind them, and Shane was free to snatch his hand back.

"What the fuck, Sveta?"

"You're welcome," she said, grinning and leaning against the elevator railing. "Few have had the privilege."

"You are an asshole," he said. "That was weird."

She gave him a look. "Yes. But now they all know Shane Hollander fucks beautiful women, and that is a useful reputation for you to have. You're welcome."

The elevator stopped in the lobby. Shane followed her out silently.

Ilya was already sitting on the hood of Svetlana's rental sports car, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He had a cigarette in hand, plus two stubs crushed at his feet, and his jaw was tight—probably still pissed about the loss—but it relaxed a little when he caught sight of them.

For a moment, Shane thought Ilya's eyes flicked down to his open collar, to the hollow of his throat, but then Ilya's gaze was back on Svetlana, smiling easily, exchanging cheek kisses and stubbing out his cigarette.

Shane turned to Svetlana, mildly betrayed. "How come he gets to wear a jacket, but I'm freezing my ass off in this button-down with the sleeves rolled up? It's January, Sveta. In Switzerland."

"Because your forearms are too sexy to hide," Svetlana said, sliding into the car and starting the motor. A wave of warm air rolled out of the heat vents as Shane and Ilya climbed in, Shane up front with Svetlana, Ilya lounging sideways in the cramped backseat. "And Ilyusha can dress himself. Even if he dresses like an American high school bully."

Ilya barked out a laugh. "Sveta, you hypocrite. You dress like a fucking Bond villain."

She gestured over her shoulder with one fist, and he laughed again.

"What is that?" Shane asked.

Ilya leaned forward until Shane could feel his hot breath on his ear. He reached a hand over and showed Shane his fist, his thumb tucked between his middle and index fingers. "This is the fig. It means fuck you."

Please fuck me harder, Shane remembered suddenly, viscerally, and blushed, pressing his face against the coolness of the window glass. He felt the weight of Ilya's eyes on the back of his neck.

"Oh, Shanushka. Look in the glove box," Svetlana said. "I brought you a gift."

Shane's brows rose. "A gift?" He really hoped it wasn't like his birthday gifts. He did as she asked, but all that was in there was the car registration, the rental agreement, and a plastic blister pack of—

"Are these earplugs?" he asked, confused.

She nodded. "Yes, for the club. If it is too loud."

He swallowed. "Sveta—"

"No one will care," Ilya drawled from behind Shane's ear. "They will be drunk."

"Many wear them for concerts, 𝐲𝐞𝐬?" Svetlana said. "To keep their ears safe."

And then the conversation shifted easily back into Russian, Svetlana and Ilya idly gossiping about former classmates from Moscow. Carefully, Shane put the earplugs in his pocket.

His heart was pounding and his body still ached from the game, but as Svetlana sped through the dark, Ilya laughing in the backseat, Shane wasn't sure he'd ever felt so relaxed.

US Weekly @ᴜsᴡᴇᴇᴋʟʏᴍᴀɢ
Top MLH draft picks and daughter of Soviet goalie spotted in Swiss nightclub — check out our exclusive photos. [...]

The Star @sᴛᴀʀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Sparks fly in Switzerland? Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander compete for love, new details from a trusted source. [...]

The National Inquirer @ɴᴀᴛɪɴǫᴜɪʀᴇʀɴᴇᴡs
Hockey rookies caught with daughter of Putin crony?? Click here for more!

Puck Talk Podcast @ᴘᴜᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴋᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Hey Puckheads, we're back tomorrow with our DOOZY of a World Juniors episode, where we rewatch the slo-mo of that crazy save by Sweden's backup goalie, sign a petition for the Swiss refs to get their eyes checked, and, of course, talk about the MLH's secret BFFs: rookies Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. Tune in at 7PM EST/4PM PST!

danny @ᴠᴀɴ_ᴍᴀɴ𝟾𝟸
⤷@sᴛᴀʀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
tbh going out and partying like that seems kind of unprofessional of them. they're representing their countries, not on vacation.

cameron @ᴀᴠᴀʟᴀɴᴄʜᴇ_sᴛᴀɴɴɴ
⤷@ᴠᴀɴ_ᴍᴀɴ𝟾𝟸
as if anyone gives a shit about the opinion of a vancouver fan lmao

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
i can't believe my baby is all grown up and corrupting good canadian boys
#ilyarozanov #shanehollander

logan @ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏ-ᴍᴀɴɪᴀᴄ𝟺𝟺𝟷𝟼
⤷@ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
our boy Hollander is way too solid to ever be tainted by that asshole

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
⤷@ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏ-ᴍᴀɴɪᴀᴄ𝟺𝟺𝟷𝟼
your boy? you know he doesn't start until next season, right?

logan @ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏ-ᴍᴀɴɪᴀᴄ𝟺𝟺𝟷𝟼
⤷@ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
he literally JUST won gold for Canada, he's basically a national hero

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
⤷@ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏ-ᴍᴀɴɪᴀᴄ𝟺𝟺𝟷𝟼
fair enough

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
Hey honey, just a heads up, there are some articles out today about you and Svetlana. Nothing to stress about, just wanted to let you know.

Shane
Thanks mom, I saw.

Mom
Remember, if anyone asks, you can just say she's a friend who came to help you celebrate.

Shane
?
She is my friend who came to help me celebrate.
Why wouldn't I tell people that?

Mom
Nevermind, honey. I love you, text me when you're at the airport.

Shane
Love you too!

The Boston Globe, Opinion

Heated Rivalry? Or Cold War Propaganda?

In Friday's World Juniors final, Canada beat Russia 3-2, in what some are calling long-awaited revenge for last year, when Russia beat Canada in a 4-1 bloodbath that left many Canadian fans heartbroken.

The long awaited rematch between the two top MLH draft picks, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, seems to have confirmed what many have suspected since June: the draft rankings were a total toss-up. Their play styles might be vastly different, but the two are clearly evenly matched.

The young men seem to be living parallel lives: Rozanov (signed to the Boston Raiders) captained Russia to victory last year; this year Hollander (signed to the Montreal Metros) did the same for Canada.

They've both taken impressive signing bonuses on top of cap-limit ELCs and sponsorship deals. The Metros/Raiders feud is legendary, and both teams—and the MLH itself—are clearly building that narrative around these two rookies.

Except—rivals doesn't necessarily mean enemies.

Hollander and Rozanov were spotted out together at a club* in Zurich mere hours after the medals ceremony, along with Rozanov's longtime friend Svetlana Vetrova.

*(All three are of legal drinking age in Switzerland. Swiss law says you must be 16 to purchase beer and 18 to purchase spirits.)

Sources close to the Canadian team say Hollander and Vetrova were seen leaving his hotel room together earlier in the evening.

But perhaps most tellingly, Hollander and Rozanov were seen speaking several times throughout the tournament, which is a marked departure from Hollander's usual stoicism and Rozanov's notorious antagonism.

Are they fellow captains with a mutual respect? Do they tolerate each other for their mutual acquaintance, Vetrova?

Or maybe—behind the onslaught from the media, their teams, and the league's marketing department—they're actually friends?

As a lifelong hockey fan, I selfishly hope it's the latter. And, most of all, I'm excited to watch these two play some damn good hockey, friends or not.

Ted Brannigan, Associate Editor of Sports

June 2010
Ottawa, Ontario

The day Shane graduated, he felt like he could breathe.

No more school. No more report cards. No more trying to find time for studying and exams when all he wanted to do was practice.

No more classmates wondering why Shane was so weird, or trying to get him to go on dates, or trying to figure out why some awkward Asian-Canadian kid got signed to a fucking MLH team.

School was done. For good.

Now he could focus.

Hockey, home, repeat.

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ

Sveta
So
Did your birthday gifts arrive safely?
Have you tried them on?

Shane
Jesus christ, Sveta
I can't believe you sent that through the mail

Sveta
What?
I was merciful, wasn't I?

Shane
...
Sveta
In what world is sending me a box of lacy lingerie merciful???

Sveta
I waited until you had your own place
That is merciful
And it is all tailored to you, I checked Yuna's newest stat sheet

Shane
You are an insane person
...
Thank you for the presents

Sveta
😘

July 2010
Montréal, Québec

The Metros' development camp was a brutal grind. Shane woke up every morning at 5:15AM, choked down a protein shake, ran 8km on the treadmill, ate breakfast, drove to the rink, and trained until his muscles turned to putty.

There were a few actual Metros around, mostly veterans who were planning on going into coaching, plus the team's captain, a hulking man named Johanssen, who came by once in a while to look them over with steely eyes.

There were two unfamiliar guys from Shane's draft class, JJ and Hayden, and they seemed nice enough. They were both second-round picks, respectable and steady, and they didn't seem to give a shit that he'd drafted so high except to gently chirp him up about the air being thinner up there.

It was...good. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had hockey friends. And it was even better to know that since they'd already signed too, they'd be starting with him. He wouldn't the only rookie.

But the others—

A handful of Shane's former teammates from the 67s were there, and two World Juniors' players already signed to lower league teams, and none of them even tried to talk to him off the ice. All so fucking bitter about drafting so much lower than him or not being drafted at all, like he'd had any control over that.

They were the ones who'd skipped practices and tape review, or half-assed workout sessions, or ate garbage and went out partying before games, and now they were pissy about the consequences.

Still. It hurt, how much they seemed to resent his presence. His existence.

Then he overheard someone say, "Man, I still can't believe Svetlana fucking Vetrova turned out to be a puckslut for the iceblock," and the hurt instantly transmuted into rage, into determination.

He played clean, skated hard, and did his best to show the Metros that he was worth being their pick. And if he ground everyone else—except maybe JJ and Hayden—into the ice along the way, well, this was a competition, wasn't it?

It didn't feel like much of one, most days. Shane was head and shoulders above the others.

He let them hate him. They would need something to keep them warm back down in Laval.

After practice, he drove back to his new Montreal apartment, ate his meal prep, laid out on the couch with frozen peas on his bruises, and returned a missed call from Svetlana.

"Sveta, hey—"

"I am enrolled at NYU!"

Shane dropped the remote. "Holy shit! Sveta!"

"I know," she squealed. "I am so excited, I have been packing all day. Fuck! I still can't believe it."

"Holy shit," he repeated.

"I am moving to New York," she breathed. "Oh my god."

As she laid out her plans for taking New York by storm, Shane flopped back on the couch, dazed. For the next four years, Svetlana was going to be on the same continent. A train ride away. Within driving distance. He closed his eyes, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, and listened to her plan her new life.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. I know that Russian is structured very differently from English, so Shane's mistranslations/errors aren't exact, but I tried to get the vibe of his learning experience across.
2. I'm using a mix of the show and book names for the leagues and international tournament events, but I'm basing Ilya and Svetlana's friendship on the show.
3. If you notice any errors, feel free to tell me so I can correct them!

(I grew up next to LAX, so I have the right to trash talk it. Truly a garbage airport design.)

Chapter 2: July 2010-Oct 2010

Chapter Notes

The summer before their rookie-season.

Warnings:
- this chapter is where we start earning that E rating.
- there's also some gross misogyny and racism from Known Assholes the Montreal Metros, but it doesn't go unchallenged.

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

July 2010
Toronto, Ontario

Svetlana was enrolled at NYU on a Tuesday, and by the next Friday, she was living in New York City. Sometimes money and connections made things stupidly easy.

Having Svetlana in New York also meant that for the first time, they were living in the same time zone.

Now they could actually talk for more than a snatched half an hour. Shane called her during his morning runs on the days she had to be up early for class, listening to her slowly become human over two cups of poisonously strong coffee and a danish.

Listening to her sleepy grumbling forced his Russian to improve in leaps in bounds. He still struggled with all the gendered nouns and their declensions, and his mouth still really didn't seem to want to make the sounds required by certain Cyrillic words, but he understood more and more every day.

When CCM told his mother that the photoshoot in Toronto was also going to include the other top draft pick, one Ilya Rozanov, Shane couldn't wait to show off a little.

After Shane's individual shots—a half hour of skating around face-off circles and spraying ice at the cameras while trying to look 'determined'—the crew called Ilya off the bench, sent them both to center ice, and made them stand next to bean bag marks so the crew could do lighting tests.

Shane grinned as they skated up to each other. "Good to see you. How has your training camp been?"

Ilya scowled, pouting. "This is not fair. You have Sveta to practice with. I am stuck with Marly."

"Marly?"

"Cliff Marlow. I am—living with him? For rookie year."

"Billeting."

"Yes, billeting. Not fair."

"It is nice having her so close," Shane admitted. "In the same time zone. I like hearing about her pre-law program."

He wondered sometimes what college would have been like, if he'd gone that route. If he'd gotten a scholarship and played for a school—McGill, maybe, like his dad. What would he have studied? Was school different when you were older? Did people treat it seriously? Would he have actually made friends? Gone to parties? Dated?

Ilya groaned, breaking Shane out of his thoughts. "This is rude. Marly only talks about hockey and women and how Boston winter is shit. How can I learn English like this?"

Shane laughed. "Your English is actually very good," he said. "Better than my Russian."

Ilya flapped a gloved hand. "Your accent is much better. You sould like a real Muscovite now."

"A Muscovite with a head injury."

Ilya burst out laughing, startling a nearby PA. "Careful, Hollander. Or people will realize you're not so boring."

"We would not want that, would we, Rozanov?"

"No."

Ilya grinned at him crookedly, and Shane couldn't help but smile back.

"Okay boys! We're all set. Just like we talked about, find your marks."

"You look pretty," Ilya said idly in English, once they were hunched over the blue dot like a pair of idiots, faces so close Shane could count every one of Ilya's moles.

Shane rolled his eyes. "Do you mean handsome? Handsome?"

Ilya shook his head. "No, I mean pretty. Pretty."

"You're wearing makeup too," Shane said, cheeks warming.

"Yes, but I do not look pretty—"

The direct called out, "Come on guys, can we focus? More intensity, less chit-chat."

Shane flushed, looking away.

"Yes, sorry," Ilya called. "Sorry, we can do it."

They skated up again and again, sticks clacking on the ice, jerseys pulled artfully taut with the wardrobe team's carefully hidden safety pins and binder clips. This was photo-op gear, glossy and new, not actual game or practice gear. Wouldn't people be able to tell?

It could have been an hour, it could have been ten hours. After a while, the repetition grew mind-numbing. Shane tried to stay focused, tried not to drift—

Then he caught Ilya's eye again and both of them cracked up.

The director sighed. "Okay, I think we've got enough to work with," he said, and Shane skated to the bench gratefully, Ilya at his heels.

"That was silly," Shane said, pulling off the too-shiny helmet and weird tailored jersey.

Ilya shrugged. "Of course. It is TV. Not real." He chugged some water.

Shane sighed, leaning against the boards. "So when did they tell you you'd be doing this?"

Ilya shook his head. A droplet of sweat rolled down his neck and disappeared into the collar of his compression shirt. "They tell me nothing. I asked them."

"What?" Shane blinked at him. "Why?"

Ilya smirked. "I thought it would be fun."

"So was Rozanov being a dick again?"

"What?" Shane tore his eyes away from the ice down below, where Ilya was skating figure-eights, and turned back to his mom.

She looked up from her phone, brow knit. "You said he was a dick the first time you met, and I could hear him laughing from up here. Was he trying to mess up the shoot?"

"What? No," Shane said, startled. "Why would he—? We were just talking. And it was both of us laughing, not just him." That felt suddenly important to mention.

She studied his face, tucking her phone in her pocket. "So he wasn't being a dick?"

Oh. Shit. Had he forgotten to tell his parents that Ilya was sort of his friend?

"He wasn't. He's—he's one of Sveta's childhood friends," he managed eventually. "Don't you remember, we all hung out in Switzerland? He was a good sport about losing. And today we were just—wouldn't you start laughing if you had to stare into someone's eyes for two hours?"

"So the whole 'rivals' thing...?"

He shrugged, looking down at his non-Reebok shoes. "That's from the league, not us. You've seen the marketing emails. I mean yeah, I wanna kick his ass on the ice, but not because he's a bad guy."

"But when you first met," she said slowly, "you said—"

"I know," Shane interrupted. "But you know how I don't—how I can't always tell when someone's joking or not," he said, the closest they'd ever come to addressing how bad he was at catching emotional subtext and reading microexpressions, especially with strangers. He licked his lips. "When I met him, he wasn't mean or anything. I think he was just chirping."

She looked out at the ice, then back at Shane for a long moment. "Okay," she said finally. "If you say he's not a dick, I trust your judgment."

Shane shrugged. "I mean, he is kind of a dick, but he's not a piece of shit," he said, then flushed. "Sorry, I didn't meant to swear—"

His mom laughed. "Honey, you're nineteen. And I'm sure I've heard—and said—far worse," she added dryly.

He mustered up a grin. "I know. I've watched Cup games with you."

She nudged him gently in the arm. "Go get cleaned up, sweetie, I bet you're dying for a shower."

Now that she mentioned it, his skin was crawling. Four hours of sweating under hot studio lights and then another half an hour talking to his mom in dirty clothes that weren't even a real hockey uniform, and he was ready to scrub himself raw.

"I'll meet you back at the hotel?" CCM had booked them rooms in the hotel across the street from the rink.

She nodded. "I'm going to reply to Reebok and then email Farah and let her know how today went."

"You should get yourself dinner," he said. "I'm probably just going to order a bunch of salmon or something from room service, since CCM's buying."

She laughed. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and escaped down to the locker room. Down on the ice, the crew was starting to break down their equipment, big lights and bounces folded up and stowed in bags.

The rink's water pressure wasn't amazing, but it was hot and plentiful, and the cheap soap was the familiar stuff most hockey rinks in Ontario seemed to buy in bulk. And since it was the off-season, the showers were blessedly free of the ubiquitous dirty sock smell.

Shane rinsed the sweat from his hair and stood under the water for a long moment, letting the weight of the day sluice off of him.

Then there was movement in the corner of his eye, and he remembered with a stomach-clenching thud that he'd spent so long talking to his mom upstairs that Ilya had finished his solo shots.

Shane's heart hammered in his ears.

Ilya had turned on the showerhead two down from Shane and was soaping himself up unselfconsciously, head tilted back, rivulets of water streaming down his traps and delts and towards the sharp edges of his hips. Over the broad swell of his ass and thighs.

Shane forced his gaze sideways, studying the grout with the intensity he usually applied to hockey memoirs, willing himself not to look again, begging his body not to blush, and, if he did, praying the hot water would explain it away.

He'd had literal nightmares about this exact situation.

It was something you learned early if you spent a lot of time in locker rooms. You didn't look at other guys. Didn't feel your pulse kick up at their presence. Didn't think about the width of their hands, the exact placement of their calluses, the severe cupid's bow of their lips, the sharpness of their smirks. Didn't think about their weight pressing into you.

Didn't think about how it would feel to beg. To be held down and made to take it.

Fuck.

Shane swallowed down a rush of saliva, and without any input from him, his gaze darted back over and froze, pinned in place.

Ilya was looking at him. Not in the standard 'We're all just dudes in the locker room, there's nothing weird about chatting with your bro while you wash your dick!' way.

He was looking at Shane lazily, like a lion that had spotted a limping gazelle. His eyes flickered over Shane, head to toe, pausing at his hips, at his ass, at his—

Fuck, Shane was hard.

"See something you like?" Ilya asked, smirking.

"Fuck off," Shane snapped automatically, turning back to the wall, fingers trembling. But he couldn't help it, embarrassment and dread churning in his stomach, couldn't help but let his eyes flit back—

—and found Ilya with a hand on his cock, a casual overhand motion that lit up under Shane's skin like a struck match. His own dick give an interested twitch.

Shane's eyes tracked the movement of Ilya's hand without his consent, glued to where his fingers stroked up and down his length, thumbing just under the flushed head, unhurried, like this was a totally normal thing to be doing in the showers after the first sponsorship photoshoot of their MLH careers—

"Not here," Shane managed, ripping his eyes away, pulse roaring in his ears, so turned on he was surprised he could remember English, let alone Russian.

Ilya didn't object, just stepped back under the water and rinsed off like nothing was wrong. Shane ducked out as soon as the suds were gone, and Ilya did the same. They dried off and got dressed in a silent tableau that made Shane think of that hotel gym after the draft.

Shane knew he ought to say something to stop this before it went any further, before it fucked up both their lives, but every time he looked over at Ilya and tried to muster words, they died on his lips. He reached down to adjust himself in his pants.

See something you like?

Heart pounding behind his ribs, he tied his shoes, checked briefly that Ilya was ready—he was, eyes lidded and dark and fixed on Shane—and grabbed his bag, Ilya a half step behind.

The heat and humidity of Toronto summer hit them like a slap to the face as they left the artificial cool of the rink. Shane was suddenly profoundly grateful for CCM's hotel choice; he wasn't going to have to take a cab or try to navigate Toronto's weirdly U-shaped train system while half-hard and sweaty.

He felt Ilya's attention on him like a physical touch, a predator tracking prey. It did nothing to help his dick or his sweatiness.

As they passed through the hotel's revolving door, back into blessed air conditioning, Ilya put a hand on Shane's back and crowded in close behind him. His palm seared through the thin cotton of Shane's shirt. They stepped into the lobby and—

"Shane!"

—Shane's soul briefly left his body; Ilya's hand flinched away.

They exchanged a loaded glance that lasted an objective fraction of a second and a subjective thousand years. Shane didn't know what his face was doing, but his brain was screaming garbled panic. Ilya just nodded at him and wandered over to the elevators.

Heart still in his throat, Shane turned and found his mom waving from one of the plush lobby chairs.

Well, at least he wasn't anywhere near hard anymore. Might never get hard again, in fact.

She stood up, draping her rink coat over one arm. "I just finished up with Reebok, I thought we could go up together."

He smiled weakly and followed his mom over to the bank of elevators, where Ilya waited, looking almost bored.

To Shane's horror, his mom—bastion of Canadian politeness—stuck out her hand. "Ilya Rozanov? I'm Yuna Hollander, Shane's mom."

Ilya darted a glance at Shane and shook her hand. "Nice to meet you," he said, and to Shane's immense relief, he sounded sincere. "Your son is a good player."

Yuna smiled. "The best."

Ilya shrugged. "Second best, maybe."

Yuna let out a sharp huff that might have been an offended scoff, might have been surprised laughter.

Shane forced his shoulders to unclench, forced himself to breathe through the swirling lance of unwarranted anxiety that came from seeing his mom talking to Ilya.

This was a terrible idea. Too many different parts of Shane in close quarters. Too many things he wanted to keep separate. Maybe he could grab Ilya by the arm and they could take the stairs instead. All fourteen flights. They were athletes, they'd be fine. They could tell his mom it was extra cardio.

Then the elevator doors dinged open and they all stepped inside, Shane included, and he was officially stuck in a metal box with his mother and the man he was sort of maybe about to have some kind of sex with.

The numbers above the door ticked slowly upwards. Shane's mom settled against the railing and looked to Ilya again. "So, Shane mentioned you and Svetlana are childhood friends?"

Shane prayed for Ilya not to say 'Also sometimes we fuck.'

Ilya nodded. "Yes. Sveta is my best friend. One of my favorite people." He slung an arm over Shane's shoulders, reeling him in close. "But I settle for Shane tonight."

Shane was going to pass out.

Shane's mom crossed her arms, frowning. "You two are going out tonight? Shane, honey, I don't think—"

Before Shane could even try to lie—badly, so badly—Ilya shook his head. "No, no, not go out. We stay in his room, yes? We watch game tape, get room service pizza. It is nice to speak Russian. Even if Shane has bad accent."

That's not what you said earlier, Shane wanted to retort, but didn't, both because the weight of Ilya's body pressed to his was melting his higher brain function and because the bullshit coming out of Ilya's mouth was in service to a higher cause, namely, getting them the fuck out of this elevator and into a room with a lock where Shane could maybe touch Ilya's dick.

It worked. Shane's mom softened visibly. "Oh, of course." Then she smiled wryly. "But if you think you can get Shane to order a pizza, you're mistaken."

"Mom," Shane said, betrayed.

"Bet?" Ilya asked, looking delighted, firm bicep pressed against the blush at the back of Shane's neck.

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now you've done it." His mother never backed down from a challenge, ever. She was just as stubborn and competitive as he was, maybe more.

Sure enough, his mother said, "It's absolutely a bet."

"Stakes?" Ilya was having way too much fun with this.

She eyed him narrowly. "You're not going to win. But if you did—I'd buy a Raiders jersey."

Shane actually gasped, the sound loud in the elevator.

But Ilya shook his head. "No, no, when I win I send you a jersey."

"And when I win?" she said, crossing her arms. "Will you wear a Metros jersey?"

Ilya pulled a face. "That is cruel and unusual. No, if you win, I eat like Shane for a week. That is real punishment. No cheese, no alcohol, no joy."

"Ilya!" Shane elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

His mom laughed. "You're on, Rozanov."

"Ilya." He stuck out his hand.

"Ilya," she agreed, shaking it. "Call me Yuna. It's a bet."

The elevator dinged. Shane ducked out from under Ilya's arm and lurched forward to hold the doors open. "I think this is your floor, mom." He hoped he didn't look as deranged as he felt.

She glanced up at the glowing '12' above the door. "Yep, this is me. Shane, I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast." She pressed a kiss to his cheek and stepped out. "Good to meet you, Ilya. Don't stay up too late, boys." She smiled warmly and turned down the hallway.

The doors closed. Shane thunked his head against the wall. "You are insane."

Ilya hummed. "Your mom is nice." It didn't sound mocking, just matter-of-fact.

"Yeah," Shane said, cheeks still hot. "I have no idea how you got her to like you so quickly, she hates the Raiders more than anyone I know." That was an understatement. One of Shane's first memories was watching a Centaurs game from his mother's shoulders, listening to her boo Boston's lineup as they skated onto the ice.

Ilya smirked. "I'm a likeable person."

It was only standing in front of 1410 that Shane remembered suddenly why they'd come up together. He fumbled the door open with sweaty palms, Ilya so close behind him that Shane could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the faint musk of his cologne.

The door swung shut and latched automatically behind them, and everything was quiet.

Ilya took a cursory glance around the room, then those heavy eyes swung back to focus on Shane.

"This is a bad idea," Shane breathed, suddenly dizzy with the shrinking inches between them. There, he'd said it, he'd done his due diligence.

Wait, shit, what if Ilya agreed? What if Ilya also thought this was a bad idea, what if he left, what if they didn't—

But Ilya just looked him over, gaze lidded, and said quietly, "What is?"

He didn't wait for an answer, pressing Shane against the wall, body tucked close and hot, strong fingers guiding his jaw, and kissed him.

Shane had kissed people before. He'd kissed a few girls during Truth or Dare, and he'd kissed his high school girlfriend a fair amount, and he'd kissed a woman in the bathroom of that nightclub in Zurich. She'd left lipstick smudges on his neck, and Svetlana had laughed and given him makeup remover wipes.

He'd never been kissed by someone who so clearly knew what they were doing. Ilya started off gentle, little sips of kissing that suddenly slid into one big kiss, and then Shane felt Ilya's tongue at his lips and opened his mouth with a helpless groan that he felt all the way to the base of his cock.

Oh. Oh.

Shane panted into the wet heat of Ilya's mouth, hard and squirming against him, and fuck, Ilya was hard too, the hot line of his cock stiff against Shane's hip. Ilya bullied one massive thigh between Shane's legs, giving him something to grind against, and time slipped sideways into yes and more. Fuck, fuck, why had Shane tried so hard to pretend he didn't want this?

Part of him had known since Saskatchewan. Since he watched Ilya's lips pressed tight around a cigarette, a flash of pink tongue behind his smirk. Eyes bright and curious and sharp. Golden curls and moles speckled across his skin, a figure cut from veined marble.

They'd shaken hands in an alley and part of Shane had understood what it felt like to be doused in gasoline and lit on fire.

Ilya's denim jacket was on the floor somewhere, and Shane's shirt was gone too, and those big hands were kneading at Shane's pecs like they were tits, plucking softly at his nipples until Shane whimpered little shocked ah, ah, ah noises into his open mouth.

After an embarrassing amount of fumbling, Shane finally managed to unbutton Ilya's jeans and get a hand around his cock.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya muttered, hips jerking forward, cock slick and hard and scalding in Shane's palm.

Shane dropped to his knees, clumsy and hungry and overwhelmed by the punch of arousal.

He'd watched porn, okay? And even in the ones where the girls seemed happy to suck a guy off, they'd never seemed unsatisfied without it. Never seemed like they felt like crying because there was nothing in their mouth. Never been desperate for it, panting and horny and drooling.

Shane thought he'd maybe wanted this since the first time he'd learned what a blowjob was.

He opened his mouth, set the silky head on his tongue, and slid down, down, until there was no room left in his mouth, until his lips bumped his knuckles.

Spit leaked down his chin as he bobbed up and down, eyes fluttering closed, loud thoughts narrowing down into the simplicity of heat and skin, of the filthy taste of precome, of the bitten-off sounds Ilya was making above him.

He noted distantly that Ilya's cock was thicker than the silicone dildo he'd practiced on. But he also tasted better, and was responsive and sensitive, and Shane could feel every hitch in his hips, every tremor as Ilya fought not to thrust into his mouth, and it was so much better than anything Shane had imagined.

"Fuck," Ilya hissed, one hand going to Shane's hair.

Oh, that was nice too. Not pressing him down, just touching, petting, a gentle, steadying counterpoint to the all-encompassing sensation of sucking dick. Shane was in real danger of melting into a puddle of arousal and contentment.

Too soon, those strong hands were pulling him off and up, into another kiss. Shane whined at the sudden emptiness, the head rush from standing, the slight ache in his knees.

"Was it—was it bad?" he asked tentatively.

"No, no, it was good," Ilya said, looking gratifyingly wrecked, wiping spit off Shane's mouth with the back of a knuckle. "Opposite. Too good," he admitted.

Shane leaned back against the door. "Really?"

Ilya's face shifted. "Is this your first time with a man?"

Shane nodded. "You?"

Ilya shook his head. "No."

"What? Really? Who?" Maybe Shane shouldn't be asking all these questions, maybe it was rude, but just the idea of it was—a lot. "Another player?" Was there some kind of secret hockey player hookup network?

Ilya shook his head. "Ah, no. My coach's son, back in Russia."

Shane went still.

That wasn't losing an MLH contract. That was actual, tangible danger.

"Holy shit, Ilya."

Ilya shrugged. "I know. But I like trouble." He smirked, leaning in to scrape his teeth over Shane's neck, and the temperature between them kicked up twenty degrees. "Did you like sucking my cock? It seemed like it. You went down on your knees so easily."

Shane shivered like a tuning fork that had been twanged. He pressed his palms to the planes of muscle across Ilya's chest. "Fuck you," he said, walking them both to the bed.

They shed their clothes as they went, Ilya kicking everything off at the foot of the bed, Shane pausing to fold his things over the back of the chair, and by the time Shane was naked, Ilya was back to that hazy predator stare, eyes wide and dark and hungry.

"What do you want?" Ilya breathed, gaze sweeping over him. "Want me to blow you?"

Shane squeezed the base of his dick so he wouldn't come just from that. "Just—lean back?"

Ilya complied, settling back on his elbows to watch as Shane muscled his way between Ilya's thighs, got his mouth back on his cock, and let the rest of the world dissolve into static.

He wasn't sure how long he sucked Ilya off, tonguing desperately at the slit, coaxing out drops of precome that made him drool even more, made the frantic noise in his brain go blissfully quiet as he bobbed up and down, every movement rubbing his own dripping cock against the bed.

"Fuuuckk," Ilya gritted out, big hand cradling Shane's skull. "Yes, like that, Shane, good, fuck, so good. You're a natural."

This time, Shane got to feel him get close, felt the way his velvety balls drew up against his body, the way the vein on the underside throbbed heavily against Shane's tongue. Then he pulled Shane off again, getting a fist around his dick and jerking himself off the rest of the way, coming with a moan that vibrated through his chest, loud in the quiet hotel room.

"Fuck," Ilya said again, flopping back, panting, loose-limbed and covered in a light sheen of sweat, necklace glinting against his collarbone. "Not bad, for first time." He sat up and grabbed a tissue. "Okay, that was fun."

Shane stared at him. "Are you serious?" Was he really going to leave? Would he really just—

"What, you need something?" Ilya quirked a brow.

—oh. That asshole.

Slowly, Shane shook his head.

"No, I'm good." He reached down and gave his dick a stroke that felt so good he nearly cried. He'd been hard for what felt like hours, and his thighs and abs were sticky with precome. "I'll take care of myself," he continued, panting, tugging at his balls, feeling heat build in his groin and spine and—

And just like that, Ilya was hovering over him, knocking his hands away, shouldering his knees apart and laying his bulk between them. "You really think I'm a selfish lover?" he demanded petulantly.

Shane kept his face blank. "Are you going to prove otherwise?"

Ilya narrowed his eyes, locked one of his huge arms diagonally across Shane's hips and torso like a seatbelt, and swallowed Shane's dick down to the root in one fell swoop.

"Oh god, oh fuck, holy shit, Ilya—"

In seconds, Shane was teetering on the edge of orgasm. The hot, tight, wet clutch of Ilya's mouth and throat was too much, too fast, too good—

"Fuck, I'm serious, fuckfuckfuck, you gotta pull off, I'm gonna—"

But instead of pulling off, Ilya, like the absolute asshole he was, took him all the way down again and winked.

Shane gasped and came, pleasure slamming into him like a blind side check, fingers clenching in Ilya's curls as he swallowed every drop. Just to be a bit more of a bastard, he waited until Shane's cock had started to soften and sucked firmly under the head, forcing another shuddering cry out of Shane, before finally pulling off.

"Holy fuck," Shane breathed, when the lights behind his eyes had died down a little. His whole body hummed like he was hooked up to a tens unit.

"Yes," Ilya agreed, unbearably smug, and then they were both laughing, naked and sated and warm.

Shane stared at the ceiling until his brain invented patterns in the paint texture. "How did you know?" he asked suddenly. "About me? Did—did Sveta say something?"

Ilya shifted to face him. "No, she told me nothing. I just wondered."

Shane swallowed. "Can we—not tell her?"

Ilya huffed. "What, you think she will be jealous? She doesn't care who I fuck. We're not like that."

Shane turned his head so he could see Ilya's face. "No. That's not—I'm serious. I don't—" He took a breath. "I don't want to lose her."

I don't want to be alone again.

Ilya looked him over for a long moment. "Okay. She already knows about me, that I like both. She'd never tell anyone. And neither would I."

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face. "That's not—I'm not worried about that."

Not exactly. More that he was notoriously bad with sudden changes, and being outed seemed like the worst sudden change imaginable. There was an amorphous balloon of anxiety that lived in Shane's chest at all times, and the idea of anyone finding out, of this ruining their careers, of putting Ilya in actual physical danger from Russia, made that anxiety swell until it could blot out the sun.

Ilya looked down at his hands. "I probably wouldn't tell her anyways," he admitted. "The less she knows, the safer she is." He sat up. "Fuck, I want a cigarette."

Shane bit back his initial response, which was to say People in hell want ice water. "You can smoke on the balcony, if you really have to." He wrinkled his nose. 

Ilya sighed. "I shouldn't. The Raiders want me to quit," he grumbled, and flopped over onto his stomach.

Shane pulled on a pair of sweats—okay, he definitely needed a shower later, there was saliva drying in his pubes—and found the room service menu. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to eat?"

Ilya shot him a look. "I said earlier. Pizza."

Shane frowned. "I really don't—"

"We were on the ice all day, Hollander," Ilya groaned. "And we just did HIIT, yes?"

Shane burst out laughing, tossing the menu at the bed. "A fucking HIIT workout? We each lasted like five minutes."

Ilya grinned, running his tongue over his teeth. "We order room service, then go again. Interval, yes?"

Shane folded embarrassingly quickly. It was a compelling argument.

They spent the time until the food arrived making out lazily, until Shane's lips stung and his dick was seriously considering getting hard again.

He had—under the duress of Ilya's big, sad eyes and cartoonish pout—ordered pizza. But it had vegetables and pineapple on it, and Shane could pick off the greasy slices of pepperoni and trade them for Ilya's pineapple, which he eyed with suspicion.

"It does not belong on pizza," Ilya complained, sucking a bit of tomato sauce off his thumb. "It is fruit." They were shoulder to shoulder on the floor at the foot of the bed, a towel laid out under them, because there was only one desk chair and Shane refused to eat in bed.

"Technically, tomatoes are fruit too—"

Ilya blew a raspberry. "Boring."

Shane bit back a smile and leaned in. "Wanna know something fun?"

Ilya raised a brow. "Canada's most boring man knows what fun is?"

Shane put his lips next to Ilya's ear. "Pineapple makes cum taste better." He pulled back.

Ilya stared at him, pupils blown wide. "How the fuck do you know that?"

Shane popped another piece of pineapple into his mouth, grinning. "It was in one of the books my team dietician recommended."

"Ah. Food books for perverts," Ilya muttered, cheeks pink, and Shane snorted out a laugh.

Unlike the rink, the hotel's water pressure was excellent. Shane stepped under the spray and sighed in pleasure.

Then the shower door opened behind him and Ilya stepped in.

"What is it with you and showers?" Shane grumbled half-heartedly, but he was already automatically leaning in for a kiss.

"Simple," Ilya chuckled into his mouth. "You are naked and wet. I am horny. One plus one."

It was bizarre. The last few hours seemed to have rewritten the operating system of Shane's brain to prioritize spending as much time as possible touching Ilya. Ilya didn't seem to mind.

The kiss turned bruising, slow and deep and a little mean in a way that went right to Shane's dick, until somehow Shane was pressed against the cool tile and one of his legs was hitched over Ilya's hip, hauling him in like skin to skin wasn't close enough.

They were both hard, thrusting together clumsily until Ilya reached down and wrapped one of his big hands around them both, and Shane devolved into moans and pleading that would have made him blush if there was any blood in his body not currently in his dick.

"Please, please," he panted, fucking up into the tight circle of Ilya's fingers, the sensitive underside of the head tucked up so tight against Ilya's cock that every movement was torturous and perfect. "Ilya, just—can you fucking—"

And Ilya stopped moving.

Shane let out a sound perilously close to a sob.

"Where is your Russian?" Ilya asked, so close his lips brushed Shane's. "What do you want? Come on, let me hear it."

"Please," Shane gasped, "please—"

"'Please' what?"

Shane couldn't think, couldn't formulate a thought, except—

"Please," he begged, flush burning down his chest, unshed tears smarting in the corners of his eyes. "Please fuck me harder."

"Fuck, oh fuck," Ilya swore, crushing somehow closer, hand speeding up, gasping breaths against Shane's mouth. His other hand let go of Shane's knee, slid around to grip his ass, brushed his fingertips against the tight, sensitive skin of Shane's hole—

Shane came with a cry, head thrown back, skull hitting the tile in a minor starburst of pain, but he barely noticed. Every point of contact between them was lit up with pleasure, and even the slight too-much of Ilya still groaning and fucking up against his softening cock was just prolonging it, making it that much better. Only a few strokes later and Ilya shattered, moaning and coming all over Shane's stomach and dick. Shane stared at the streaks of sticky white and felt like he'd stuck his fingers in an electrical socket.

They slumped together under the warm water, breathing hard, trading slow, grounding touches. After a few minutes, Ilya ran a careful hand over the back of Shane's head to check for lumps. "Okay?"

It took Shane a minute to remember how words worked. "A little sore when you press on it. Nothing bad." Mostly he just wanted Ilya to keep touching his hair, running his fingers through it, pulling gently, letting his blunt nails raise goosebumps.

They rinsed and dried off, Ilya scrubbing over Shane's head playfully with a towel until Shane kicked him out to do his skincare routine. Even then, Ilya stayed in the doorway and got dressed, watching with interest as Shane cleansed and moisturized.

Like the asshole he was, he waited until Shane had put on his lip balm, then hauled him into a lazy kiss, tongue flicking teasingly, sucking on Shane's lower lip, and pulling away just as Shane leaned in for more.

"My number's in your phone," he muttered into Shane's mouth.

"What? How did you—"

"No passcode," Ilya said, passing it over. He clucked his tongue. "You should fix that. You are second biggest hockey star now."

Frowning, Shane pulled up his contacts. "I don't see—"

"Check under 'Lily.'"

Shane's lips twitched against his will. "And what about me? What will I be? Shannon? Shanushka?"

Ilya grinned. "Jane." He leaned back in and pressed an almost chaste kiss to Shane's still-buzzing lips. "Until next time," he said and slipped out the door.

Shane reapplied his lip balm and slid into bed, body humming with exhaustion and anxiety and sense-memories. The faint smell of Ilya's body lingered on the sheets.

Until next time.

All the denial seemed so fucking stupid in retrospect. Years of repression and he'd gone to his knees the minute a man looked at him twice. Granted, that man was Ilya Rozanov, a man whose existence had seemingly been tailored to torment Shane professionally and sexually.

Shane breathed out long and slow.

So. He wanted to have sex with men. He liked having sex with men. He liked it more than any sex he'd had with women. He wanted to do more with men, wanted to try things. He shivered. Maybe even wanted to know what it was like to be fucked.

But Ilya was a bad idea. A bad idea for a whole host of reasons, starting with their careers and ending in the looming spectre of Russia. He was one of Svetlana's best friends, one of her people, and Shane wouldn't delude himself into thinking that Svetlana would ever choose Shane over Ilya if it came down to it. Which meant Shane could never put her in a position to have to choose.

So Shane could be—interested, in men. He could want to fuck them. Maybe even be fucked, someday.

But not Ilya. Shane would have to find someone else.

The next morning, after a night spent tossing and turning, Shane was halfway through his plate of sad hotel breakfast—eggs, whole wheat toast, melon, and a glass of no-pulp orange juice—when his phone buzzed against his leg.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
[Attached Image]
ask Yuna what size jersey she wears

It was a photo of the pizza from last night.

Shane snorted into his orange juice.

"Who is it?" his mom asked, sipping her coffee.

"Ilya," Shane said with a helpless grin. "He has a question for you." He handed her the phone.

Her brows shot up as she read. "Wow, he really is a cocky asshole."

Shane laughed, taking his phone back. "He really is."

"Sorry, honey," she said, clearly fighting a smile. "I shouldn't talk about your friends like that. Why is his name 'Lily' in your phone?"

Shane shrugged, glad he didn't have to lie. "He put it in himself."

His mom sighed. "Well, text me his number, will you? I can admit defeat like a grown woman. And I'll ask about the Raiders' jersey sizing. Maybe they have a chart."

Shane almost refused, the gears in his brain grinding to a brief halt. But he didn't have a good reason beyond I don't really want my mom talking to a guy whose dick I sucked less than twelve hours ago, which was an objectively insane thing to think, let alone try to explain.

He needed to be more logical about this going forward. He might not be straight—and based on the evidence of the last twelve hours, he really, really wasn't—but the world was still turning.

He was still breathing, still alive, still the same Shane who'd won silver in Saskatchewan and gold in Zurich and was going to be paid an obscene amount of money to wear Reeboks for the foreseeable future.

And maybe—maybe in the little spaces in between everything else, he could also have this. With someone other than Ilya, obviously. Maybe some nice boy from Montreal.

So there was no real reason for his mom not to talk to Ilya. It wasn't like last night would ever happen again. Ilya was just a friend.

He bit at his thumbnail and texted his mom the number and tried to ignore the way the ever-present ball of anxiety in his chest had gotten that much bigger.

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Sveta
Which of you is coming out to NYC for my birthday, I need to choose outfits

Shane
I got us a reservation at that Thai place you wanted to try, but it's for lunch. I have to be back for morning skate.
☹️
Sorry, Sveta.

Ilyusha
what??
no
boo, boring
i have tickets to the met, new exhibit on french art deco
then go kart racing
we will get shake shack after
maybe street hotdogs for dessert
then clubs

Shane
I will never understand the way you eat.

Sveta
Then I will see Shanushka for lunch and Ilyusha can take me to dinner!

Ilyusha
and you can make three outfits
boring lunch, go kart, club

Sveta
)))

Shane
Hang on, what's this group chat name?
Why can't I change it???
Sveta!

Sveta
relax, it's in Cyrillic, no one can see that you're baby Shanushka
if you want more privacy, you'll have to text in Russian
maybe then you'll get better at writing it

Shane
You are the worst.

Ilyusha
and you called ME a bully 🤣🤣🤣

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
We have an exclusive first look at the 2010-2011 MLH season, with some big names, bigger games, and some behind the scenes on CCM's upcoming ad campaign starring this year's top two draft picks, @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ and @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ! [...]
@ᴄᴄᴍ_ᴀᴛʜʟᴇᴛɪᴄs #MLH #MajorLeagueHockey #IlyaRozanov #ShaneHollander #BostonRaiders #MontrealMetros #HockeyBromance

Isaiah @ᴄᴇʀᴛɪғɪᴇᴅᴘᴜᴄᴋʙᴏʏ
⤷@ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Hollander has freckles?? And Rozanov has dimples??? How am I supposed to process this information. How???????
#rude

jonah @ʜᴜᴍʙʟᴇ𝟹𝟷𝟺
⤷@ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Hockey bromance? i mean i don't look at my bros that way, but whatever

Dr Emmett Lance @ʟᴀʟᴏᴠᴇʀ𝟷𝟿8𝟶
⤷@ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
When is the actual season promo due to be released? And does it feature anyone except those two rookies?

ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ

Mom
Great job, sweetie!

Dad
Looking good out there, kiddo <3

Shane
Thanks mom, thanks dad, love you both!

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Sveta
[Attached Images]
💖💖💖💖💖💖💖
My beautiful boys!!! ))))

Ilyusha
😘😘😘💅

Shane
I have more than a thousand new emails this morning.
How do I make them stop?

Ilyusha
did no one warn you that becoming famous means people want to talk to you

Sveta
jfc I told you to hire a publicist!!

Shane
I thought you were joking!

August 2010
Montréal, Québec

Shane had just gotten back from practice and was deciding between chicken and fish for dinner when he got the text.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
still thinking about that shower 🍆💦

Shane stopped breathing.

He hadn't—he hadn't exactly planned what to do if Ilya wanted to continue this. He hadn't thought about how to turn him down, how to redirect the conversation, how to bring them back to just 'rivals and maybe friends who fucked that one time.' He honestly hadn't even expected Ilya to want to do it again. Ilya Rozanov could have anyone he wanted, and Shane was possibly the least convenient person in existence.

Fuck, what if he'd opened this text in the locker room? What if someone had seen, what if his parents had seen, his mom knew 'Lily' was Ilya—

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
We should use Russian.
So that no one can read it.

Lily
booooo
i can not practice my english sexting??? rude
fine
are you alone?

Shane swallowed, heart pounding. There was no harm in answering, was there?

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
Yes.
Why?

Lily
[Attached Images]

Shane dropped his phone on his face, then sat up, swearing and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He stared at the photos Ilya had sent.

Two of them were gym pictures, the kind of thing Shane's old teammates on the 67s took all the time, except none of his teammates were a shirtless, sweaty Ilya Rozanov.

The last one was a photo of Rozanov's dick, hard against his abs, fingers pulling back his foreskin to reveal a dot of precome beading at the tip.

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
Fuck

Lily
👅
anything for me?

Shane swallowed and pressed a hand against his dick, already achingly hard in his sweats.

They shouldn't be doing this again. This was dangerous, so fucking dangerous. If anyone ever saw these texts, if anyone found out they were talking to each other like this, their careers would be over.

He reached up slowly and pulled off his shirt, then paused, uncertain. He didn't know what made a picture sexy. He obviously wasn't going to send a photo of his own dick, he wasn't crazy.

He settled on something he hoped was a tasteful picture of his chest, abs, and tented sweats. No face, no distinguishing features, unless you counted the Metros-branded sweatpants, which he didn't.

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
Delete this right after.
[Attached Image]

Lily
🥵🥵🥵
you're killing me, jane
like i said, you're a natural

After that—he really should have known better than to jerk off on the couch, he spent nearly an hour cleaning it after—it became kind of a... thing.

Shane's resolve crumbled like sand when presented with a horny and willing Ilya Rozanov. Ilya would text, asking for pictures, for a phone call, for a Skype chat, and Shane would waffle before inevitably agreeing, and then they'd get off.

Sometimes they'd keep talking for a bit after, mostly to talk shit about other players in the league, a few times so Ilya could complain about English and the weirdness of living in America, and even once when Ilya sent him a photo of a particularly cute dog he'd met on a run.

It was actually kind of nice to have regular orgasms worked into his routine. Most days, Shane woke up, called Svetlana, skated, worked out, cooked and cleaned, traded sexy messages with Ilya, jerked off, ate dinner, and fell asleep worn out and sated in a way he'd never experienced.

He wondered if other people felt this way, if just the vague promise of orgasms made it feel like there were more productive hours in the day.

But he couldn't just ask anyone that, and he didn't even know how to Google it beyond 'orgasm time dilation?' and the absolutely haunting results of that search had made him force quit before the page had even finished loading.

He still felt a bit weird when he talked to Svetlana, mostly because he was sure she knew he was keeping something from her, but she didn't say anything, so he could keep living in the polite fiction of her ignorance.

He wasn't obligated to tell anyone that he'd had sex with Ilya. He was entitled to privacy, and so was Ilya, and Svetlana had told him multiple times over the years that she didn't care who he had sex with as long as everyone involved was safe and happy.

But it wasn't just that Shane wasn't telling her. It was that he'd made the decision not to tell her, and he'd gotten Ilya to agree too. Now it was two friends keeping a secret from a third friend.

It made the knot of anxiety in his chest twist into a strangling briar. He didn't like lying, had never been any good at it, and he especially didn't like lying to Svetlana.

But he wasn't lying to take something from her. He wasn't lying to hurt her, or to make fun of her, or to get away with something.

He was just—figuring things out. Keeping himself safe. Keeping Ilya safe. Keeping Svetlana safe. Not just from the ever-present Sword of Damocles that was Russia, but from all the missteps that Shane was absolutely going to make.

He knew she loved him, knew she didn't care about his obliviousness and anxiety and neuroses, but it somehow felt important that he prove to himself that he could do this on his own. That he could have a casual thing with their mutual friend and not completely fuck it up, and not make her do any emotional or mental labor on his behalf.

And maybe someday when it was over he would tell her, and they would laugh over Shane's attempts at sneakiness, and she'd ask for all the sexy details and Shane would blush so hard he was afraid he'd pass out.

But maybe, until then, he could just have this.

CCM @ᴄᴄᴍ_ᴀᴛʜʟᴇᴛɪᴄs
Who's ready for the 2010 MLH season to begin?
🔥⛸️🏒🥅 Watch the full video here! [...]
@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
#MLH #MajorLeagueHockey #ilyarozanov #shanehollander #bostonraiders #montrealmetros #MLH2010

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
⤷@ᴄᴄᴍ_ᴀᴛʜʟᴇᴛɪᴄs
holy shit?? Hollander and Rozanov are so fucking hot, jesus christ 🥵🥵🥵
#DraftSlut

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
⤷@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
enjoy it while it lasts Bites, they're gonna have mouths full of falsies in a few years

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
⤷@𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
sorry snackie idc if they get full dentures by the end of their rookie deals, i'd still let them spit on me

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
⤷@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
i regret our friendship

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ᴄᴄᴍ_ᴀᴛʜʟᴇᴛɪᴄs
Hollander and Rozanov totally couldn't stop laughing, these guys are clearly buddies, this is so awesome
#HockeyBros4Lyfe

Brian @ʙᴊᴀᴄᴏʙsᴏɴ𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟷
⤷@ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
As long as Rozanov never goes easy on Hollander, who gives a shit if they're friends?

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ʙᴊᴀᴄᴏʙsᴏɴ𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟷
Um have you ever seen Rozanov go easy on anyone?? Or Hollander, for that matter??? Ever???

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ʙᴊᴀᴄᴏʙsᴏɴ𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟷
Rozanov checked Hollander into the boards TWICE during the Zurich final, and then Hollander press checked him and scored off it.

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ʙᴊᴀᴄᴏʙsᴏɴ𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟷
And then they still went to a club together! If that isn't wacky ultra competitive bff behavior I don't know what is.

jessie @ᴊᴇss𝟺ʟᴇss
i can't believe the red curtain's kid single-handedly gave us the world's greatest us-russia hockey bromance smh what a goddess
#thankyousvetlana 🙏 #HockeyBromance #HollanovBesties

paulie @ᴅᴏɴᴛᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴛʜᴇsᴛᴏᴠᴇ
Imagine being so good at something that you accidentally become best friends with your rival because they're the only one who understands, wait I'm crying
#HockeyBromance

September 2010
Montréal, Québec

For the last week of development camp, Coach Theriault ran Hayden as Shane's left winger, JJ at their back, and it was exhilarating and joyous and everything Shane had forgotten hockey could be. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to play with teammates you trusted, teammates you liked.

Players began to drop like flies. Sometimes Shane wasn't sure which sloppy play or missed pass had finally snagged Theriault's sharp eye, but all it took was one, and then he'd bark a name across the ice, jerk his head towards the administrator in charge of sending players back down to the farm teams, and that was that.

Shane wasn't sorry to see his old teammates from the 67s or Worlds go, but he nodded amiably to the few genuinely nice guys who'd come up from Laval. Some of them were really talented skaters, the kind of guys who would make solid additions to any MLH bench with another season or two under their belts.

Then the Metros' pre-season training camp hit like a freight train.

It was markedly different from their development camp. For one thing, it wasn't just about showing the coaches what you could do—it was about getting you ready for the season, forcing you into a shape that supported the machine that was the Metros. For another, all the active roster Metros were there, names and faces Shane had grown up knowing and respecting.

To keep himself from going insane with nerves, Shane spent the time throwing himself into training. He worked harder than he'd known was possible. He skated and passed and shot and checked until his blisters had blisters, until he was one solid bruise, until he knew the Metros' training facility inside and out.

He met the maintenance crew and rink workers and office staff and janitorial. He met with the nutritionist, and the physical therapists, and even the team dentist, who kept an alarming array of falsies and dentures on hand. He got used to the laundry detergent, and learned which doors stuck, and found a rarely-used stairwell that he could duck into if he needed a few minutes alone.

At least JJ and Hayden were there with him. Hayden was so happy to see his name on a stall that he actually teared up and sent a dozen pictures to his mom. Shane didn't cry, but he did take a selfie in new jersey.

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Shane
[Attached Image]

Ilyusha
🖕🖕🖕
[Attached Image]
hope you're ready to be crushed this season

Shane
You wish.

Sveta
I'm in class
Flirt somewhere else

Shane jolted, panic sliding icy down his back, before he breathed out slowly, eyes closed. She didn't know anything. She was joking. She didn't know.

He sat down in his stall and rested his head on his knees until his hands stopped shaking.

"Aw, is Little Holly finally cracking under the pressure?" sneered Gilbert Comeau, first line right winger. There were a few snickers from around the locker room.

"Comeau," snapped Theriault. "Focus on your own play."

"Coach—"

"Maybe if you had Hollander's stats, we would have made the playoffs last year, no?" Theriault said, not looking away from the whiteboard.

"Yes, coach," muttered Comeau, and Shane didn't think he was imagining the way Comeau's previously directionless seething was now aimed squarely at him.

Shane knew logically that the exhibition matches didn't really matter. Pre-season was a chance for coaches to try different lines, run different plays, test new configurations, get a feel for how the division had changed over the off-season.

But it was still disorienting and a little frustrating, being shunted between lines, being slotted into existing plays that didn't make good use of his speed or puck-handling, being moved around like a sacrificial pawn.

He ground his teeth and got over it. He was good, yes. He knew he was. He was better than most of the guys on the team, if he was honest. He was definitely the fastest, with the highest shot-accuracy.

But he didn't have the MLH experience. The vets knew the other teams, had played alongside and against most of the other players in the league, knew their weaknesses and tics, knew their superstitions and how to chirp them where it stung. They knew the arenas, knew who kept their ice too soft and who had shitty visitor locker rooms.

Shane didn't have that yet, and it wasn't something he could fix by studying game tape or lifting longer at the gym. No matter how many games you watched, there was nothing that taught you about an opponent like being physically on the ice with them. So he packed away his irritation and fear and ego for another day.

Eventually, under the watchful eye of Captain Johanssen, who everyone inexplicably called Johnny, Shane was settled on the second line, with Hayden on his left and Wilson on his right, and JJ was paired with Roy on third line, and they were slowly being molded into shapes that benefited the machinery of the team.

"Shane! Are you coming out tonight?" JJ asked from his stall, words lilted with his heavy Quebecer accent. "Last weekend before our rookie season, we must celebrate!"

All Shane wanted to do was curl up on his couch under some ice packs and nap. He swallowed. "Uh, I don't know if—"

Hayden sat down beside him, nudging him gently. "Just dinner, buddy, promise. We'll have you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

Shane sighed, but it didn't sound too bad. "Fine."

JJ whooped and punched the air, and Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. "The Metrooks ride at six sharp," Hayden crowed. "Get ready to eat your weight in poutine."

Shane looked up at him, baffled. "What the fuck is a 'Metrook'?"

"A Metro rookie," JJ said helpfully. "Us three, we are the Metrooks!"

"I refuse," Shane said, packing up his bag. "I'm requesting a trade to somewhere with better teammates—"

"No! There is no one better than us!" JJ said, slinging a massive arm around Shane's shoulder and steering him towards the door. Their teammates called out goodbyes and gave them amused glances.

Hayden jogged to catch them in the corridor, running a hand through his hair. "Do you really not like 'Metrooks', Shane? I mean, I guess we can change it, but I thought—"

"It's fine, Hayd," Shane sighed, accepting his fate. "But there is no force on Earth that could make me eat poutine."

Hayden grinned. "Challenge accepted."

The restaurant Hayden picked wasn't too bad. There were vegetables on the menu, and meat that wasn't deep-fried, and they served ginger ale, which could atone for a multitude of sins. They got seats out on the patio and Shane watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as Hayden demolished a huge plate of poutine and a bowl of double-battered onion rings and a strawberry milkshake. Even JJ looked slightly disgusted from behind his bacon blue-cheese burger.

"You're going to die aged twenty-five," Shane informed Hayden, taking a bite of his salmon and asparagus. "Your arteries will be solid. You should donate your body to science."

Hayden shrugged, burping into his fist. "At least I'll die knowing how good that tasted."

JJ laughed and leaned in for a high five, which Hayden gladly returned.

Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket, a familiar pattern of vibrations. "Sorry, just a second," he said to the guys, who waved him off. "Sveta, can I call you back? I'm at dinner—"

"Shane Hollander," she said, voice stern. "You owe me answers."

"I—What?" he croaked, feeling a little faint. How did she know? Had Ilya told her? What was he going to—

"Now that pre-season is over, I need to know everything," she continued. "Do you like your teammates? Any new injuries that aren't being reported?"

Shane slumped in relief, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "You can meet the two teammates I am with now, if you want. I will answer the rest of your questions later."

"You're out with two of them?" she demanded. "Which two? Put me on speaker."

Shane obeyed, sticking his phone in the middle of the table, noting the looks of confusion from JJ and Hayden. Right, he hadn't exactly mentioned that he spoke Russian, had he?

"My friend wants to talk to you," he explained.

"Not just your friend," Svetlana intoned ominously, voice crackling through his phone speaker.

Shane rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I meant my best friend. Svetlana, this is Hayden Pike and JJ Boiziau, they're—"

"Left winger from Hamilton and defenseman from Trois-Rivieres, both second-round draft picks," she said instantly. "Pike and Boiziau, you had better be treating my Shane well, or I will fly up to Montreal and hurt you."

"She's in New York," Shane explained to his bewildered friends, who were sitting stock-still, like Svetlana could sense movement through the phone.

"She is right here and has thoughts about the Metros," Svetlana said darkly.

What followed was a brutal dissection of the last two weeks' games, including a blistering critique of the Hollander-Johanssen-Comeau power play Theriault was determined to make work, before moving on to their own individual performances. Shane winced and took mental notes. She wasn't wrong.

When Svetlana had finished, all three men sat in silence.

"Did I break you?" she asked finally.

"No, sorry," Hayden blurted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, just—that was a lot. I feel like I owe you a consulting fee or something?"

Svetlana laughed. "You could not afford me, Pike. Boiziau, what about you? You have been suspiciously quiet."

JJ's eyes went wide. "No, no, I am fine. Sorry, I was processing."

"Ugh, Canadians, always apologizing for no reason."

"Sorry, Sveta," Shane teased, just to hear her affronted noise.

"You! I thought I taught you better."

"It's genetic," he said. "Compulsive."

"The only one apologizing should be your slow ass right winger," she muttered, and Shane burst into shocked laughter.

"Sveta," he said reprovingly, but didn't bother to hide a smile. "She's being a dick about Wilson being slow," he explained to JJ and Hayden.

Svetlana laughed. "Shanushka, you owe me more hockey talk later." It wasn't an idle threat.

"I promise, Sveta," he agreed.

"I will stop dominating your dinner now," she said. "Good to talk to you, Boiziau, Pike. Goodbye, Shanushka." She hung up.

"Dude. Wait. Was that... Svetlana Vetrova?" Hayden's eyes were suddenly very wide.

Shane nodded. "Sorry about that, she—"

"Are you joking?" JJ exploded, waving his arms. "That was incredible." He swore in French, flopping backwards over his chair, rubbing his face in his hands.

"We just got read to filth by the daughter of the Red Curtain," Hayden whispered.

"Read to what?" Shane asked, bewildered.

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
It is all downhill from here

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷Today I was verbally destroyed and rebuilt by the patron saint of hockey

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷Now I can die happy. Thank you all, goodbye

Hayden Pike @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
⤷@ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
i know man, i almost cried when she called my edge work mediocre, it was amazing

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼 @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
Shanushka your boys are dramatic

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼 @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
maybe this is why the metros lost to buffalo last season

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
Please stop bullying my coworkers.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
yes bullying metros is my job 😈

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷@ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
there are three of them?? this will be a long season

Hayden Pike @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
⤷@ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
😭

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏs

Comeau
yo Holly why haven't you introduced the rest of us to Vetrova yet??

Drapeau
she's smoking, i'd totally do her

Comeau
😂😂
that's not saying much
you'd do anything that walks

Miitka
holy shit, Svetlana Vetrova??
think she'd get her old man to sign my face or something

Olsson
mitty what the fuck

Miitka
dude it would help my game i just know it
i would be blessed by the curtain
wait maybe my mask instead?
so i didn't accidentally wash it off
maybe i could get it tattooed on???

Comeau
so are we gonna see a Vetrova/Holly baby? with your hair and her everything else that kid would be dynamite

Drapeau
When are you gonna bring her around??

Shane fought the urge to slam his phone to the ground. He barely won. His jaw was clenched so tight he heard it creak. 

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏs

Hollander
I'm not.

Pike
Yeah jj and i are special
we have manners

Miitka
nooo please!!

Boiziau
absolutely not
we would never subject her to that

Shane's phone buzzed with a new chat.

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴏᴋs

Hayden
uh guys?
is it weird to say that for a group of guys who talk so much about fucking women that i don't think they actually like women that much??

Shane
Yeah it's a thing.
Svetlana says a lot of straight men actually hate women because of how bad they want them.

JJ
christ that is awful
women are the best!

Hayden
yeah man the whole way they talk about women just feels gross

JJ
and that bullshit from comeau??
'your hair and her everything'
esti de calice de tabarnak
racist bastard

Hayden
oh shit that's what that was???

Shane
Yes, Hayden.
Look up 'microaggressions.'

Hayden
what does that mean?
fuck
FUCK
jesus christ
okay i guess i need to do some reading, talk to you guys tomorrow

JJ
later my friend, enjoy learning about horrible things
there will be a test

Shane put down his phone, smiling faintly at the ceiling. This was why he trusted them to talk to Svetlana.

Another text came in.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
what's the english word for blister

Shane
blister
You could have looked that up.

Lily
yes but then I would not get to bother you 😏👅

October 2010
Montréal, Québec

Their first regular-season game—a 3-2 win against Columbus that had the rafters of the Bell Centre shaking with the cheers of their fans—ended with Shane getting his first MLH point off a power play assist and Hayden and JJ dragging Shane to a club.

It was pretty much the same as the other clubs Shane had been in, except more of the music was in French. He'd brought his own earplugs this time, and other than a surprised glance and a shrug, JJ and Hayden hadn't seemed to care. Svetlana, as usual, had been right.

"Shots!" JJ called over the music. "In honor of Shane's point tonight!"

Hayden whooped and cheered, and Shane grinned, and together they slammed their shots and sucked on the wedges of lemon.

It burned all the way down, bringing tears to Shane's eyes. He doubled over at the waist, coughing.

"Fuck, that was terrible," Hayden wheezed. "What the fuck was that, JJ? Nail polish remover?"

JJ laughed, already signaling the bartender. "Just something to get warmed up."

"Christ, I just want a beer. Does that make me boring?" Hayden wiped his nose. "You want one, Shane?"

"No thanks. Just ginger ale, if they have it. A bottle of water if they don't."

Hayden nodded. "Go grab us a table?"

Shane escaped the crush of the bar gratefully, snagging the end of one of the long trestle tables and clearing the sticky mess of spilled liquor and crumbs with a wet wipe he pulled from his pocket.

"Um, excuse me?" said a voice from behind him, and he jerked around.

It was a pretty brunette woman, clearly with a group of her friends, and she was smiling bashfully at him.

Oh no.

"Uh. Yes?" he said, trying to smile and sure he was failing.

"Could I have one of those wipes?" she asked. "The table over here is disgusting, I'm afraid I'm going to get tetanus if I look at it for too long."

Shane was so relieved he felt like he might pass out. "Oh, sure!" He dug out two and handed them to her. "A friend taught me to bring them, she usually keeps a pack in her purse—"

"I still can't believe it, buddy!" Hayden said from behind him, a beer in one hand and a can of ginger ale in the other. "Your first game and you're already racking up points—"

Hayden stopped mid-sentence, mouth open like his namesake, eyes stuck on the woman who was wiping down her and her friends' section of the table.

Shane elbowed him. His mouth clicked shut.

The woman turned back to Shane, caught sight of Hayden, and smiled again. Hayden went pink.

Shane kindly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm Shane," he said. "And this is Hayden."

"Hi," Hayden said, voice almost lost in the noise. He was looking at her like someone who'd just gotten glasses and was seeing the world clearly for the first time. "Yeah, I'm, um. Hayden. Hayden Pike."

"Jackie Bélanger."

For the next hour, Shane listened to Jackie's nursing school friends talk about the grossest things they'd seen during their hospital rounds, his respect for medical professionals growing by the minute. JJ had slipped into the sea of dancers, seemingly having the time of his life.

And the whole time, Hayden and Jackie sat and talked, their beers warm and flat and forgotten on the table between them. There was a strange, almost awed smile on Hayden's face, and Jackie kept tucking her hair behind her ears and looking away, like she had to remind herself not to stare.

By midnight, Shane was done with his second ginger ale and officially tapped out on noise and social interaction. "I'm heading home," he said, clapping a hand on Hayden's shoulder. "Good to meet you, Jackie. I hope we get to hang out again sometime."

She grinned at him. There was a tiny gap between her two front teeth. "Me too!"

Shane nudged Hayden. "Make sure you get her number so we can get her and her friends tickets to a game sometime."

Hayden fumbled out his phone, nodding, and Jackie tucked her hair behind her ear again, cheeks glowing, and Shane let them be with a wave.

He found JJ on the edge of the dance floor, an arm around a woman almost as tall as he was, murmuring in her ear.

"I'm heading home," Shane called.

JJ pulled him in for a quick hug. "Thanks for coming, my friend. Congrats on the game! And say hi to Svetlana when you see her," he added, winking.

Shane rolled his eyes, smiling. If JJ and Hayden wanted to believe that he was playing wingman because he was being loyal to Svetlana, he wouldn't disabuse them of the notion. Anyone who had the privilege of her attention should treat it with the devotion it deserved.

Back at his apartment, freshly showered, he flopped on his bed and opened his messages.

ʟɪʟʏ

Shane
Want to get off?

Lily
who are you and what have you done with shane???
awake past midnight, sending r u up texts
are you ill

Shane
Okay then good night

Lily
nooo wait hollander come back now i'm hard
😥😥😥😥

[Incoming Video Call from Lily]

Shane smiled and clicked Accept.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. Thank you so much for the response to this, it was totally unexpected and has been incredibly sweet. I love you all!
2. I actually lived just outside Toronto in 2012-2013 and therefore feel justified ragging on their train layout (not sure if it has improved since).
3. This fandom has eaten my brain, I've written roughly 70k of Heated Rivalry fic in the last four months, and this fic is only a little bit of it.
4. This series has given me an instinctual (unwarranted) dislike of Montreal and Toronto.
5. You may have noticed the chapter count is gone; I have the whole thing planned out, I'm just dividing it up a little differently.

Chapter 3: Sep 2010-Jan 2011

Chapter Notes

The first half of rookie season + All-Stars.
Cliff Marlow is Living. Scott Hunter is Suffering.

Warnings:
- very horny
- more racism and misogyny from Known Assholes the Montreal Metros
- reference to disordered eating

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

Late September 2010

Shane's rookie season settled into a rhythm. Skate, train, let the team PTs poke and prod, review game tape, and eat as much protein as physically possible, all while wearing Reeboks and spending half his time on airplanes or in airports.

The frequency and intensity of the regular season schedule turned his body into a collection of aches. He learned to bring a pillowcase, earplugs, and an eye mask on roadies, and he condensed his morning routine down to a tight half an hour, something he could do in any hotel room across North America. He learned to bring a yoga mat (a duplicate of the one he kept at his apartment and his parents' house) and his mini massage roller that felt like death but kept his calves loose and warm. He bought refillable silicone travel containers for all his skin care products and new hard-shelled luggage that was damn near indestructible, despite the best efforts of YUL's baggage handlers.

The Metros lost against Washington, then won against Buffalo and Columbus. They lost in Toronto, then won in Ottawa, with Shane's parents glowing with pride and shouting themselves hoarse in the audience. Then they lost in both Philly and Pittsburg in a back-to-back that stung all the way down.

Shane oscillated between frustrated and upset with himself. He hadn't been on a team that lost so much since he was fourteen, and every time felt like a personal failure. JJ told him not to be so hard on himself, and Hayden reminded him that the losses were on the whole team, not just him, and Svetlana told him to get his head out of his ass and stop with the self-pity. Weirdly, it all helped in different ways.

And despite how hard it all was, how disappointed he was with their win/loss ratio, with his own Corsi stats and ice time, Shane had never been happier in his life.

He got to play hockey every day for an insane amount of money, he had actual friends on the team, and no one cared about his routines. They were all hockey players, the most superstitious professional athletes in existence, and besides, Shane was practically normal compared to a goalie.

For Svetlana's twenty-first birthday, Shane spent one of his precious days off back at the airport, flying down to New York. He and Svetlana spent the morning wandering NYU, which seemed to own half the buildings in Greenwich, then they ate an inadvisable amount of Thai food and collapsed on a bench in Washington Square Park to watch a bodega cat chase pigeons.

"I never want to eat again," Svetlana groaned, rubbing a hand over her stomach. "It should be illegal to make food that delicious."

Shane, who had eaten so much green curry that he was pretty sure he was going to be sweating coconut milk, didn't argue. "You said your classmate recommended that place?"

She nodded. "She's in my Shakespeare elective. She's a theater major."

"What is the class like?"

Svetlana chewed her lip. "It's...interesting," she said finally. "But it's also tiring. English is already an extra step in my brain. Old English makes me feel stupid sometimes," she admitted.

"You are not stupid," he said sharply. "NYU is an amazing school. What you are doing would be hard for anyone, let alone doing it in their second language."

She sighed. "I guess. I know I can do the work, but I'm not sure my brain can physically keep up. I spend all my time studying and reading case law and court filings in English, and there are so many American legal words that are actually French or Latin, and it's just—a lot."

Shane put his arm around her until she took the hint and leaned into him, some of the tension oozing out of her body. "Hey," he said. "You are doing great. You did all this and moved countries and taught some, uh—meathead hockey player to speak Russian, all at the same time."

Svetlana laughed, shoulders slumping, forehead knocking against his bicep. "You're not a meathead."

"Give it a few concussions," he joked, watching the calico cat leap at a pigeon and miss it by a fraction of a second. The cat sat down and washed its paw like that was what it had meant to do all along.

"Tell me how it's been going with your team," she said suddenly. "I need MLH nonsense."

He told her about how he'd gone out twice more with JJ and Hayden since the season started, how they took turns finding new things to do in unfamiliar cities. How they'd gone to the zoo in Buffalo, and taken a pottery class in Philly with a bunch of wine-drunk middle-aged moms, and how he'd brought them to his parents' place for dinner when they were in Ottawa, and how Hayden and Jackie seemed to have fallen head-first into serious dating.

"They're basically living together already," Shane said. "I'd be more worried except they're kind of disgustingly in love."

Svetlana laughed. "And the rest of your team?"

Shane winced. "They're... fine. I don't really hang out with them much except for after wins, but they're mostly pretty good guys." He didn't want to get into specifics. He'd once told her what it was like playing with the 67s, and then he'd had to convince her not to track down his old teammates and shout at them.

But of course she honed in on that 'mostly' like a heat-seeking missile. "And the ones that aren't?"

He sighed and gave in. "I can ignore them. The only one I really have to interact with is Comeau because we're on the power play together, and he talks a lot of shit, but he never really does anything. And Theriault keeps stepping in, but... wrong, somehow? I don't know, it seems like it's making things worse." He bit at his thumbnail until Svetlana reached up gently and pulled his hand away from his mouth.

"That's shit," she said bluntly. "And I'm sorry you have to deal with that. When you make captain, maybe you can change things."

"Captain?" Shane said, startled. "You think I—"

"Obviously, Shanushka," she said, waving a hand, rings glittering in the sunlight. "Johanssen is on his way out, and you're currently leading in the rookie points race. Once Montreal has you locked down on a qualifying offer, he can hand over the C and retire his busted ass back to Denmark, or whatever fucking Scandinavian country he's from."

"Norway," Shane said absently. "But I don't—that's way too soon. I'd be what, twenty-two?" His palms were sweaty. "I don't even know if I want to be captain."

"Shanushka," Svetlana said with a sigh, "You were a good captain to the 67s when you won the Memorial Cup, and a great captain in World Juniors when you brought your country silver and gold. You are kind, and thoughtful, and focused, and you never talk down to people who ask for help. That is what makes you a good leader."

He bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't tear up. "When did you get so sentimental?"

"It is not sentiment, it is data analysis," she said, straightening up and stretching. "Your asshole teammates can go fuck themselves."

Shane burst out laughing, startling the pigeons and earning an evil yellow-eyed stare from the cat, who slunk back into the bodega.

"Do you have plans for next summer?" he asked, when it was finally time for him to head back to the airport. "You should come out to Ottawa, my parents would love to have you. We can lay next to the lake and do nothing."

"As lovely as that sounds, I'm applying for internships," she said, sounding genuinely regretful. "But maybe I can come out for a bit before it starts?"

He gave her a hug. "Just say when."

Shane flew back to Montreal already missing Svetlana like a limb. At least Ilya would be there in an hour or two—he'd texted the group chat pictures from the Boston train station after morning skate.

Part of Shane was sad they wouldn't see each other, the same part that wanted his hands and mouth on him again, that wanted the searing heat of Ilya's attention and hunger.

But the other part—the part that was dreading being in the same room as Ilya and Svetlana at the same time, the part that knew he was fundamentally incapable of hiding anything from Svetlana—was a little bit relieved.

And mostly he was happy, happy that he'd gotten to see Svetlana and happy that she wouldn't be alone tonight. She always deserved to be with people who loved her, but especially on her birthday.

By the time he got home, his phone had been buzzing in his pocket for half an hour. He showered, opened the group chat, and grinned at the deluge of pictures of Svetlana and Ilya driving go-karts and getting trashed and buying hot dogs off a street vendor who looked mildly alarmed at the amount of mustard and sauerkraut Ilya had piled on. Shane fell asleep still smiling, something warm and sharp and complicated in his chest.

Early October 2010
Montréal, Québec

Shane was toweling his hair dry after practice, letting the chatter of the locker room slide off his shoulders, when his phone rang.

Sveta.

It was noon on a Tuesday. Didn't she have class?

He hit accept. "Who's dying, Sveta?"

Two stalls down, Michael Andropov, who everyone called Andy, jerked upright and banged his head on his locker door, cursing quietly as his friends laughed.

"No one, Shanushka." Svetlana paused for dramatic effect. "Yet."

Shane sat down to pull on his shoes while Svetlana told him about the administrator who had suddenly decided not to give her credit for the international law classes she'd taken in Russia.

"So what did you do?"

"I had my father call the president of MSAL," she said, naming the prestigous university she'd attended in Moscow. "He called the president of NYU directly. It was sorted."

Shane shook his head, grinning. "Only you, Sveta."

She sighed. Through the phone, he could hear the distant sounds of New York: dogs barking, horns honking, people yelling, music playing.

"Are you okay?" he asked, suddenly concerned. "You do not normally call this early. And you sound a little—I don't know. Stressed? Tense?"

She sighed again, groaning. He could almost see the way she'd pinch at the bridge of her nose to avoid smudging her mascara. "I quit smoking," she grumbled, so quietly he thought he'd misheard her for a moment. "The nicotine patches are not the same. I'm annoyed all the time."

Then the words caught up with him. "Really? Sveta, that's great!"

"Yeah, yeah."

"No, really," Shane insisted. "I'm—I'm proud of you. Not that there's anything like—morally wrong with smoking, just—I know it's hard to quit. It's hard to fight your body. So I'm proud of you for doing a hard thing."

She was quiet again, the sounds of traffic filtering through. "Thank you, Shanushka. I have to go, my Shakespeare class was moved back and I need to drink a quart of coffee or I will scream."

He chuckled. "Love you, Sveta. Talk to you soon."

It wasn't until Shane was fully packed and ready to leave that he noticed Andropov was looking at him. "Need something, Andy?"

Andropov studied him. "You speak Russian?"

Shane nearly dropped his skate bag.

"Oh, uh—a little," he stuttered, heart racing, every bit of Russian falling directly out of his head. "You do too?" Fuck, he didn't want to think about the things he might have said if it had been Ilya on the phone. He needed to be more careful. Russian didn't always mean privacy, especially in hockey. He tried to subtly rub his sweaty palms against his jeans.

Andropov shrugged. "A little. You know how it is, your grandparents speak it, but then you kind of lose it as you get older."

Shane nodded, heart slowing fractionally. "Yeah." His Japanese was like that. Fragments and phrases. Childhood memories of affection and bits of culture passed down and held close.

Andropov gave him a look. "So... that was Svetlana Vetrova, huh?"

It wasn't a wild leap to make. Shane had been seen out with Svetlana just last week for her birthday, not to mention all the articles that had come out after Zurich. Cautiously, Shane nodded.

Andropov smirked. "Does the Red Curtain know you've been banging his little girl? Bet she's full of daddy issues," he snickered.

Something inside Shane went very, very still. "What did you just say?" His voice sounded very far away to his own ears.

"Oh, come on, we've all heard you had a hand up her skirt at Worlds, no need to—"

"Shut the fuck up," Shane spat, fists clenched at his sides, and Andropov, three inches taller and seven years older, flinched backwards like the fucking coward he was. "Don't you ever say shit like that again."

"Relax, kid," Andropov said, smiling a little uneasily. "It was just a—"

Shane slammed his locker shut, and the sound cracked through the last of the post-practice chatter, leaving heavy eyes on both of them. Face burning with anger and embarrassment, Shane squeezed his bag strap and left.

He had almost made it to the players' exit when he heard "Hollander!" barked at him from the other end of the hallway. He stopped, gritted his teeth, and turned around to face Coach Theriault, who looked as stony as ever.

"My office," Theriault said, and turned on his heel.

Shane had never—never—been called into a coach's office for a reprimand. He'd been called into the principal's office twice in primary school when other kids' taunts and bullying had earned them suspensions, but he'd never gotten in trouble. He liked rules.

Sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of Theriault's desk, Shane felt a hot-cold wave of anxiety adrenaline starting at the crown of his head and pouring down his spine.

Theriault sighed the sigh of a man who was responsible for delivering wins to a franchise worth half a billion dollars. "You grew up in hockey, Hollander."

It wasn't a question. Shane kept his mouth shut.

"A hockey team is a balancing act." The lines at the corners of Theriault's mouth tightened. "And hostility in the locker room can throw off that balance."

Shane bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron.

"I don't want to have this chat again," Theriault said. "You're a promising player, Hollander. You don't have to be best friends with your teammates, but you do need to respect them. Am I understood?"

"Yes, coach."

Shane didn't stop shaking until he was locked in his car, forehead pressed to the top of the wheel. He didn't even realize he had his phone out until he heard his dad's voice coming from the speaker.

"Shane? Shane?"

"Hi, dad," Shane croaked, suddenly so close to crying that his nose itched. He took a gulp from his water bottle and tried to level out his breathing.

Shane's dad was quiet, waiting. It was something Shane had always appreciated about him.

"So, what's wrong, kiddo?" Shane's dad asked eventually. "Do I need to drive up to Montreal? Need a boys' night with your old man?"

Fuck, fuck, it was a weekday. Shane's dad was at work, and Shane was having a fucking breakdown in his car over a five minute conversation with his coach that hadn't even included a fine or formal complaint.

Shane swallowed and pushed his hair back from his face. "No. You don't have to—no. Just." He swallowed again, the gross feeling of snot slinking down the back of his throat. "When you were at McGill. If someone—a teammate—had said something shitty about—a woman. What would you have done?"

Shane's dad went quiet again. The only sounds were his steady breathing and the faint rain on the roof of Shane's car.

"Well," said Shane's dad slowly. "That was before I tore my rotator cuff, so I'd probably have started with punching his lights out."

A laugh bubbled out of Shane, a desperate overwhelmed thing, as his father's constancy soothed over something jagged in his chest. "Thanks, dad," he said quietly.

"Shane," his dad said, suddenly serious. "You're a good man. Whatever reaction you had, I'm sure it was warranted. But please call your mom if you need to be bailed out of jail, I can't even figure out how to open the banking app on my phone."

There was something so purely David Hollander about that response that Shane smiled down at his car's floor mats, shaking his head. "No jail time, I promise. But dad, you work for the Treasury Board. How do you not know how to use a banking app?"

"It's not like I grew up using them, kiddo."

"No, it was all stone tablets and chisels back then," Shane snarked.

"Until I saved up a whole sixpence and bought an abacus," his dad replied easily, a smile in his voice. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting to get to. But you play in Ottawa again next month, right? Your mom and I would love to have you over for dinner. I'll make those roasted brussels sprouts you liked."

"I'll be there," Shane promised.

When his dad hung up, he tilted his head back and let his eyes slide shut.

November 2010
New York, New York

After the game (2-1, Admirals, with a save by Bennett so clean that Shane had maybe drooled a little), Shane showered and changed so he could get out of the migraine-inducing wall of sound and people that was Madison Square Garden as quickly as humanly possible.

So of course when he reached the players' exit, Svetlana had somehow talked her way past security and cornered Scott Hunter, a man easily twice her size.

"—slapshot in the second was acceptable, but your third line needs—"

"Sveta," Shane interrupted. "Are you done scaring him now?"

Svetlana's whole face brightened when she saw him, enveloping him in a hug that leached the nerves from his shoulders. "Shanushka, you played well tonight. And he isn't as scared as he should be, I'm losing my touch."

It was true, Hunter looked remarkably unintimidated considering he'd just had Svetlana dissecting his game. He looked a little confused, but there was a distinct lack of the usual mixture of awe and terror that Svetlana tended to evoke from men in general and hockey players in particular. He must have had a constitution of steel.

Hunter nodded when he noticed Shane looking. "Shane Hollander, right? You played a great game tonight."

Mortifyingly, Shane's body chose that moment to remember the poster on his wall, and he felt a burning flush starting at the tips of his ears and spreading towards his collar. "Um, thank you, Mr. Hunter, sir, it's nice to meet you."

Hunter chuckled. "You can just call me Scott, rook. We play in the same league, on the same ice."

Svetlana hooked an arm through Shane's, smiling like a shark. "Will you join us for dinner, Scott Hunter? We're getting sushi in the Village."

He looked startled at the offer. "Oh, uh. No thank you, Ms. Vetrova, I have plans." He looked between the two of them and readjusted his shoulder strap. "But thank you anyways." He nodded goodbye and ducked out the door into the private parking lot.

"Please don't break him," Shane said. "He seems like a nice guy."

Svetlana snorted. "I promise. I'm not his type."

Shane stilled. "Did he say something rude to you?"

He hadn't told Svetlana about what had happened with Andropov—hadn't told Ilya either, or JJ and Hayden, or his mother—but it still hung in the locker room like a bad smell. Every once in a while, Shane would catch Andropov or Comeau or one of their veteran friends sneering at him, and then Shane's expression would do the thing that had earned him the nickname 'iceblock' in Juniors and he would outplay them all out of sheer, unbridled spite.

On the hockey scale of violence, Shane was basically a Buddhist monk, but if Scott Hunter had said some shit to Svetlana, then Shane would damn well make an exception.

"No. He was, unfortunately, a perfect gentleman," she sighed. "And anyways, I'm much more interested in the hockey player I have on my arm right now. I owe him dinner, and he owes me a breakdown of LA's defensive lines."

Shane relaxed a bit. If Hunter had insulted Svetlana, she would have laughed it off and used one of her spiked heels to ruin his chances of ever having biological children.

They had dinner at a little conveyor-belt sushi restaurant that Svetlana had found on a recent shopping trip with her theater friend. She waited until they were settled in a back booth to strike. "So, when were you going to tell me about your crush on Scott Hunter?"

Shane choked on his sip of water. "Jesus, Sveta." He wiped his chin. "It was not—I do not have a crush on him," he hissed, face warm. "I think he is a great player."

She looked at him, unholy amusement in her face. "Yes, and you'd like him to play you all night long."

Shane balled up the paper wrapper from his straw and tossed it at her, and she batted it away, laughing. They started dinner with miso soup and edamame, talking about the game and whether or not Theriault's decision to pull the goalie at the end of the third for a six-man advantage had been the right choice (it had not).

Shane stuck with mostly sashimi and the occasional vegetarian roll, making an exception for the eel nigiri, which gave him a vivid sense-memory of being three and watching his maternal grandmother press the rice with two gnarled fingers. He ate it slowly, savoring every bite.

In contrast, Svetlana tried some of everything, including the more Americanized versions with cream cheese and avocado, and she ate a plate of shrimp tempura with such gusto that Shane's mouth watered with jealousy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something fried.

That jealousy disappeared abruptly when she ate a piece of uni nigiri, and he tried to keep the visceral disgust out of his voice. "You know that is—uh—balls, yes?" He didn't know the Russian words for sea urchin or gonads, and frankly he didn't want to know them.

She shrugged, licking the tip of one finger. "Who cares? If all balls tasted like this, I would suck them more."

He laughed so hard he almost choked. Svetlana, the traitor, pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of his bright red face. He sipped slowly on his water, glaring at her as his phone buzzed.

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Sveta
[Attached Image]
Death by tuna

Shane
*Death by Sveta

Ilyusha
what a way to die

Sveta
😘😘😘

Svetlana snagged a fresh plate of dragon rolls, grinning, and pulled Shane into a player-by-player analysis of how Ottawa's coach was continuing to fuck up the team's latest round of rebuilding. Shane sometimes wondered if Svetlana and his mom shared brain cells through some kind of quantum entanglement.

After dinner, he walked her back to her apartment, his Metros sweatshirt hanging loose on her frame, letting Svetlana's presence settle some of the prickly feelings that had risen with every game in the Metros' recent losing streak.

Stopped at a stoplight, she braced herself on his shoulder with one hand so she could adjust the strap on her right heel. "I should really replace these," she said, frowning. "They always give me blisters."

"Why don't you?"

"They're by Roger Vivier," she said, like that explained everything. "And they were a gift from Sasha."

"Oh, your friend from Moscow?" She'd mentioned the name a few times over the years, mostly in connection to Moscow's wild underground club culture.

"Well, technically Paris right now, for modeling work."

"Does she like it there?"

"Sasha is a man," Svetlana corrected, not unkindly. "It's the diminutive for Alexsander."

"Well, does he like it there?"

She shrugged. "Yes and no. Better than Moscow. Sasha is Sasha, wherever he is." She sighed. "I wish things could be different for him."

He looked at her curiously. "How so?" A modeling career in Paris didn't sound like the worst life.

"He is an incredible model, but he is determined to throw it all away," she said bluntly. "He treats life like a party. Coke, ketamine, ecstasy, whatever takes his fancy."

Shane didn't know the Russian words for drugs, but they were close cognates to English. His stomach dropped. "Oh. I'm sorry. How did you meet?"

"We grew up together, Sasha, Ilyusha, and I," she explained, sticking her hands in the pockets of Shane's sweatshirt. "Our fathers were friends. Sasha's father was Ilyusha's coach for Juniors."

Everything fell together for one loud moment, as Shane remembered words from a hotel room in Toronto.

My coach's son, back in Russia.

"Ah," Shane said intelligently. He clamped his jaw shut and focused on where he was putting his feet on the filthy New York sidewalk so he wouldn't say something certifiably insane, like, I know what Ilya's cum tastes like, or Have I just been filling the hole in your lives left by Sasha?

(He shut that last thought down ruthlessly. He refused to let his overactive brain try to ruin this. Again.)

He dropped Svetlana off in the lobby of her building, trading hugs and cheek kisses and telling her to keep the sweatshirt, and then he called a cab back to the hotel.

"You have fun with Svetlana?" Hayden asked sleepily when Shane slipped into the dark of their room.

"Yeah," Shane said, glad Hayden couldn't see his face. Somehow, gradually, without Shane noticing it was happening, Hayden and JJ had joined the very few people who could tell he was lying with a single glance.

Hayden's soft snuffles were usually soothing, like a white noise machine, but as Shane lay there on his side, belly full of sushi, body sore from too many games too close together, his brain wouldn't turn off.

He wondered if Ilya still thought of Sasha. Wondered if he missed him, if they had been in love, if watching Sasha spiral was worse from afar.

Shane wondered if Ilya was out getting laid right now. Wondered if he was drawing out moans and whimpers and all the sounds that were so hot during sex and so embarrassing afterwards. Wondered if having sex with strangers was more or less painful than having sex with someone who would never want to be anything more.

All of it hurt to think about, and Shane couldn't make himself stop, like digging a thumb into a bruise, so he pulled on his sleep mask and did his deep breathing, and eventually fell asleep.

The Star @sᴛᴀʀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Vetrova and Hollander rekindle romance? Exclusive pics from a steamy sushi date in Greenwich! [...]

Puck Talk Podcast @ᴘᴜᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴋᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Join us for our first livestream tomorrow at 4 PST/7 EST! We'll talk Carolina's management changes, how Philly's defense fell apart last week in Columbus, and, of course, the latest Hollzy/Vetrova gossip. See you there, puckheads! ⛸️🧊

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
Hey honey, I know you've always said you and Svetlana are just friends, but is there any truth to all these articles? Because if there is, I have some media strategies we can use to give you two a bit more breathing room.

Shane
Svetlana and I are not together mom, I promise. We just grabbed dinner after the game, and now the media's going nuts, like usual.

Mom
Okay honey. Just remember you can always tell me anything.

Shane
Okay? I mean the food was good, I had fun.

Late November 2010
Boston, Massachusetts

Montreal played in Boston the third week in November, but Shane had a photoshoot with Reebok that filled every spare minute leading up to the game. Then Montreal trounced Boston 3-1, with Shane scoring the game-winning goal, and he had to go out with the team. He drank one tepid beer and smiled until his face hurt from the effort and tried not to flinch when Johanssen clapped him on the back and toasted him.

Ilya texted a long string of pouting faces that made Shane smile on the flight down to Tampa.

December 2010
Montréal, Québec

They played each other again in Montreal in December (4-2, Boston), but in the second period, Ilya caught an elbow to the face and spent the night with Montreal's emergency dentist.

Shane knew all about it because Ilya sent a gruesome series of update photos to the group chat, from the tooth being stuck back into its bloody socket to it being wired to the surrounding teeth.

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Ilyusha
[Attached Images]

Shane
ILYA
What the fuck
Why would you send us those??
Why did you take pictures in the first place?????

Sveta
🎉🥳😆🦷🩸
Officially a rat!

Shane couldn't even think about the pictures without gagging. He turned off his phone and went to bed with a newfound appreciation for his mouthguards.

December 25, 2010
Ottawa, Ontario

For the three days off around Christmas, Shane drove down to Ottawa and Svetlana flew in.

"The Eastern Orthodox Church celebrates in January," she explained, when Shane picked her up from the airport. "And by the time my parents divorced and my mom moved back to the States, I knew Santa wasn't real, so it's just another holiday to me."

"Well, I hope you're ready for a really confusing mix of vaguely Christian and Japanese-Canadian customs," Shane deadpanned, and she laughed.

Despite her protestations, Svetlana looked genuinely touched to receive the Christmas stocking Shane's dad had sewn for her, with her initials embroidered in Cyrillic. It was stuffed with chocolates and clementines and a pair of locally-made wool socks that she immediately put on and wore for the rest of the trip.

She'd bought perfume for Shane's mom, and a coffee table book of historical New Yorker cartoons for Shane's dad, and for Shane himself, she'd bought a truly hideous Christmas sweater that was softer than sin. Shane hated how much he liked wearing it.

"Open yours," Shane said, nudging her elbow, careful not to spill his mug of sugar-free hot chocolate.

Svetlana opened the wide, flat box from Shane, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked truly surprised. "Is this—"

"Truth Coming Out of Her Well," he confirmed. "You said you've been thinking about it since that time you saw it in high school, right? So I ordered a print from the museum and got it framed. I hope you like it," he added, a little self-consciously.

Svetlana smiled. Not the polished thing she brought out for cameras and authority figures. Not the smirk she wore when she was talking to someone who hadn't figured out she was smarter than them. It was wide and unpracticed and made her that much more beautiful. "It's perfect," she said, leaning in to hug him. "Thank you, Shanushka. I love it."

After Christmas dinner—tourtière and homemade fried chicken (grilled for Shane), with strawberry cake and a yule log for dessert—they laid on the floor in the den, too full to move, until Svetlana got a video call request and managed to lever herself upright.

"Sveta!" Ilya was smiling, but he kept his voice low. "How's Canadian Christmas?"

"It's lovely, Ilyusha," she said. "I might need to marry Shane so I can become a Hollander."

Ilya blew a raspberry, then glanced out of frame worriedly.

"What's wrong?" Svetlana asked.

Ilya tilted his phone down so Shane and Svetlana could see that he was in a squashy recliner in an unfamiliar room, with a snoring toddler tucked under one arm and two huge orange cats asleep on his chest.

Svetlana laughed so hard Ilya flapped a hand to shush her, and Shane clapped a hand over his mouth to smother his snickers.

"Marly's nephew," Ilya explained, voice still low. "He ate too much honey ham and something called hotdish. I am watching him so I do not have to wash dishes."

"Right, 'watching' him," Shane said dryly. "And the cats?"

"Pumpkin and Cinnamon," Ilya said, stroking a hand down their backs. "They decided I was a good bed. Who am I to tell beautiful ladies what to do?"

From somewhere in the background came the sound of someone singing Jingle Bells badly off-key.

Ilya groaned. "Oh god, someone save me, Marly's brother-in-law is singing again."

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
thank you Shanushka for my first canadian christmas! 💖🎄
[Attached Images]

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
uh Bites have you seen those christmas pics Vetrova posted?? Isn't that Shane Hollander's house?? With his parents??? Are she and Hollzy married?????

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
⤷@𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
oh my GOD

January 1 2011
Montréal, Québec

Shane spent New Year's Eve at Hayden's apartment, playing video games with JJ and some of Jackie's friends while Hayden tried not to burn the massive stir fry he'd decided to make with zero prior experience. Jackie was being helpful by sitting nearby, drinking a beer and periodically calming Hayden's nerves.

Just after midnight, the crackle of fireworks still ringing in his ears, Shane accepted a video call from Svetlana.

"Shanushka!" she shouted over the music, and he could tell she was at Marly's place, although it was now crammed full of balloons and streamers and Raiders.

Ilya leaned into frame, sweaty and dressed in what Svetlana lovingly called his 'Moscow club rat' clothes. "Hollander! I hope you are ready to get your ass beat at All-Stars!" There was a scattered cheer from the sloshed Raiders around him.

Shane rolled his eyes. "You wish." Getting the news from management that he'd been chosen for All-Stars still felt like a fantasy, like he'd wake up one day and find out it had all been a dream, that he was still twelve and playing on that dinky uneven rink in Ottawa.

"Is that Vetrova and Rozanov?" JJ asked, dropping his controller and craning over to get a look. "Holy shit, it is!"

Svetlana perked up. "Ah, Boiziau! You played better against Pittsburg—"

There was the muffled sound of someone saying "Wait, is that Hollander?" and then the phone was tipped violently sideways and the image settled on the broad, bearded face of Cliff Marlow, grinning ear to ear. "I knew it!" he said gleefully. "Hollzy, bro, we have got to hang out the next time you're in Boston, I owe you a drink for being best friends with the most annoying guy in existence, you really fell on that sword—"

There was some creative swearing and a scuffle, presumably as Ilya tried to wrestle the phone back, and then Svetlana said sharply, "Enough!" and someone handed it back to her much more carefully.

Shane was too busy laughing to realize that Hayden had come up over his other shoulder until Ilya said, "Wait, there are more Metros? Boooooo—"

"Fuck off, Rozanov," JJ said, but he was laughing, and Hayden flipped off the camera so close that his finger blotted out the whole picture.

"I'm a Metro too, asshole," Shane said, shaking his head at Ilya.

"Yes, but you are our favorite," Svetlana said, and blew him a kiss. Ilya pressed his cheek flush to hers and winked at the camera.

Shane felt himself go red, and JJ and Hayden ribbed him gently, thinking he was blushing about Svetlana, and the Raiders cheered for the rookie bromance, and even with Shane's ever-present undercurrent of anxiety and Hayden's weirdly lumpy stir fry, it was a pretty good way to start the new year.

Late January 2011
Nashville, Tennessee
All-Stars Day 1

Whichever league administrator had booked the hotel for All-Stars had either never been to the hotel in person or didn't give a shit about people getting to their events on time.

It was a labyrinth of identical hallways leading to identical conference rooms, with elevators that were tucked behind random columns and signage that managed to be both vague and contradictory.

The lobby was clogged with players and their families, some frantically calling the airport trying to recover lost luggage, some asking for room changes, some trying to wheedle extra perks out of the hotel staff like they weren't professional athletes making seven figures a year. If there was a hell, this was it.

Shane found Ilya leaning against a wall next to the gift shop, phone pressed to his ear. Ilya caught his eye and waved him over.

Sveta, Ilya mouthed, turning it to speaker. The sharp burst of sound drew eyes from players and other hotel patrons, and Ilya hurriedly clicked the volume lower.

"—still injured, his blocker side will be slow—"

"Hi, Sveta," Shane interrupted, when he realized she wasn't going to pause for breath. Maybe NYU offered classes on circular breathing.

"Shanushka! Good, you should know this too. The goalie from Austin tore his ACL last year—"

Shane smiled at Ilya, who rolled his eyes fondly, and they leaned their heads over the phone and listened to Svetlana ruthlessly pick apart the year's All-Star roster, which morphed into laments that she wasn't in Nashville with them. She let them know she was done by saying, "I have Ethics in seven minutes, good luck, don't you dare fall for that deke from Weller," and hanging up.

Shane and Ilya shared a grin, and then Ilya said, "Come on, I want to see the gift shop," and Shane followed him in.

There wasn't much, just some touristy t-shirts and plushies and magnets, and overpriced toiletries, and a bunch of books by authors that Shane had never even heard of.

Ilya paused in front of the bodice-rippers and held one up next to his face. "I should be the new Fabio," he said, sucking his cheeks in, and Shane smacked him in the stomach. Ilya made an exaggerated wounded sound, and Shane couldn't hold back a snort of laughter, earning a dirty look from the single gift shop employee.

"Come on, let's go," he said, nudging Ilya back out into the lobby.

"Roz!" called a familiar voice, and the hulking figure of Cliff Marlow appeared in the crowd, trailed by a woman and two children.

The older kid caught sight of Ilya and shrieked, throwing herself bodily at him, and he automatically crouched to catch her with an "Oof!"

"Ilyaaaaa," she said, singsong, smushing his cheeks with her little hands.

"Madushenkaaaa," he sang back, then scooped her up and blew a raspberry on her stomach that made her giggle. He looked up at Marlow and grinned, pulling him in for a quick half-hug and handing the little girl back. "What took you so long? We were on the same flight," he explained to Shane.

The tall, dark-haired woman beside Marlow laughed. "You try getting through an airport with a six year old and a three year old, then you can give us shit, Roz." Her gaze shifted to Shane. "Oh, is this your friend? Hollander, right?"

Shane's face went hot. "Uh. Hi, yeah, I'm Shane Hollander."

The woman cooed, "Aww, you're precious. What the hell are you doing hanging around Roz?"

Ilya hooked an arm around Shane's neck. "He's stuck with me forever," he said, pouting. "Where else will I find another hockey player who will learn Russian for me?"

"As if, I learned it for Sveta—"

"For me, only me," Ilya said loudly, shoving a hand into Shane's face, and Shane was sorely tempted to lick it, except he was in a very public lobby full of hockey legends and also he wasn't five years old.

Marlow cracked up, cradling his niece easily in one massive arm. "Good to see you, Hollzy. This is my sister, Celia, and her kids, Maddy and Tommy."

"Nice to meet you," Shane said, shaking her hand. "Sorry you had to fly with Ilya."

"It was actually great," Celia said with a smile. "He kept them both entertained the whole time."

"Roz is weirdly good with kids," Marlow agreed.

"Probably because he's just a big child," Shane muttered, and Ilya made an outraged noise and wrapped him in a loose headlock, which Shane struggled out of and tried to pull Ilya's arm up behind his back, only for them both to stop when a familiar voice said, "Jesus Christ, I didn't realize they were both like this."

Shane and Ilya looked up into the long-suffering eyes of Scott Hunter, Carter Vaughn chuckling at his side.

"Hollzy, Roz, good to see you," Vaughn said, clapping their shoulders. "I'd heard a rumor you two rooks were actually friends."

"Best friends," Marlow corrected, smirking.

"He's not my best friend—" both Shane and Ilya tried to say at the same time, and the other guys started laughing. Shane should have let himself get lost in the hotel.

"We should get up to the room, Cliff," said Celia, and he nodded.

"Good to see you guys," he said, hoisting Maddy a little higher. "Hollzy, Vaughny, see you at dinner tonight." Their little gaggle of children and suitcases wormed through the crowd in the vague direction of the elevators.

"So, what's on your schedules, boys?" Hunter asked.

"What? Oh, uh—" Shane pulled up the itinerary his mom had emailed him. "Nothing today, just the team dinner. Then tomorrow morning I've got press before the Skills Comp."

Ilya groaned. "Fuck, I forgot. Me too."

"It will be fine," Shane muttered, tapping their shoes together.

"Hollander, I can't believe I'm asking this, but please keep Rozanov from hosting any keggers this week," said Hunter. "I'm one door down from him, and unlike you literal teenagers, I do actually need to sleep."

"Don't worry, Hunter," Ilya drawled. "If we party, we will make sure to invite you." He winked.

Hunter's brows shot up. "I always forget how much of a little shit you are," he muttered, and Shane laughed until Ilya poked him in the ribs, pouting.

"Hey, Gloria wants to hang by the pool, are you guys up for that?" said Vaughn, brandishing his phone.

"Carter's girlfriend," Hunter explained at Shane's questioning look. "She flew in early."

Shane traded a look with Ilya and then shrugged. "I guess we should put our stuff away."

Ilya followed him into the elevator and out to his room. Shane didn't say anything, partly because he wasn't really sure what to say, and partly because he was vibrating with the urge to rub his face against the hint of chest hair peeking out of the neck of Ilya's shirt.

"You need to go to your own room," Shane pointed out, once the door was closed and locked behind them. "So no one thinks that—you know. There's anything going on."

"Nothing is going on," Ilya teased, then leaned in and kissed him gently, tongue suckling and taunting and warm, and it felt so good Shane barely managed to drop his bag before he was dragging Ilya closer, closer, until they were chest to chest, hip to hip, and Ilya was a wall of heat and muscle that Shane wanted to melt into.

Fuck, this was dangerous. How had he forgotten how desperate he got the minute he had Ilya's hands on him, the minute they had a locked door between them and the world? How he became a needy, whining mess and it made his cheeks burn with embarrassment but he couldn't—didn't want to—stop?

"We don't have time," Shane managed, between feverish kisses and blunt nails on his nape that raised waves of goosebumps over his whole body.

"Mmm," Ilya said eloquently, scraping his teeth over Shane's earlobe, and Shane was abruptly so close to coming in his pants that it afforded him a moment of clarity. He stepped smartly backwards, panting and wiping his mouth, trying not to look at the way Ilya's eyes were blown dark and wide with arousal, with obvious want.

"Not now," Shane said, strangled, trying and failing not to stare at Ilya's dick, hard and twitching in his sweats. "They're expecting us."

Ilya groaned. "Then don't look at me like that, fuck," he said, and went to the mini fridge and took out a cold can of orange soda and pressed it to his dick with a pained hiss.

"Go to your own room," Shane said, looking anywhere but Ilya. "I'll meet you at the pool."

"Fine, fine, I'm going," Ilya said, but he leaned in and licked a fat stripe up Shane's neck that was equal parts disgusting and electrifying, and muttered, "Think of me when you cum."

Shane shoved him out into the hall, his words buzzing in Shane's ears as he threw the deadbolt and stuck a frantic hand down his pants, barely getting the chance to touch his dick before he was coming so hard he slumped to his knees, forehead thunking gently against the door.

The pool was less crowded than Shane had feared. There were kids laughing and playing games, people sipping cocktails under patio table umbrellas, and a lifeguard who looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown if another 300lb hockey player cannonballed into the shallow end.

Ilya was, of course, king of the little flock of children, pretending to be eaten by a shark, tossing Tommy up over his head and catching him, steadying Maddy as she used a kickboard. Shane took copious pictures and sent them to Svetlana—for blackmail purposes, obviously, and not because the sight made his stomach do something complicated and not altogether unpleasant.

It turned out that Vaughn's girlfriend Gloria was six feet tall and the kind of beautiful that almost made at least one man accidentally walk into the pool fully-clothed. She also, to Shane's relief, didn't seem to give a shit that she was surrounded by hockey superstars. He had the vague impression she was some kind of famous, but honestly he had a pretty bad memory for names and faces when they weren't scowling out from under a hockey helmet.

"Same egos, different clothes," she said with a sigh, and Shane nodded like he understood what she was talking about, and she mentioned that she traveled a lot for work, and somehow that led into a discussion of their favorite terrible movies to watch on long flights, which culminated in her putting her number in his phone when they split up to get ready for team dinners.

"Call when you're in New York," she said, a little tipsy from mimosas, waving over Vaughn's shoulder as he gave her a piggyback ride to the elevators. "I have plenty of cute friends who would love to talk about shitty movies with you, we could double date!"

He waved back and tried desperately not to think about how unless those friends were men, it probably wouldn't go anywhere satisfying for anyone involved.

"First you charm Svetlana, now Gloria Grey? Hollzy, my man, this is a previously undiscovered level of game," said Marlow, whistling lowly.

Ilya sighed theatrically and draped himself over Shane's shoulders. "Shaaane, I am tired from too much playing with monster children, will you pig carry me?"

"Piggyback," Shane corrected, very aware of the line of Ilya's dick against his ass. It was soft, but with the way Ilya was pressed against him, that would certainly change. "If you promise to behave," he said, before he realized that having Ilya's weight on him, gripping fingers into the meat of Ilya's thighs, having Ilya breathing against his neck, would be a very, very bad idea in public.

"Of course I will behave," Ilya said, pouting. "I am an angel, everyone knows this."

"Yeah, Lucifer," Marlow said with a snort, and then Ilya tore himself away from Shane to defend his honor, which involved chasing a laughing Marlow down the pool deck while the harassed lifeguard blew his whistle and tried in vain to stop them from running.

Shane rolled his eyes, helplessly fond, and went upstairs to get changed for dinner, definitely not a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to give Ilya a piggyback ride.

When Marlow was done telling everyone at team dinner how he'd single-handedly fought off Ilya's random and totally unwarranted attack, Vaughn stared at Shane, open-mouthed. "Holy shit. Svetlana Vetrova? Really? I thought that was just a rumor."

"It's real," Marlow cackled. "Hollzy's a fuckin' beautician."

"Are you and Vetrova actually secretly married?" a goalie—the latest winner of the Vezina—from D.C. asked.

Shane almost choked. "What? No! Absolutely not."

"Is she coming to Nashville?" called a winger from Dallas whose skating Shane may or may not have studied obsessively in high school.

Shane shook his head, getting a little sweaty under all the attention. "She has classes."

"Awww, he knows her schedule!" cooed Marlow, and the team erupted in good-natured ribbing and cheers, Shane's cheeks flushed beet red as he was folded gently into the midst of men he'd looked up to all his life.

All-Stars Day 2

The schedule for the next day had clearly been slapped together with duct tape and prayer. Shane didn't really get why he and Ilya had been tapped to do an interview together when the league was still trying to cram the 'mortal enemies' narrative down the throats of every Boston and Montreal fan, but rookies didn't really get to question league-assigned press, so they showed up at 9AM and loitered in a hallway for half an hour.

Shane's phone buzzed with a shipping alert. "Oh, good. Your Christmas present should be at your apartment by the time you get back to Boston."

"A present?" Ilya said, looking startled. "What is it?"

"Vodka," Shane said with a grin. "Sveta helped me get the Russian brand you like."

Ilya smirked. "And you sent it to Boston? Tsk, tsk, Shane Hollander. The drinking age in Massachusetts is twenty-one."

Shane laughed. "Your English has gotten much better." He'd become more careful about what he said in Russian after Andropov, but there was no harm in talking to Ilya like this, was there? They were friends, it was hardly a secret.

"So has your Russian," Ilya said, lounging beside him, looking like a model against the cinderblock wall. "But my English improved from living and working in America. What did you do, find a hot Russian to fuck in Montreal?"

Shane's mouth twitched. "Promise not to laugh?"

"That depends on what you say," Ilya said blithely, utterly honest and completely unhelpful, as usual.

"I bought some new language practice CDs," Shane confessed, idly tapping the heel of his foot against the wall. "I listen to them when I drive and when my team is traveling." The ones from the library had been old and worn out, some still referring to Russia as the Soviet Union, and Shane had felt strange about taking library media out of Montreal for roadies, let alone taking them out of the country.

Ilya looked at him, amusement and something else in his eyes, and said, "Well, that's definitely more boring than what I did, which was to billet with a loud American whose Boston accent is so thick it barely counts as English."

"I'm telling Marlow you said that," Shane said with a grin, and then a league staffer was signaling them, and they both straightened up into professional hockey players again.

Press was a nightmare, as usual. Cameras flashing, journalists clamoring for quotes, barely letting them get settled in their folding chairs before speaking. From the tight, slightly wide-eyed look on Ilya's face, the cacophony of English was already overwhelming. Shane couldn't imagine if he had thirty people shouting Russian at him and expecting thoughtful answers.

Shane nudged his foot over to tap Ilya's. I'm here too. It's okay.

Ilya met his eye and swallowed, then tapped back, an acknowledgement.

"Shane, can you tell us how it feels to play for a team that holds so much importance to your family?"

"Well, I can tell you that my mom's happy," Shane said, to polite laughter.

"Ah, but she is not just a fan of terrible teams," Ilya interrupted, smirking, suddenly back to the confident asshole Shane knew so well. "Yuna has my jersey too."

There was half a moment of stunned silence, during which Shane seriously considered flicking Ilya on the ear, and then the reporters turned their attention to Ilya, asking so many overlapping questions that Shane leaned in and muttered, "They want to know why she would have your jersey. And why you called her by her first name."

"Do you mind if I tell them?" Ilya murmured back, and by then some of the press had caught on to the fact that they were talking and shuffled even closer.

Shane shrugged. "Go ahead."

Ilya smiled, victorious, and told the gobsmacked reporters and press staffers how Yuna Hollander had lost a bet to Ilya Rozanov about making Shane Hollander order a room service pizza. (He didn't, Shane noticed, pathetically grateful, mention Shane's diet and what Ilya's forfeit would have been if he'd lost.)

After that, the interview blurred by, questions that both Shane and Ilya had answered so often that their responses were automatic. Shane could almost tune out at that point, a pleasant, practiced smile fixed on his face, his brain working on autopilot.

When they were finally released from media prison and dumped back into the hall, Shane pulled off his tie, shoulders tense from the effort of spending so much time being on. "You should ask the Raiders to find a Boston reporter who speaks Russian."

Ilya sighed, leaning heavily against the wall. "Maybe. It's useful sometimes, to not be expected to explain in detail. And it's part of the 'aggressive Russian playboy' stereotype the league wants from me."

Shane shrugged. "Well, we don't have to give them everything they want, do we?"

Ilya eyed him speculatively. "No," he said finally. "No, we don't."

After lunch and a nap, they were both up to compete in Shot Accuracy, and to no one's surprise, Ilya beat out Hunter's record.

"Sveta will be proud of you," Shane said teasingly, as Ilya skated back to his team's bench.

"Will you disappoint her, Shane Hollander?" Ilya asked, arching a brow.

"Nope," Shane said, smiling, and readied himself to break the record Ilya had just set.

Shane spent his second evening at his first ever All-Stars helping Ilya babysit Marlow's niece and nephew.

"Sorry," Ilya said ruefully. "I promised Marly before we got here. This is why Celia and the kids came along, so she could see the country music band she likes. They will be back by eleven."

Shane couldn't be too annoyed about having to wait longer to get his hands on Ilya—or Ilya's hands on him. Not when they all spent the night cuddled up on the fold-out couch in Celia's room, watching an animated movie with Russian subtitles turned on so Ilya's sleepy brain didn't have to work so hard translating.

Somewhere in the middle of the movie, when both kids were fast asleep, Shane found his head pillowed on Ilya's thigh, with Ilya's fingers scritching slowly through his hair.

Then Ilya seemed to catch himself, pulling back and going still. "Sorry."

Shane fumbled around above his head until he found Ilya's hand and moved it back to his hair. "Feels nice," he mumbled, and let himself doze as Ilya's fingers resumed their movement.

All-Stars Day 3

Practice with Vaughn and Marlow on his line was maybe the most relaxed Shane had ever been on MLH ice.

It was All-Stars, not a Cup game, and players were treating it with all the seriousness it deserved. The ice was full of chatting and laughter and silly competitions, chirps about tape brands and snoring roommates and weirdest pre-game rituals. Shane was pretty sure he could see the two brothers from Winnepeg pulling faces at each other from opposite sides of the rink.

After an hour, the next team showed up for their scheduled ice time, and Ilya, flat-faced, skated up to Shane at the blue line. "Your goalie friend is an asshole."

"Who, Drapeau?" Shane said, glancing past him. Drapeau was the other Metro who'd been selected for All-Stars, and Shane had half forgotten the man had been drafted to the same team as Ilya. "He's not my friend."

Ilya leaned on his stick. "I do not wish violence on goalies, but I might make an exception if he keeps saying shit about our rookie."

Shane thwapped him in the arm with his glove. "We're the rookies. Who are you talking about? And what was Drapeau saying about them?"

"Arjuna."

Shane knew the name. Nick Arjuna, solid defenseman from Colorado, slightly stronger playing on the right, great puck-handling skills, once joined a hot dog eating competition for charity and ate thirty-two in an hour.

Shane frowned. "He's a year older than us, Ilya."

Ilya flapped a hand. "He is a rookie in spirit. And Drapeau was saying some racist shit in French." He spat on the ice.

Arjuna was Indian-American, one of the fewer than a dozen Asian players in the MLH.

Shane thought about Drapeau—a man he practiced with most days, a man whose car he'd jumped in the parking lot last month, a man who laughed at Comeau's not-so-subtle digs at Shane—and felt his stomach tighten with anger and resolve. "Guess I'll have to make him eat those words."

Speaking of which: "Are any of your teammates from Worlds here?" Shane asked.

He hadn't seen any of their names on the roster, but there had been a few last minute changes for injuries or weather concerns. It had been bad enough playing against them, he had no idea how Ilya—who was already gaining a reputation for a temper on the ice—had managed to play with them for years.

Ilya shook his head. "No, we are only rookies at All-Stars. But some are in the league, I will give you a list."

Shane smiled. "I already have a spreadsheet," he admitted.

Ilya threw back his head and laughed. "Of course you do, you're an—" and he said something Shane couldn't quite parse, even with the years of studying and conversations with Svetlana.

Shane frowned. "Uh, evil... sorting... something?"

"Almost. Evil organization wizard. That is you."

"You are a dick," Shane said, laughing.

Ilya stuck out his tongue, and Shane tried not to blush, remembering where exactly that tongue had been.

After dinner, Shane had a Skype meeting with his mother and an advertising team representing a sports drink that Shane would never willingly ingest. But they were offering him half a million dollars to hold a bottle of it for the length of a commercial, so he bit his tongue and smiled and nodded when he was supposed to.

Then he fell face-first into bed, praying for the sweet release of death or a return to the regular season, whichever got him closer to Ilya Rozanov touching his dick.

All-Stars Day 4

It was barely a real game, more like an exhibition match dressed up fancy. No one was putting their bodies on the line for an All-Stars win, especially not goalies, and the score crept comically high.

Shane had to accept that his line's timing wouldn't be the polished, snappy, tape-to-tape that he loved, not after one and a half practices, but Marlow and Vaughn were still damn good hockey players and excellent wingers, and together with their first line of vets, their team managed to sink five goals against Drapeau.

In the grand tradition of absolutely everyone taking shots on goal in All-Stars, Arjuna scored off a neat wrister early in the second period, and Shane skated up to him at the commercial break. "Hey man, great goal," Shane said, and held his glove out for a fist bump.

Arjuna looked up at him. "Uh. Thanks, dude." He returned the fist bump, looking mildly perplexed but pleased.

In the end, Ilya and Hunter's team won, 7-5, and Ilya was just as smug as Shane would expect, blowing kisses to the crowd, patting Shane's helmet consolingly, taking a victory lap that ended with him tossing pucks and his stick to kids in the audience.

God, he was insufferable. Shane wanted to get him alone and kiss him about it.

"Hunter's in the room next to mine," Ilya muttered in Shane's ear, arm slung over his shoulder as they traipsed back into the hotel in a mob of other hockey players. "So we'll have to go to yours."

It was the last night of All-Stars and finally, finally, their night was wide open. Shane's heart had been pounding in his chest since the final buzzer.

"You guys staying in tonight?" Marlow asked easily, stretching his arms over his head.

After this week, Shane understood a little better why Marlow was Ilya's closest friend on the Raiders. There was something oddly restful about Marlow, something that reminded Shane of Svetlana in roundabout way. Maybe it was because of his intensely laid-back attitude. Maybe it was because he never asked anything of Shane that Shane hadn't willingly offered.

Ilya heaved a sigh. "Of course we are staying in. Stupid American drinking age. Shane, next time we are in Canada, we will party, yes? Finally lose your club virginity?"

Shane almost retorted that they'd literally gone clubbing together, in both Canada and Switzerland, and that Ilya knew for a fact that he wasn't a virgin, but that wasn't what Ilya's little performance was about, so he swallowed and tried to act nonchalant. "Yeah, sure. But we have to invite Sveta or she will kill us."

Ilya shuddered. "Yes, probably."

"Rookies need their beauty rest," called someone down the hall, and Ilya blew a loud raspberry. "No, no, we will be up late. Shane has never seen Underworld movies, I must fix this!"

The hall filled with laughter as players ducked into their rooms to get ready for their bar crawl, swapping cologne and borrowing toothpaste and sharing league gossip that would have made the tabloids salivate.

"Goodnight, I love you, have fun, be safe," Ilya said, high-fiving players they passed, and somehow it worked, getting them more laughter and calls of goodbye and chirps about not staying up past their bedtime, until they stepped into Shane's room and shut the door, throwing the deadbolt and sliding the chain.

Shane collapsed back against the door, breathing hard as he fumbled with his belt buckle, all his nerves crashing down at once. "How did you—"

Ilya shrugged, pulling off his jacket and yanking his shirt over his head, necklace catching around his mouth. "If you do not hide, they do not notice. Now we are two baby rookies watching a movie, nothing to see." He went to toss his clothes on the floor, caught the look on Shane's face, and obediently hung them over the back of the chair.

They did actually turn on the TV, because they weren't stupid and it would be at least half an hour before everyone left, and the rerun of some daytime soap covered up the wet sounds of them kissing and running their hands over each other, so much naked skin that Shane was dizzy with it, glutted after months of famine.

It was only when the last of the chatter in the hallway had faded away that Ilya turned up the TV a little louder, folded Shane in half, and licked a hot stripe up Shane's perineum that made Shane thrash and moan into his fist.

"Fuck, Ilya—"

"Are you going to beg?" Ilya murmured, sucking one ball into his mouth and then the other, the cool air on wet, sensitive skin sending rippling shudders through Shane's body. "I like when you beg."

"I know you do, you fucking asshole," Shane gritted out, and watched Ilya grin wickedly as he rubbed his knuckles firmly under Shane's balls, lipping at the hair at the base of his cock, pressing sloppy kisses up and down his length as Shane twisted and squirmed in the sheets.

When Shane finally came, his cock down Ilya's throat, two of Ilya's fingers petting at his rim, Shane actually blacked out a little, slowly blinking back to awareness, loosening his jaw from where he'd bitten into the meat of his arm.

Ilya lay next to him, propped up on one arm, gently rubbing at Shane's stomach and sternum. "You are back?" he asked, a thread of worry in his voice.

Shane nodded, and realized with a jolt that Ilya was still hard and leaking, that the little wet smear of precome on Shane's hip was from Ilya, and suddenly he needed to get his mouth on him.

He sat up and tipped Ilya onto his back, ignoring the startled bark of laughter, and gave the slowest, most thorough blowjob he could manage.

He'd fucking practiced, okay? After his frankly amateurish first time with Ilya, he'd gone home and looked up articles, and when those had been more confusing than instructive, he'd opened a private browsing window, flushed with embarrassment even when no one was around to see what he was doing, and looked up gay porn. He'd taken notes.

And then he'd spent a not-insignificant amount of time practicing on his dildo, which had turned into him fingering himself while stuffing his mouth full, which had turned into him learning a few things about himself that he had no way of unknowing.

By the sounds coming out of Ilya, all that training had paid off. "Fuck, where did you—how—"

Ilya broke off with a moan, hips struggling against Shane's grip, sweat beading at his collarbone, around his nipples. He looked like some kind of old deity in the buttery light of the hotel lamps, like a god of debauchery, golden and lithe and slowly falling apart.

"Fuck, your mouth—god that's so hot—" Ilya said a word Shane didn't know and gripped Shane's hair so tightly it brought tears to his eyes and made his soft cock twitch against his thigh. "I'm close, let me—" and he tried to pull Shane away like last time, but Shane tightened his grip and sank all the way down, and the swell of Ilya's thighs flexed deliciously against Shane's palms as he came, moaning long and low, Russian hissing out of his throat too quietly for Shane to catch.

The taste was bitter and filthy and Shane swallowed it greedily, tonguing at Ilya's slit until Ilya batted him away.

Shane pulled himself up the bed and collapsed onto the pillows next to Ilya, their chests heaving in tandem. The world felt syrupy, all the sharp corners filed off. Shane watched the rise and fall of Ilya's chest slow down, watched the sweat dry tacky on Ilya's abs, breathed in the warm, heady smell of male bodies and sex, and eased back into his own skin.

Ilya turned on his side facing Shane, one big hand cupped possessively over Shane's hip, thumb stroking back and forth. "That was madness. Where did you learn to do that?"

Shane smiled. "The internet."

Ilya laughed, eyes crinkling shut, the little divot in his upper lip smoothing out. "Nerd."

They were quiet for a few minutes, the only sound coming from the TV. Shane felt like someone had filled him with honey, sweet and thick and gooey. "What was that word you used earlier? I don't know it."

"Hm?" Ilya asked, eyes lazily tracing something on Shane's cheeks.

"Shah-nick," Shane said, sounding it out, frowning. "What does that mean?"

Ilya's thumb paused against his hip. "Shanyk. It is—a little name. Nickname," he explained, accent thicker than Shane had heard in months. "For Shane."

Oh. "A diminutive? Like Shanushka?" Shane could feel himself blushing, and it had nothing to do with the mind-melting orgasm he'd just had.

"Yes," Ilya said, relaxing with a snort. "But not so cutesy."

"But wouldn't it be Vanya?" Shane asked. "Since Shane would be John, and John would be Ivan?"

"Would you rather be Vanya? Or maybe Shanya?" Ilya teased, nipping under Shane's jaw.

"No," Shane said, pressing his hot face into the cool of the pillow. "No, it's fine."

Ilya made a satisfied noise and manhandled Shane until he was facing away from Ilya, tucked under one of his arms, spooned skin to skin.

Ilya nosed behind his ear, scraping his teeth across the sensitive hinge of his jaw, and then settled back, throwing a leg over Shane's hips and pinning him in place while their bodies settled. Shane let himself melt under the weight, under the pressure of Ilya's teeth digging gently into the back of his neck.

They woke up from their impromptu nap in time to shower and order dinner, and Ilya insisted they actually watch Underworld while they ate. Apparently it was one of several illegally burned DVDs he'd bought off a classmate in middle school to try to learn English before the draft.

Shane snorted, stealing a fry off Ilya's plate. "You learned English from American action movies? That explains so much about you."

Ilya pointedly ignored that. "No interrupting, she is about to kill her shitty fake father."

Shane returned to his grilled chicken sandwich, shaking his head. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ilya pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of their hotel floor picnic. Shane waited for the telltale buzz of the group chat and frowned when it didn't come.

"Hey, who did you send—" he asked, leaning over Ilya's shoulder—

Shane groaned.

ʏᴜɴᴀ ʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ

Ilya
I made Shane take a bite of burger
[Attached Image]
and he had 2 whole fries
I am doing lord's work, yes?

Yuna
😂
You boys have fun, don't stay up too late.

Ilya
No promises 😇

"Oh my god, stop texting my mom," Shane said, exasperated and blushing.

Ilya leaned back against the bed and wagged a greasy finger at Shane. "You are just jealous she has a new favorite hockey player."

Shane glared and tossed him a paper napkin. "Wipe your hands and face."

Ilya shrugged and complied. When he was no longer shiny with grease, Shane swung his knee over Ilya's lap and kissed him. He tasted like the burger and fries and extra pickles, and Shane didn't care at all.

They got off again just like that, movie credits playing in the background, their half-eaten dinners forgotten, jerking each other off and panting into each other's mouths.

"Fuck," Ilya said after, his forehead thumping down against Shane's shoulder.

Shane laughed weakly. "Yeah." He leaned back a little, and Ilya's arms came up instantly to grip him, keeping him close. Shane's heart sped in his chest, making him brave. "Do you want to stay? For tonight?"

Ilya met his eyes, and Shane could see the conflict there. "Would be nice," he admitted. "But it will be harder to sneak out in the morning."

"Then don't sneak out," Shane said, mind going a mile a minute. "We'll just tell people we fell asleep during the movie. It's like you said, people see what they want to see."

Ilya's arms tensed and relaxed, and he let his head drop back into the crook of Shane's neck. "Okay."

Shane hugged him carefully, running his fingers through Ilya's curls, wondering if Ilya could feel the way his pulse was hammering with relief.

They ended up having to rinse off again, both sticky with sex and traces of their dinners, and then they pulled on clean underwear and slid into bed, TV off, room dark, long luxurious stretches of bare skin pressed together under crisp sheets.

When they spoke, they kept their voices low, protecting the pocket of privacy they'd cultivated. The hair on their shins rubbed at a gentle crossgrain.

Ilya told him more about the Raiders, about how different it was from playing in Russia, how he actually liked a lot of his teammates. How he'd spent every American holiday with Marlow and been basically adopted by his family, how the kids were picking up bits of Russian, how it felt having Celia and her husband trust Ilya to babysit when Marlow wasn't available.

"Connors invited Coach LeClaire to a cookout," Ilya said across the scant inches, like it was a secret. "And he came. Brought his family and wine. It was nice."

"Would that not have happened in Russia?" Shane asked, just as quietly.

Ilya's response was immediate. "No. Never. Not in professional leagues. No coach would even be invited to something organized by players."

Shane hummed thoughtfully. "I grew up going to backyard parties like that. Ottawa hockey was kind of like a small town—everybody knew everybody. It's more common than you'd think. I kind of miss it." Which was a strange bittersweet feeling to have about teammates and coaches who hadn't even liked him.

"Your team is not like that?" Ilya asked, hand going to Shane's hair and settling into its usual motion, blunt nails scratching, until Shane sighed and shifted infinitesimally closer.

"No," Shane admitted.

"Not welcoming? Or your coach is not someone good to invite?"

"Both." Shane didn't want to start on a tirade, but he could feel Ilya's interested gaze fixed on him, even in the dark.

He gave in. "Theriault isn't a bad coach. But he's so focused on our league standing that I don't think he gives a shit about any of us as people." That was an oversimplification of the way Theriault tended to look at players like walking dollar signs and point totals.

Ilya's fingers smoothed over the fragile shell of his ear. "That is shit."

"Yeah," Shane admitted, and now that the words were flowing, he couldn't stop. "And if we had a coach that actually gave a shit, maybe it would make guys like Drapeau and Comeau and Andropov shut the fuck up. But we don't, and our captain lets it happen too, and I know he's thinking about retirement, he's thirty-five for fuck's sake, but he should know better, right? He's been in the MLH for sixteen years, he has the experience, and he has the clout, and he could make it stop, but he won't." Shane realized there were frustrated tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and reached up to wipe them away, glad it was too dark for Ilya to see.

Ilya's hand had slowed during Shane's words, but picked back up again in the quiet. "I didn't realize Canadians could be such assholes," he said, sounding faintly murderous.

"How many Canadians do you know?"

Ilya shrugged. "Half my team are Canadian. It is a plague."

Shane laughed despite himself, sniffling, and turned over and let himself be tucked up under Ilya's arm again, drifting off to the soft metronome of Ilya's breathing.

Shane wasn't sure why he'd woken up. It was still pitch black, the hotel was silent except for the humming of the air conditioner unit, and he was warm and comfortable—

Oh. Ilya was hard against his ass, breath still deep and even in sleep, and Shane realized he was uncomfortably hard too, precome soaking through his underwear, with a sticky spot on his lower back where he'd been grinding backwards against Ilya in his sleep.

Mortified, he tried to shift his hips forward, but Ilya's arm tightened around him at the movement. Ilya stirred, humming sleepily in Shane's ear, and slid a hot palm up Shane's chest. "You have great tits, Shanyk," he murmured in Shane's ear, mouthing at his skin, squeezing a handful of Shane's pec, calluses rubbing his nipple. Shane moaned, suddenly desperate and panting, like he hadn't come in weeks.

Ilya reached down between them and pushed Shane's underwear down to the crease of his ass. Shane's heart jumped into his throat as Ilya spat in his own palm and rubbed the spit between Shane's thighs, under his balls, and then tucked his dick there and thrust forward, groaning, rubbing the head of his cock against the sensitive skin of Shane's perineum, and Ilya barely had to touch Shane's dick before Shane was coming, gasping, eyes rolling back in his head.

Ilya following a heartbeat later, swearing into the pillow in Russian, and then the heat and release lulled Shane back under.

All-Stars Day 5

Morning-Shane hated middle-of-the-night-Shane, who hadn't cleaned up after having sex, which meant that morning-Shane woke up covered in his own cum and Ilya's, dried flaky and gross all over their thighs and stomachs. Peeling himself off Ilya and the sheets without ripping out any hair was a delicate, disgusting process, and by the end of it, Shane really thought his libido might be permanently dead.

Then Ilya, still sleep-mussed and warm, climbed into the shower behind him, got down on his knees, and buried his tongue in Shane's ass without preamble, licking and sucking until Shane was actually crying with it, hips jerking back against him, heat prickling over his scalp as he gasped through the unfamiliar sensations of Ilyatonguehotmore, his body lighting up like a carnival game, until he came untouched all over the shower wall, palm clenched over his jaw to keep a cry nailed shut behind his teeth.

When the world came back into focus, he was shivering all over under the hot water, starbursts still going off behind his eyes, Ilya's viselike grip on his hips the only thing holding him up.

He barely noticed Ilya getting to his feet until Ilya was kissing over the back of his neck and slotting his dick up against the swell of Shane's ass, the head of his dick just catching on the puffy, sensitive rim with each thrust, until he swore and came all over Shane's hole, burning hot, and Shane had a moment of stunned certainty where he thought, Holy shit I want him to fuck me.

When they finished kissing and rinsing off again, when Ilya had finished torturing him by tracing a fingernail over Shane's tender rim until Shane turned the shower to cold in an act of sheer self-preservation, when Ilya had pulled on his borrowed clothes and kissed Shane goodbye and slipped out the door to go get ready for his flight back to Boston, Shane sat on the bed that smelled like them and let the thought settle over him again, warm and immutable.

I want him to fuck me.

It wasn't necessarily the first time he'd had that thought, but it was the first time where he'd thought it like a fact, like an inevitability, the weight of gravity. Shane wanted to be fucked by a man, and he wanted that man to be Ilya.

His flight to Ottawa left at noon. His mom had practically begged him to come stay for the few days off after All-Stars, and with Hayden and JJ still out of town visiting their own families, Shane didn't really have a reason not to.

It was a short flight, uneventful except that they were out of ginger ale and he had to settle for a water bottle. The plane landed and taxied, waiting for a terminal to open, and Shane turned his phone back on.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
made it back
[Attached Image]

It was a picture of Marlow napping on the couch with his niece and nephew sprawled on top of him.

Shane smiled down at his phone, free hand wandering to the faint red mark Ilya's teeth had left at his nape, just light enough to be mistaken for irritated skin.

Then his phone buzzed again.

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
We'll be there in 10
See you soon, sweetie!

Shane's heart dropped down to his contractually-obligated Reeboks.

Fuck, what had he been doing? He'd been a rookie invited to All-Stars, a culmination of all his childhood fantasies, and instead of focusing on it, making connections, staying professional, he'd spent 90% of it either having sex with Ilya or anticipating having sex with Ilya.

His cheeks burned. He'd been so needy, so desperate, so fucking—slutty. He'd practically begged Ilya to stay the night, even though Ilya had been clearly hesitant. The thought was stark and cold and dripped down his neck unpleasantly.

And now he had to go home to his parents and what—lie to them? They'd see it on his face the moment he opened his mouth.

But he would have to tell them something about All-Stars, which meant he would need to be careful. He would need to do even more compartmentalization. And that was all that would ever come of this thing with Ilya.

Editing. Editing his life to keep things separate, editing his thoughts and desires and expressions and feelings.

The thought of editing himself even more made his stomach turn. He already did so much of it, for his team, for his career, for his parents, for advertisements, for press, for every Asian-Canadian kid looking up to him. He didn't know how much more he could manage until there was nothing left to edit down.

And this new bit of editing meant he would be actively excising his parents from a part of his life that was expanding far beyond the bounds of a footnote. It would become more than privacy, it would become keeping a secret, the same way he was keeping it a secret from Svetlana, which had been quietly eating him alive in the six months since that hotel room in Toronto. And he definitely wasn't going to discuss his sex life with Hayden or JJ, which meant he'd need to edit himself around them too.

Could he even do that? Could he manage to keep something from five of the most important people in his life without coming apart at the seams?

He was just so fucking scared all the time, scared of letting them down, scared of disappointing his fans and teammates and coaches, scared of never living up to the potential he knew he had.

His parents were the best, and he was so fiercely thankful for them, for all the ways they'd shaped their lives around his. The idea of throwing away his career—the career they'd sacrificed for—because he was too weak to keep his dick in his pants—

The plane stopped next to the terminal, and the jet bridge extended. Shane swallowed back bile and grabbed his carry-on.

He loved his parents. Loved them in the way he loved his lungs or brain or heart, a love so foundational to his existence that he didn't know if he would survive its absence. Even when his mom was overbearing, or when his dad was bizarrely clueless about technology. Maybe especially then.

Shane stepped off the plane and kept his head down as he followed the familiar path out of the terminal.

He had too many things counting against him already. He was Japanese-Canadian, he had issues with food when he was stressed, and he had trouble reading people and reacting the way they wanted.

But his parents had watched him grow up with all those things, had learned how to support him or compensate for them, had altered their lives to shore up his fault lines.

He wouldn't—couldn't—add any more weight to their shoulders. Especially not with a secret that could ruin the life they'd worked so hard to give him.

The cool January air of Ottawa was bracing, a breeze blowing off the river. Shane's dad honked lightly when they spotted him, his mom waving from the passenger seat.

Shane carefully packed up his thoughts and put them away for the off-season.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. This has become much, much longer than I ever anticipated, I hope you'll stick with me as I chip away at it.
2. Thanks again to everyone who has commented or given their kudos, it makes me teary-eyed to think about people enjoying something I've made!
3. Really not intended to shame anyone for smoking, it's an addiction that changes your brain chemistry. Shane just loves Sveta and wants her to be healthy and happy.
4. Truth Coming Out of Her Well (to Shame Mankind) is a real, excellent painting.
5. Now with em-dashes because I like their flow better.

Coming up: the rest of the season + the MLH awards.

Chapter 4: Jan 2011-June 2011

Chapter Notes

The second half of rookie season + the MLH awards.

Warnings:
- sex
- more racism, misogyny, homophobia, and ableism from Known Assholes the Montreal Metros
- introducing Known Assholes the Toronto Guardians, with some vague awful shit said offscreen
- reference to disordered eating

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

Late January 2011
Montréal, Québec

Shane stepped into the Metros' locker room the first day back after All-Stars and immediately knew something was different with Hayden.

For one thing, he wasn't normally half an hour early like Shane was, let alone fully dressed, skates on, stick taped. For another, he was staring into space in an empty locker room. Most concerningly, he hadn't chirped Shane for wearing three different shades of blue compression gear.

JJ was next to arrive, and he and Shane traded a look when Hayden didn't comment on his neon-green puffer vest. The rest of the team trickled in slower, still sluggish from their bye-week, conversations rising and falling in the normal rhythm of the room.

Shane and JJ gave Hayden until practice started to snap out of it, but when Theriault gave them all the five minute warning and players filed onto the ice, Hayden was still staring at a blank bit of wall.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Shane asked, waving a hand in front of his face.

Hayden startled and looked up. Then his face split in a dazed grin. "I, um—I asked Jackie to marry me. And she, uh—she said yes."

"Holy shit, already?" Shane blurted out, stunned, then immediately regretted it. "Sorry, just—"

Hayden laughed. "It's okay, buddy, we know it's fast. But we both just kind of knew, you know?"

JJ whooped gleefully and lifted him in a bear hug that cracked his back. "My friend, congratulations!"

Shane pulled him in next. "I'm so happy for you, man. Both of you." And he was, really, even if to him the idea of marriage was so distant that he couldn't even see the shape of it.

Hayden rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. "I actually, um. I wanted to ask you two something. We need someone to officiate and I need a best man, so I was hoping you two would—"

"Don't stress, I'll officiate," JJ said immediately, slinging an arm around Hayden as they left the locker room. "Shane hates public speaking, and I know a lot of Jackie's family is Québécois."

Shane's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you," he muttered to JJ, who snaked his other arm around him. To Hayden, he said, "Yeah, what he said. And I'm, um, honored to be your best man, but I don't really know what a best man does."

Hayden waved him off. "Don't worry about it, my cousins are handling the bachelor party." He looked almost shy. "I would like it if both of you gave speeches, though. You're—you know. Two of my best friends."

"You fucker," JJ said, voice thick, ruffling Hayden's sandy blond hair. "You are not allowed to make us cry before practice."

"You'll take me, of course," said Svetlana, when Shane had realized that his invitation included a plus-one.

Shane ate another bite of his bland but comforting meal-prep. "You really don't have to, it's out at his cousin's farm and there's not even a firm date, just whenever our season ends—"

"I'll be there," she said firmly. "Your only job is to make sure your measurement spreadsheet is updated and wear what I bring you."

"You scare me," he informed her, and she laughed and hung up.

Shane finished his dinner and thought about what Hayden had said.

We both just kind of knew, you know?

No, Shane did not know. He felt like the older he got the less he knew about anything. He wondered what it would be like to carry that kind of certainty around inside himself all the time.

February 2011
Toronto, Ontario

Shane didn't remember getting back to his hotel room after the game. That maybe should have concerned him, but everything was strange and numb and swimming. Dissociating, said the distant part of his brain that had been piloting his body.

His bag was in the corner, so he'd remembered to bring that back from the arena. He wasn't hungry or thirsty or tired. That was all good, everything as it should be.

He sat down on the bed. His phone rang in his pocket. Lily.

Shane clicked Send Call to Voicemail, then did it again when Ilya called a second time. Other missed call alerts popped up on his screen—Hayden, Svetlana, his agent, a New York number that he was pretty sure was someone from the league.

Another notification buzzed.

ʟɪʟʏ

[2 Missed Calls from Lily]

Lily
Hollander
Shane
pick up the phone
i will kill them

Shane
stop
i don't want to talk about it

He didn't even want to think about it. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but the sensation was very far away. His first career hat trick, and here he was, cored like an apple.

It hadn't all been bad. Before that last goal, the game had been amazing. He'd felt like he was flying, dodging Toronto enforcers like they were glued to the ice, and the feeling of his stick hitting the puck just so to snipe it into the top left corner, bar down, the echoing clink crisp over the ice, a buzzer-beater at the end of the third, the hats raining down on the ice—those all felt like magic, like someone had reached inside him and unlocked a new level of joy.

It was the memory of the minutes afterwards that made Shane feel like someone had kicked him in the stomach, even now, long after the game ended.

The players were probably going to face fines, broadcasting penalties if nothing else. For fuck's sake, he'd warned both teams he was mic'ed at the beginning of the game, and they'd still fucking opened their mouths. Shane should have expected it. Fucking Toronto.

He carefully didn't think about the way one of those voices had maybe sounded familiar, maybe sounded like it was coming from someone in a blue and white away jersey—

And the worst part—worse than the slurs, worse than one of them spitting at his skates—was that his parents had been in the crowd. They'd taken the train into Toronto for the night, excited to see him play at the ACC, and after the handshake line, Shane had had to paste on a smile and hand his mother the game-winning puck like nothing was wrong.

By tomorrow morning, his parents will have seen the headlines, heard the audio clips. They'd know everything.

His phone buzzed again, a square of light in the darkness of his hotel room.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
okay
we do not have to talk
but just know i can accidentally break teeth
i am very good at accidents
i have a very powerful backhand
unlike some people i know

Shane wiped the tears from his face, crawling under the covers and letting the weight of the duvet insulate him against the world. His brain couldn't muster up Russian, but it didn't really matter, did it? Not right now.

ʟɪʟʏ

Shane
You're such a weirdo

Lily
years of friendship and you're just realizing this now??

Shane
It's been barely two years, Ilya.

Lily
yes since we crushed the canadian team on their home ice
that was a fun game
then i saw you in that club in those slutty pants
i thought i was having a stroke

Shane felt his face scrunch in a frown. What the hell was Ilya talking about?

ʟɪʟʏ

Shane
They were just pants?

Lily
nope, so tight, maximum sluttiness
i wanted to bend you over the railing and eat you out until you cried

Shane took a shuddering breath, giving his swelling cock an absent squeeze through his sweats, body flooded with the memory of the time Ilya had done exactly that, that morning at All-Stars. It had been such a shock in the moment, but god, it had felt so good, so much better than he'd ever thought it could. People in porn always seemed to like it, but it was their job to look like they were enjoying things, so he'd never put much stock in it.

Except now Shane had first-hand experience that porn was maybe underselling it, that there was a whole range of sensations and pleasure that Shane had been previously unaware of, sensations that now he couldn't help but remember every time he saw Ilya's mouth—

Fuck. The fragile blankness Shane had carried off the ice, out of the locker room, out of the arena, into a cab, into a hotel room, was receding, and in its place was a desperate need to be taken out of his own head.

Everything had felt so awful and raw and wrong just a few minutes ago, but Ilya's playfulness had always had a way of slipping past his nerves and prickles until all that was left was molten want.

Shane needed that tonight. Needed Ilya to unspool him like a skein of yarn, picking apart knots as he went, before winding him back into shape.

He forced his fingers to move, hoping Ilya would take the reply as the encouragement it was meant to be.

ʟɪʟʏ

Shane
Oh yeah?

Lily
obviously
i would have sucked you off in the bathroom if you'd come downstairs to dance with us

Shane
jesus
I mean
I probably would have let you

Maybe that was too much honesty, especially in English, but lying was too much effort right now. Besides, there was very little that seventeen year old Shane wouldn't have let Ilya Rozanov do to him.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
fuccck
call me, i want to hear you come

Shane groaned and pressed Call, his other hand already reaching for the drawstring of his sweats, something tangled and sticky and urgent in his chest as the night's awfulness was packed up tight and stowed in a very back corner of his mind.

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴏᴋs

Hayden
Shane where are you??
Shane please pick up
are you still at the arena?
okay security said you took a cab back, are you at the hotel?
please let us know you're okay bud

JJ
my friend, text us when you get this
Hayden told me what they said to you
i'm sorry i was not on the ice to knock their fucking heads off

Hayden
seriously just let us know when you wake up
we love you

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴏᴋs

Shane
Sorry guys, I got back to the hotel last night and just crashed.
I didn't mean to make you worry.

JJ
fuck that, you don't need to apologize

Hayden
seriously, no worries
just glad you're okay

JJ
the next time we play toronto i'll give them some bruises to remember us by
they're pieces of shit and just mad because you showed everyone what an actually great hockey player looks like

Hayden
JJ's right, you played some fucking insane hockey last night
you scored a fucking hat trick at NINETEEN you fucking legend!!!

JJ
fair warning, we're taking you out to celebrate when we get home
one shot for every one of your goals in last night's game
which was THREE
you lunatic
i need you to sign a jersey for me so someday i can sell it on ebay when it's worth a million dollars

Shane
God you guys are crazy
I'll see you at the bus, I'll be down in a bit

Despite their win, the ride to the aiport was—unpleasant.

"Man, the league is so full of pussies these days," Shane heard from two rows away. "I can't believe there are fines for chirping. They must really be trying to cover their asses against diversity lawsuits, eh?"

Beside Shane, acting as a wall of muscle between him and the rest of the bus, JJ went so stiff his joints creaked.

"Hey," Hayden called out sharply, from his seat across the aisle. "It wasn't chirping. Racist slurs aren't chirping. Homophobia isn't chirping. Fuck those guys, they deserve everything they get and worse."

Shane pressed his face against the cool glass as the bus rumbled towards the airport and felt a swell of gratitude for his friends.

Then Drapeau—apparently physically incapable of shutting the fuck up—spoke in his distinctive drawl. "God, would you relax, rook? You kids need to get your panties untwisted. This is the big leagues, not whatever Timbits team you're used to." There was more low, nasty laughter.

Shane flicked his eyes towards the front of the bus, towards Theriault and the rest of the coaching staff, but they seemed to be engrossed in a conversation about the pressure-points in Toronto's second offensive line.

Shane looked to Johanssen. The captain was frowning slightly, but he made no move to intervene.

Coward, Shane thought, and then hated himself for it, because he hadn't said a damn thing either. He turned his attention back towards the streets blurring by and willed his mind empty, empty, empty.

Early March 2011
Newark, New Jersey

Losing against the New Jersey Swordfish was shit for two reasons. Firstly, because Jersey sucked. Secondly, because the loss officially knocked the Metros out of playoff contention.

The rest of the team seemed resigned, relaxed, almost welcoming the early end to the season. They'd all done this dance before—it had been eight years since the Metros made the playoffs with any kind of consistency, before Johanssen was captain, before most of the current roster had even signed with Montreal.

Shane, stewing in low-grade frustration and misery on the ride back to the hotel, tried to think like Svetlana would. Pick it apart like data, figure out what had worked and what hadn't, figure out why they hadn't advanced, figure out what needed to be changed, and fix it.

The obvious thing that was working was the Hayden-Shane-Wilson line. It felt arrogant to even think it, but the numbers backed it up—their line was two-thirds rookies, and they were almost equaling the first line's point total. They were outpacing the third and fourth lines combined.

Wilson was still slower than either of them, but he was good at his job, good at feeding pucks, good at finding lanes. After a season of playing together, he'd learned Shane and Hayden's rhythms, and their line had became more fluid with every game, every practice.

But it hadn't been enough, not this year.

Shane had no idea what the defensive coach had been doing all year, but their lines were a mess and they kept pinching in without securing the puck, leaving the offensive lines scrambling to pick up the slack. JJ was giving it everything he had, but he was a rookie too, was still learning which teams went for the odd-man rush, still learning players' tells, still building slow-twitch muscle fiber and endurance. There was so much that needed to become instinct, become muscle-memory, and Shane could acknowledge—with the benefit of hindsight—that a single season was a laughably short amount of time.

The whole regular season had been a long, drawn-out shitshow, and a selfish part of Shane was glad it would be over two months early so he could go home to Ottawa and lick his wounds in private.

It's also two extra months of bulking and training, he reminded himself. Two extra months of rest to start fresh next season.

After the dismal Jersey game, they had a coveted green-light night and a late flight the next day. Shane didn't feel like spending the night moping alone in his hotel room while Hayden and JJ went out with the team to commiserate, so he took the train into New York and flopped onto Svetlana's couch. He was too tired to articulate his complicated season-end feelings, let alone whine about them, so he ate the food she had delivered and then put his head on her thigh while she watched some show about the dad from Malcolm in the Middle making meth.

In the morning, feeling moderately more human after ten hours of sleep, he let Svetlana lure him into her kitchen with fresh black tea and peanut butter oatmeal.

"You could have slept in the guest room," she said, sipping her usual cup of startlingly strong coffee.

He shrugged. "Your couch is comfy. And I didn't want to move."

That was an understatement. He'd half woken up around dawn out of habit and found himself tucked under a blanket that smelled faintly of Svetlana's detergent, the AC humming like a lullaby, and his body had decided unilaterally that he was going back to sleep for another four hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late.

She hummed. "Still, next time, bring some spare clothes to leave in the guest room, we can—"

Then her phone trilled an unfamiliar tune. Svetlana liked to set custom ringtones for people, liked to know who was calling before she looked at the screen, and he watched her face do something complicated in the moment before his eyes flicked automatically down to her phone.

Mom.

Svetlana sent the call to voicemail.

"You can take that," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll go out on the balcony—"

"No," she said, waving him back to his seat. "It's fine. I'll call her later." She toggled her phone to Do Not Disturb.

Shane raised his eyebrows.

Svetlana had said precious little about her mother over the years. Shane knew from scattered tidbits that her mother was Trinidadian-American and had divorced Svetlana's father when Svetlana was ten, and after that, Svetlana had spent part of her summers visiting her in Philadelphia.

Svetlana made a face and leaned back, chair tipping up onto two legs. "She doesn't understand why I stayed in Moscow when I turned eighteen," she said with a sigh. "And she doesn't like that I stay in contact with my father. She thinks he treats me like one of the medals on his uniform."

That was an awful thought. "Does he?"

She shrugged, something bittersweet in her face. "Sometimes, maybe. But he's also my papa. I love him, even if I don't always like him, and he has never let me doubt that he loves me." Her eyes were distant. Then she smiled, the light leaking back in. "And when I go to parties with him, I get to befriend his colleagues' much younger wives and convince them to donate their oligarch husbands' money to charity."

Shane snorted out a surprised laugh, and Svetlana dissolved into giggles and let the front feet of her chair thump back onto the floor. Shane got up and pulled her into a hug. "I love you, Sveta," he said fondly, pressing a kiss to her curls.

She knocked her forehead gently against his. "I love you too, Shanushka. Now go put on workout clothes. You're coming to my pilates class."

He hesitated, frowning, studying her face. "...Why did you say that like a threat?"

He was a professional athlete and he did yoga pretty regularly. How hard could a pilates class be?

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
Shanushka needs to work on his stamina
@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
[Attached Images]

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
🤣 please don't kill him, our team needs him

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
relax, i just took him to my pilates class

Hayden Pike @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
jesus, i don't think i've ever seen shane sweat that much. are you sure he's still alive?

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
i'm sure, he's lying shirtless on the floor of my living room and flipping me off
[Attached Image]

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ you look like hunter after a game 🦖

Scott @sᴄᴏᴛᴛʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
...I can't tell if this is supposed to be an insult or a compliment.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@sᴄᴏᴛᴛʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
insult, obviously

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@sᴄᴏᴛᴛʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
it is obviously a compliment, Shanushka is beautiful

Shane  @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
Sveta can you please stop cackling at your phone and help me stand up

Scott @sᴄᴏᴛᴛʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
You have really weird friends, rook.

Late March 2011
Montréal, Québec

Shane was a little nervous about the game.

Or, well, not so much nervous about the game as afterwards, when he was maybe going to text his address to Ilya so they could meet up in the relative privacy and comfort of Shane's apartment instead of some random hotel room surrounded by their teammates.

It was one of the last regular season games, and with both the Metros and Raiders out of the playoffs, Shane was already planning for the summer, hoping he could maybe convince Svetlana and Ilya to come spend at least a weekend with him in Ottawa.

Except the anthems played, the game started, and Ilya seemed—off.

Hitting just a little too hard, timing just a little wrong. Missing passes by inches.

Was he hurt? Shane frowned from the bench, but their shifts didn't align until the end of the first period.

Shane skated up to the face off circle warily. "Your ribs still bothering you?" Ilya had taken a heavy hit a few weeks ago, bad enough that he'd had to sit out two games and maybe should have sat out more.

But for the first time since they'd met behind that rink in Saskatchewan, Ilya didn't respond. Didn't chirp, didn't react. Didn't even look up.

Suddenly, the game was the last thing on Shane's mind. "Ilya? What's wrong?"

Finally, those eyes flicked up, dull and stony. "Enough, Hollander."

Something settled in Shane's stomach, heavy and worried and acidic.

Shane won the face-off.

Ilya didn't talk to him again.

The Raiders won 3-2 in overtime, but it was hard-fought. Partially because Shane was giving absolutely everything to every game now that playoffs weren't lurking on the horizon, but partially because Ilya played the whole game like he'd never worn skates.

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
Are you okay?
Ilya?

☾ [Lily has notifications silenced]

Shane—freshly showered and dressed in his game-day suit—frowned down at his phone and made a decision.

"Hey, raincheck on tonight," he said lowly to JJ and Hayden, who were finishing up their own post-game routines and getting ready for a party in the Plateau. "I'm going to go check on Ilya, I think he might be sick or something."

JJ spritzed his cologne and smoothed the baby hairs at his temples. "He certainly played like it. But won't his own team be taking care of him?"

Shane gnawed on his lip and didn't say I don't know if he lets people take care of him. "I just want to make sure he doesn't have like, a ruptured appendix, or something," he said instead. "He's stubborn enough to try and hide it. 'Russians don't get sick' and all that."

"Like a toddler with a cold," Hayden said, cracking a grin. "Poor Roz."

JJ shouldered his bag. "Well, if you are going into enemy territory, you will need backup."

Before Shane could protest, Hayden was pulling his suit jacket on and clapping Shane on the shoulder. "He's right, bud. We'll come with, no worries."

Shane, who was comprised of at least 60% worries on a good day, sighed in defeat and led the way to the visitors' locker rooms. They passed a few Raiders on the way, but the win had put the other team in a good mood, and all they got were a few curious glances.

"What's the plan?" Hayden hissed, glancing nervously at a giant D-man from Sweden who lumbered past them.

"No plan," Shane said, palms sweaty. "Just ask if he's there, I guess, and then—"

"Hollander?" said a surprised voice, and they saw Cliff Marlow emerge, hair damp, bushy brows furrowed. "What are you doing back here?"

Not 'Hollzy,' Shane noted. Something had put Marlow on the defensive.

"Looking for Ilya," Shane said, trying to smile and feeling it tilt into a grimace. "We had plans to hang out, but he's not answering his phone and he seemed weird today, so I just wanted to make sure he's okay." His fingers rubbed the strap on his duffel anxiously.

"Oh." Marlow looked from Shane to JJ and Hayden, who had hung back a bit, and gestured Shane to follow him a little further away. Shane followed. "He left already," Marlow said, voice low. "Went back to the hotel."

"What's wrong? Is it his ribs?" Shane's mind was abruptly full of visions of Ilya refusing to admit he was in pain until he was coughing up blood.

Marlow exhaled, looking torn, scratching the scruff on his neck. "No, his ribs are fine," he said. "But he's been off all day. Didn't eat breakfast, even when I offered to get McDonalds. Then he got a phone call in Russian, and he just kind of—shut down." Marlow shot another glance at JJ and Hayden, who were talking quietly at the far end of the hall, before adding, even quieter than before, "I think it was his dad, maybe."

What little Shane knew about Grigory Rozanov made Shane's stomach tie itself into a pretzel. "Fuck."

Marlow sighed. "Yeah."

"What hotel is your team staying at?" Shane asked, before he could chicken out.

"The Hilton, the one by the plaza. But I don't think it's a great night for whatever movie marathon you two had planned."

All the words in that sentence were in the right order, but it still took Shane's brain a moment to figure out what the fuck Marlow was talking about. Then Shane remembered All-Stars, where Ilya had made sure everyone knew they were going to have a sleepover and watch the Underworld movies. It had been such a dumb trick. Shane hated how well it had worked.

Shane thumbed opened his phone and checked the traffic. "I'm just going to check up on him, I promise. I'll leave if he wants. What's his room number?"

Marlow looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. "2603. Make sure he eats something, will you?"

Shane nodded and turned to go.

"Oh, and Hollzy?"

Shane turned back. "Yeah?"

The craggy lines of Marlow's face had softened. "You're a good friend, man."

Shane swallowed. "You too, Marly." He paused, looking down at his phone. "You're going out with the team, right? Give me your number, I'll let you know how he's doing."

Marlow put his number in Shane's phone, gave Shane a friendly pat on the shoulder, and headed out towards the knot of other Raiders loitering outside the players' exit.

"He is not here?" JJ guessed as Shane led them out. "I am sorry, my friend."

"Marly said he's not feeling well. I'm gonna go make sure he's not secretly dying of pneumonia," Shane said, trying to keep his voice light so he didn't let any panic leak out.

"That sucks, I hate being sick when I'm away from home," Hayden said, making a face. "Want us to come with? JJ and I could go grab some cold medicine or cough drops or something, meet you there."

"He might be a jackass on the ice, but I do not want him to suffocate on his own snot," JJ said, then added, "I want him to feel it when we crush him and take the Cup next year."

Shane managed a smile, unbearably fond. "Thanks, but I don't think this needs all three Metrooks."

JJ gasped. "He said it!"

Hayden cheered and bumped Shane's shoulder. "I knew it would grow on you."

"Like fungus," Shane said flatly, and they slung their arms around his shoulders and walked him out his car.

"Tell Rozanov to feel better," JJ said. "It is no fun playing Boston if I do not get to board him."

Shane snorted, throwing his bag in the trunk. "I'll see you two tomorrow for tape review."

"Maybe get him soup?" JJ added as Shane climbed in. "My grann makes joumou when I'm sick, it's magic, I swear."

Shane nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

The minute he pulled away from the curb, he called Svetlana.

She picked up on the first ring. "Was it as bad in person as it was to watch on TV?"

Shane winced. "Worse, actually. He turned his phone off. I am going over to his hotel now."

"Good," she said. "He shouldn't be alone today."

He frowned. "Today?"

Svetlana went quiet. Streetlights passed over Shane's face as he drove, bands of color and light that flicked into darkness.

"It's a bad day," she said eventually, all the explanation she could—would—give him.

Shane breathed out harshly through his nose. However illogical it was, it still stung a little that Ilya and Svetlana had secrets from him. But then again, Ilya and Shane were keeping a secret of their own.

Fuck, he couldn't think about that right now. He had a job to do. "What kind of soup does he like?"

An hour later, Shane tapped at door 2603 with the tip of his shoe because his hands were full. There was no response, so he did it again, louder.

Ilya ripped the door open, necklace glinting on his bare chest, mouth open in a snarl, before he caught sight of Shane and visibly faltered.

"I thought you were Marly," he croaked.

"I'm not," Shane said, and pushed past him, setting down the bags of steaming takeout, tucking his emergency overnight bag under the desk so they wouldn't trip on it, then hanging up his suit jacket and coat in the closet.

Ilya was strangely quiet as Shane worked, eyes darting over the room and Shane before coming to rest on the bags of takeout.

"If you are here to fuck, you will have to wait a while," Ilya said, eyes narrow, voice flat. "Your bird food is a boner killer."

Shane rolled his eyes. "First of all, I'm not here to fuck. Second of all, fuck you, I don't eat bird food." He began pulling out the deli containers. He'd picked the Russian deli with the best reviews on Yelp, and the labels—all in Cyrillic, hand-written in Sharpie—were promising. "Third of all, this isn't on my meal plan," he admitted. "Sveta said you like this."

Ilya stared at him. It was an unnerving look, like a painting with eyes that moved. Then slowly, so slowly, Ilya slunk away from the door and sat on the desk.

"You got shchi," he said, and there was something in his face that Shane didn't understand.

Shane cracked open the containers of soup and added dollops of sour cream and sauerkraut, just like the lady behind the counter had instructed once she'd realized he spoke Russian.

They ate in silence, Shane at the desk chair, Ilya sitting fully on the desk, sipping straight from the plastic container, still rigid and zoned-out, but at least not actively ignoring Shane.

Shane's phone buzzed—a text from Svetlana. He answered her and then texted Marlow while he was at it, receiving a thumbs up in response.

When he finished, Ilya's eyes rested on him, dull.

"Sveta," Shane explained, putting his phone on silent. "And Marly." After tonight, the man had earned the nickname.

When they finished eating, Shane got on with part two of his plan—he made Ilya get ready for bed.

Ilya had already showered at some point after the game. His movements were sluggish, but he responded to Shane's directions, which was helpful. They brushed their teeth and washed their faces, stripping down to underwear and t-shirts.

Then Ilya stood at the edge of the bed, quiet and vacant.

"Lay down," Shane said.

Ilya's face twisted into something that tried to be lascivious but was pale and wrong. "So you do want to fuck? Let me-" and he fumbled his shirt over his head.

"No," Shane said firmly, and caught the minute flinch in Ilya's bare shoulders.

Shane wanted to reach across the planet and punch Grigory Rozanov in the face.

Gently, Shane tipped Ilya backwards onto the bed. Ilya went easily, expression suddenly unsure. "Shane, what—"

"Lay down," Shane repeated, and took off his socks. He slid into bed next to Ilya, crisp sheets on tired flesh, and settled so their bodies were a few inches apart. "No sex. Not tonight. Okay?"

Ilya looked at him again, hazel eyes darting, searching. Then he shrugged. "Okay. If you want to be boring, we can be boring."

Shane thought of that flinch earlier and kept his movements slow and deliberate, pulling Ilya into his chest, curling inward like he could hide Ilya from whatever was going on inside his head. "Can I touch your hair?"

Ilya, who had gone very tense and still, nose pressed to Shane's sternum, nodded slightly.

Shane carded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Ilya's neck, listening to him breathe. Minute by minute, the iron tension seeped out of him.

Then one of Ilya's hands came up and grasped Shane's wrist.

Shane paused. "No more?" he asked quietly, hesitant to break the bubble they'd built.

But Ilya just moved Shane's hand over to his ear, pressing Shane's index finger and thumb to the lobe of his ear.

Oh.

Shane had seen Ilya do that before, usually when he was stressed, or lost in thought, or struggling to translate too-rapid English. Self-soothing, maybe.

Shane tried to mimic Ilya's movements, rubbing gently at the lobe and delicate shell of his ear, and Ilya made a sound in his throat and tucked his face further into the sweaty hollow between Shane's pecs, worming his legs through Shane's, like if he pressed in close enough it would block out the rest of the world.

Shane woke at 5AM to the blare of an unfamiliar alarm in an unfamiliar hotel room, Ilya's dead weight draped over him, snuffling gently into the crook of Shane's neck. One of Ilya's long arms snaked out and turned off the alarm, leaving only the sound of breathing.

"Ilya," Shane said, heart pounding from the sudden, unwelcome awakening, real life crashing down on him. "I have to get up, I have to go before your teammates—"

There was a long groan from the limp pile of muscle that was Ilya. "It's fine," he mumbled, lips brushing Shane's skin. "Our flight's at 7:15, room checkout isn't until noon. You can stay and sleep."

"I should still get up—"

Ilya nosed into Shane's neck, clucked his tongue, and then levered himself up onto his haunches. "Go back to sleep, Shanyk. You need beauty rest, you lost game and then skipped your fancy skincare."

Shane let himself be pressed back down, heart skittering out of time. He wondered if Ilya even realized he'd called Shane that again.

Shane lay half-cocooned in blankets and the residual warmth of Ilya's body, blinking against the sudden glow of the bedside lamp, watching Ilya yawn and stretch his way through his morning routine.

It was strange to watch Ilya methodically pack his suitcase, strange to watch him get dressed. Strange to watch him armor himself against the world.

Shane wondered how much more armor Ilya was wearing, armor Shane had never seen beneath, armor Shane would never see beneath. He wondered if it was as suffocating for Ilya as it was for Shane, having to live in your persona instead of your own skin.

Ilya finished in the bathroom, pulled a Raiders hoodie over his head, and stuffed his feet into his slides, setting his suitcase by the door. Then he turned, bird-of-prey eyes scanning the room automatically, checking for anything he'd forgotten, a habit born in a thousand hotel rooms—

—and snagged on Shane.

Ilya's expression wavered like a stone dropped in a pond, the ripples taking a long time to die down completely.

"Bye," Shane said, and it came out softer than he'd intended, lulled by the busy silence of the early hour.

"Bye," Ilya said mockingly, voice still sleep-deepened and rusty. He pulled on his toque and slipped out, suitcase wheels rattling on the metal strip threshold.

Shane couldn't get back to sleep after Ilya had gone—he'd never been able to get back to sleep once he was fully awake for the morning—but he did let himself stay in bed for another hour. He spent it answering emails on his phone, texting Svetlana to say that Ilya was alright, checking that the Raiders' flight was still on time, doing all the maintenance tasks required of his intricate, cumbersome life—

Oh.

His fingers stilled on the keyboard of his phone.

He and Ilya hadn't kissed. Which felt—wrong, in a weird way, except—that wasn't really what they did, was it?

When they had sex, kissing was a means to an end, but last night Shane had said 'no sex' and meant it. Ilya hadn't been in the right headspace at all, had clearly been dealing with something, and Shane would bet his skates that having sex while having some kind of dissociative episode was a Very Bad Idea for everyone involved.

(He firmly didn't think about the fact that he himself may have, once or twice, dissociated while having sex with his high school girlfriend.)

The fact remained that whatever Ilya might have said, he hadn't been in a place to consent, and Shane would rather walk into traffic than take advantage of someone.

So he and Ilya hadn't kissed. That was fine. They'd spent the night pressed together and not talking, and it had been fine. Shane had held Ilya like he was afraid Ilya would turn to salt in the middle of the night like one of the old fairy tales, the ones that hid a real kernel of warning, the ones that passed an innate fear down through generations, and it was all fine.

They were friends, friends who fucked sometimes, just like Svetlana and Ilya did, and Shane just needed to get a fucking grip—

His regular-season morning alarm buzzed at 7:30. He didn't jump.

He got up, took a shower, and changed into the fresh set of clothes from the emergency overnight bag that lived in his car, letting his own layers of armor settle over him before he stepped back out into the real world.

Late May 2011
Fitch Bay, Québec

The upside of the Metros not making it to playoffs was that Jackie and Hayden's wedding wasn't muggy and humid and full of bugs, which had been a real danger, considering they were getting married on a farm by a lake.

Hayden and Jackie got married the weekend after Shane's twentieth birthday on what was technically a farm—in that there were a handful of farm animals and plenty of fresh milk and eggs lying around—but the old barn had been cleaned up and renovated into a picturesque event space that Hayden's cousin had been renting out year-round for a decade. Apparently, letting Hayden use part of the property for free had been a very generous wedding present.

It was a beautiful wedding. People said that all the time, but Shane thought it might actually be true about this one.

JJ conducted it all masterfully, switching between English and French as needed, being his warm, gregarious self, and all Shane had to do was stand a few steps behind Hayden and bask in the joy radiating off his friends.

Jackie was wearing an off-white lace dress that made her look like an old movie star, and Hayden started crying the minute she appeared at the end of the aisle and didn't stop until it they said I do.

When the ceremony was over, Shane got to be a steady arm for Svetlana to grip while she navigated the treacheries of grass in her lethal-looking heels.

"I warned you it would be on a farm, Sveta," he teased, finding the seats with their name cards and and handing her down gently. "Even Jackie was wearing flats."

She raised an immaculate brow. "Are you mansplaining footwear to me, Shanushka?" Then she smiled a tiger's smile and leaned over the table to flirt with one of Jackie's female cousins, who blushed a brilliant red at the attention. Shane shook his head and went to get them both some food from the buffet.

After dinner, Shane delivered his best man's speech with sweaty palms and a voice that cracked more than once, and at the end of it, Hayden had started crying again and Jackie stood up to pull Shane into a hug, muttering We love you too in his ear.

Then it was time for the cake cutting, which was met with cheers and whistles and chuckles as the bride and groom dabbed each other's noses with frosting.

Shane was grabbing plates of cake for himself and Svetlana—but mostly Svetlana, who was happy to eat anything Shane didn't—when Hayden waved him over to one of the drinks tables in the shade of the giant sugar maples.

"Hey, bud, did you happen to give Jackie's number to Svetlana?" He still looked and sounded mildly concussed, the way he had since the first moment he'd seen Jackie in her dress, like the sight had sent him head-first into the boards. Although it was probably even worse now, with the dehydration from all that crying.

Shane blinked. "Yeah? She said she had some questions about the dress code."

"She took Jackie shoe shopping last weekend," Hayden said. "And bought her a seven-thousand-dollar pair of shoes."

Shane nearly dropped his paper plates of neon blue vanilla cake. "Wow. Uh, she mentioned she wanted to do something nice as her wedding present."

Shane's own wedding presents were much less extravagant: a new digital stethoscope for Jackie, who was still using the mediocre one she'd bought when she started nursing school, and a barbecue for Hayden, who'd become increasingly obsessed with grilling all the meat for his meal prep.

"Oh, she did. She also bought us half the stuff off our registry. The shopping was just because they're friends now."

Shane shrugged. "Sveta likes competency. She especially likes competent women."

Hayden's face flashed with panic. "Wait, is Svetlana trying to make a play for Jackie? Because I don't think I can compete with that, man, I'm not smart enough to be a lawyer-"

Shane laughed. "We're literally at your wedding, Hayd. You and Jackie are married." That concussion was seeming less metaphorical by the second.

Hayden's shoulders dropped. "Oh. Right." A goofy smile spread across his face. "I should go find Jackie and tell her how much I love her."

"You do that, bud," Shane said, and shooed him in the direction of his beaming wife.

When the sun had fully set, the older family members said goodnight, and then the real party began.

Somehow, a dance floor was produced and rolled out over the grass like a carpet, with speakers on huge tripods set up at the corners. There were twinkling lights woven into the trees overhead, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a disco ball had appeared, strung up over the middle of the dance floor.

Shane gratefully accepted the earplugs Svetlana offered, and because it was Hayden's wedding, and because there were worse things in life than having friends who loved you, he danced until his feet hurt more than a full day of hard skating, then let Svetlana drag him over to sign the guest book and take pictures. Buzzed off champagne and blackberry cider, they found JJ and corralled him into doing shots and taking increasingly silly selfies on Svetlana's phone.

Things started to get blurry after that, but eventually the three of them poured themselves into a cab and sang along to something on the radio, only slightly hindered by the fact that none of them seemed to know the song.

Shane woke up in a familiar situation, one delicate arm thrown over his ribs, curls tickling the back of his neck. Except this time, Svetlana wasn't the only one hungover.

Shane groaned and buried his face in the pillow, begging his eyes to stop throbbing. "God, why did I drink so much?"

"Quiet, Shanushka, it's too early for self-recrimination," came an equally-musty whine from behind him.

Then a third voice said, "Please, no more, I'm begging you."

Shane lifted his head—with no small amount of difficulty—and found that JJ was lying on the loveseat in Shane's room at the inn, long legs dangling off the end, an arm flung over his eyes. There was a sloppy Metros 'M' drawn on his cheek in what Shane sincerely hoped was washable marker.

Shane was the first one down to breakfast. He didn't normally drink coffee, but drastic times and all that. After a cup and a half and twenty minutes of silence, the pounding in his head abated enough that he could manage a bagel and some eggs.

His phone chimed, gratingly loud in his ears, and he hurriedly turned it to vibrate. Then he opened his messages and squinted down the screen, the light an assault on his aching eyes.

Apparently, drunk Svetlana had possessed enough hand-eye coordinatation to text some of the photos from last night to the group chat.

The first was a blurry selfie, Shane and Svetlana standing back-to-back making pouty duck faces like that one movie, a smudge of bright blue frosting at the corner of Svetlana's mouth.

The second was of Hayden, JJ, and Shane doing some kind of finger-gun pose while Svetlana and Jackie rained cash on them—wait, hang on, were those American bills? Where the fuck had they gotten that?

The last one made him snort so hard his head hurt a little. Still in their wedding clothes—although Hayden had lost his jacket at some point, and Jackie's hair was starting to escape its updo—the happy couple were crouched low in front of the decimated remains of their wedding cake, wearing plastic sunglasses and scowling like they were posing for an album cover. Hayden was never allowed to call Shane a nerd again.

Ilya's reaction to it all sat at the very bottom, just sent: a series of laughing emojis and—bizarrely—a photo of him holding four dogs.

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Sveta
[Attached Images]

Ilyusha
🤣🤣🤣🤣
[Attached Image]

Shane
holy shit did you steal some dogs

Ilyusha
english? no capital letters?
are you dying?

Shane
hangover
dogs??

Ilyusha
)))))))))))))
no i did not steal the dogs
i came with Vic, he is adopting one
actually two maybe
shelter person says they are bonded pair

Before Shane could even think about how to reply to that—how did someone who was only prepared to get one dog suddenly decide to get two?—Svetlana plopped down in the seat next to him with two paper cups of coffee and a plate of buttered toast. She chugged one of the cups of coffee, then folded a slice of toast into quarters and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth, chewing and swallowing like a snake. Shane tried not to watch.

When she'd finished committing crimes against food, she pulled out her own phone and flicked through the group chat, humming thoughtfully when she got to the picture of Ilya drowning in dogs.

"Ilyusha would do well with a dog," she said absently. "He likes someone to come home to."

And now there was an itch under Shane's skin that had nothing to do with his hangover. He gulped the rest of his coffee to wash it away.

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ finally let me dress him up! Congratulations to @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻 and @ɴᴜʀsᴇᴊᴀᴄǫᴜᴇʟɪɴᴇ, it was a lovely wedding ❤️❤️❤️
[Attached Images]

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
Finally? What do you call all those other times you've stuffed me into outfits?

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
Shane are you really complaining about a beautiful woman dressing you up??

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
Did you get that marker off yet?

JJ @ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
Pike invite me to the next one

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
ILYA

Early June 2011
Ottawa, Ontario

Visiting his parents was great, but it was just that—visiting. It wasn't home anymore, and there was something sad about that, something he couldn't pin down, but it stuck in his throat whenever he stepped into his childhood bedroom and his body remembered that he'd outgrown the life he'd once had there.

On his last afternoon before he went back to Montreal, Shane's mom nudged him and said, "Let's walk-and-talk," something she'd picked up from a TV show when Shane was in middle school. It had become their code for 'Let's go on a walk and give dad a break from our hockey obsession.'

The Ottawa suburb he'd grown up in hadn't changed much in the year since he'd moved out. It was still full of old ladies power-walking in packs, the dry creekbed still overrun with kids on bicycles, the telephone poles still so peppered with yard-sale signs and flyers that you could barely see the wood underneath. That would change when it rained and the paper dissolved into little piles of pulp on the sidewalk.

They walked for nearly half an hour, and Shane's mom spent most of it diagnosing Montreal's season in excrutiating detail, Shane getting quieter and quieter, winding tighter and tighter and tigher, until he very suddenly couldn't stand it another second of it.

His feet stalled in front of the library. "Mom?"

She stopped mid-sentence, turning the weight of her full attention to him. "Yes, honey?"

He swallowed. "Can we sit? There's something—something I want to talk to you about."

They sat on one of the little benches tucked up under the library's eaves, which was a mistake, because now Shane wasn't moving. His knee bounced restlessly. He didn't look at his mom.

His mom reached over and stilled his knee with one hand. "Shane? Honey? You know you can tell me anything."

He kept his eyes fixed on the pea gravel under his sneakers. "It's—it's about Montreal. About the team. I know you love the Metros. I do too," he said, and the words tasted like ash in his mouth, like something too complicated to be the truth and not simple enough to be a lie. "But it's not—it's not what we thought it would be. It's just as bad as the rest of the MLH. Maybe—maybe worse."

It was an awful thing to have to say out loud to her, awful to put into words, even if it wasn't the other thing, the scary thing, the thing that kept him up at night. It was awful to have to say something when he knew would break his mother's heart.

But the truth was that his childhood dream of the MLH meaning glory and comradery and brotherhood had been just that—a dream. The dream had belonged to a kid who thought bullies didn't get to become professional athletes. The dream had belonged to a kid who hadn't understoood that the MLH was littered with white, straight, casually violent men who fucking hated him and anyone like him.

He would never be white enough, straight enough, neurotypical enough. Somehow never enough and still too much.

His hands were shaking. Now that he'd started lancing this poison, he couldn't stop the words from spilling over. "They also say horrible shit about gay people, and women, and people with disabilities, and a bunch of them brag about cheating on their wives and girlfriends, and—"

He looked down at the bench, at the grey, splintery wood. "It's not all of them," he stressed, because that was important. "JJ, Hayden, a few of the other guys, they're good, great even. But—you know. There's a reason that JJ is the only other non-white player on the team. It's not something that was happening. It's something that is happening."

He'd checked. Montreal had signed four other non-white players in the last six years, and all four had either moved when their contracts were up or waived their no-trade clauses. The only ones with worse records were Toronto and some teams in the American South.

His eyes stung. He felt like throwing up. He'd flayed it open, wide and bloody, the disease-riddled heart of the franchise they'd grown up loving, and he'd made her look at it. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, during the season. It wasn't because I don't trust you, or want you to know about my life," he added hurriedly. "It's just—it's because—"

Because it was your dream too, he thought miserably. Because you were a little girl, a first generation Japanese-Canadian kid who loved hockey, and you gave up your career so I could have mine.

Shane's mom sucked in a breath and moved her hand to his shoulder. "No, don't apologize, sweetheart," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Never apologize for this. I'm sorry you had to go through it alone. Are you okay with me telling your father? Just so we're all on the same page?"

"He already knows a little bit of it," Shane admitted. "I, um—I called him when I was having a panic attack."

She paused. "A panic attack? When was this?"

"At the beginning of the season." He rubbed his nose. "One of the guys said something—something really awful, about Svetlana. And I yelled at him."

"And?" she prodded.

He shrugged. "And Theriault called me into his office to tell me that the team winning was more important than my hurt feelings."

Her hand spasmed on his shoulder. "Well. I'll call Farah when we get home," she said, low and furious, and his stomach dropped down to his shoes. "We can arrange a meeting with management and the players' union and your lawyer, get this—"

"Mom, no—that's not—" he interrupted, throat tight as his anxiety flared. "I'm not—I'm not telling you this as my manager. I'm telling you this as my mom. I just need you to be my mom about this, okay?"

Maybe it was unfair to tell her this, unfair to ask her to compartmentalize two big parts of her life the same way he did, unfair to tell her about a problem and not let her try and fix it. And maybe it was especially unfair when her day job was literally to make his life as a professional hockey player easier.

But also, the whole situation was fucked up and stressful, and right now what he needed was his mom, the one who had put bandaids on his skinned knees, the one who hummed along to the radio while she planned the week's groceries.

He heard his mom take a deep breath and blow it out. Her grip on his shoulder loosened, morphed into slow sweeping strokes across his back. "You're right, sweetheart," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sorry your team let you down this way. I'm sorry you've been hurting. I'm just sorry," she said, and pulled him into a hug like he was a little boy again.

He breathed in the faint Lily-of-the-Valley smell of her perfume, and heard kids talking in the distance, and it was okay, even if a few ugly tears leaked out in public. It was going to be okay.

Even if he didn't tell her everything, even if there were secrets that burned him alive with nerves, his mom and dad would always be on his side, and it soothed something inside him that had been blistering and oozing for longer than he'd known.

Mid June 2011
Las Vegas, Nevada
MLH Awards

The afterparty was packed with players and sponsors and league figures, and the number of eyes made Shane itchy all over, but he'd just won Rookie of the Year, so he sucked it up and smiled and showed off the award to anyone who asked. His dad was beaming with pride, and his mom kept dabbing at her eyes and apologizing for getting weepy, and Shane spent most of the evening in some kind of low-level state of shock.

He was glad his parents were there, really, he was, and he'd made sure to thank them in his speech, but things were still strange with his mom. Or, not strange, but maybe—shifted. Evolving. It was unnerving, and a little odd, but it had needed to happen.

They'd sat on either side of him during the ceremony, at the table the Metros shared with some Carolina Bobcats, and it was comforting to have his mom's minesweeper gaze turned outwards instead of in.

When his parents had hugged him one last time and gone upstairs, taking the award with them—the thing was glass, and he really didn't want to break it—he let himself relax a little. He did some mildly illegal shots with Hunter and Bennett, and was stopped and congratulated by Marlow and a few other half-familiar players, and then Svetlana found him in the crowd and squeezed him so hard he was worried she'd pop a rib.

"Jesus," he complained, rubbing his side. "I got through my rookie season with nothing broken, and you're here to ruin my record?" He finished the drink in his hand—something with ginger ale and vodka—and set it down on an empty tray.

She ignored him, smacking kisses to both his cheeks, beaming wide and toothy. "Shanushka, I'm so proud of you. What will you spend your bonus on?"

It took a moment for his tipsy brain to translate. "Uh. My—bonus?" Fuck, he hadn't eaten much at dinner either.

"The award," she said in English, clearly taking pity on him. She hooked an arm through his. "It comes with a two-million dollar bonus. Didn't you read about player compensation before you signed your ELC?"

There was no way to say this without sounding like an idiot, so Shane forged ahead. "Uh, I kind of forgot? I mean, the award itself was kind of the point." He gratefully accepted a sealed bottle of water from a passing waiter, chugging half of it in one go.

"Never change, Shanushka," she said, squeezing his bicep. "Now, let's go find Ilyusha, I bet he's brooding and feeding his nicotine addiction."

"Like if Batman smoked," Shane said, apparently still drunk enough to lose his filter, and Svetlana burst into startled peals of laughter, leading him towards the bank of elevators.

The night sky over Vegas was cool and clear. There were a handful of cigarette butts at Ilya's feet, and his collar was unbuttoned, bowtie hanging limp. Shane swallowed, suddenly very aware of his tongue and how much spit was in his mouth.

Svetlana stepped up next to Ilya at the railing and bumped their shoulders together. "Finished sulking? Or do you need to smoke another pack?"

"Fuck you," he said, a little too sharp. "So high and mighty since you quit."

She raised her brows. "Excuse me?"

He sighed and nudged her back, a shared body language dialect built on two decades of trust. "Sorry, Sveta. I'm not good company tonight."

"I should have known you'd be in a mood," she said, sighing, and glanced back to Shane. "Shanushka, I'm cold. Can I use your jacket?"

Ilya's head whipped around, startled, like he hadn't realized Shane was there, and their eyes caught and held. Then Ilya's expression flattened, slipping into the smirking mask he wore for the press. "Ah, Mister Hollander, Rookie of the Year. Are you here to gloat?"

Shane stepped up to the railing and handed Svetlana his tux jacket, numbness seeping through the haze of alcohol.

Why was he on the outside again? Why was Ilya so comfortable with Svetlana and so—so careful with what he was willing to show Shane? He'd literally had his tongue inside Shane's asshole, what the fuck was there to hide?

"You know," Shane said, swallowing down the thorny thing jammed up between his lungs. "You don't have to be a dick. If you want me to go away, you can just say so, and I'll go." His hands gripped the cold metal of the railing, and the bite of it grounded him, reminded him that he was more than a ball of hurt and confusion.

"Just tell him why you're pissy, Ilya," Svetlana said, crossing her arms. "Don't expect him to read your mind and be angry when he can't."

Ilya glared at her. She met it, unimpressed.

Eventually, he swore and looked down at his Italian leather dress shoes. "I go home in three days," he gritted out.

Oh.

Russia is not safe for men who like men.

Svetlana had been so scared when she'd said those words. Shane wondered if that same bottomless well of fear lived in Ilya too, a hunted thing, the hot breath of a country on the back of your neck.

Shane also remembered the cold dead eyes of Grigory Rozanov, remembered how wrong Ilya had been that day in March, like someone had switched off all the lights inside his brain. Shane thought about what it would be like to go home to family who treated him that way. What it would feel like to be unsafe and unwelcome in his own home.

"Oh," Shane said, feeling sober and foolish, studying the harsh lines of Ilya's face and seeing something peeking through the cracks that looked an awful lot like dread. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"

Then Svetlana's hand landed on his arm. He stopped.

Her head was cocked, looking between Shane and Ilya like they were a puzzle she was trying to solve.

Then—dawning comprehension.

"You two," she said slowly. "You've fucked."

Ilya went stiff.

Shane was going to throw up. "Sveta-"

She rounded on him, gaze furious. "Lie to yourself, Shane Hollander, not to me."

Tears pricked in the corners of Shane's eyes. He looked away.

"Sveta," Ilya sighed, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his heel. "We didn't mean-"

"Of course you did," she said, jagged as ice. "Again, Ilya? Must you?" Her voice cracked clean through.

Ilya stilled. "This isn't the same, and you know it."

"Do I? I don't know anything, apparently."

"Sveta, please-"

"No," she said, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. She took a step back. "You know I don't care if you fuck," she said, looking between them, lip wobbling minutely. "I do care that you thought you had to lie about it." She turned back towards the roof access door.

Fuck, wait, Shane needed to stop standing there like a fucking idiot, he needed to move—

He leapt into her path, arms outstretched. "Sveta—Svetlana—wait, please."

She crossed her arms, eyes blazing, a muscle in her jaw ticking.

Shane swallowed to bring moisture to his mouth. It didn't work. "I asked him not to tell anyone," he confessed, forcing himself to look her in the eye. "It's not that we don't trust you. I know you always assumed I—" He swallowed again. "It's just—it's new. To me. And I didn't want to lose you. You're too important. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied. And I shouldn't have made Ilya lie to you too."

Svetlana looked at him for a long moment. That same look she'd given him since the day they'd met, like she was unzipping his soul and rummaging around.

She glanced back at Ilya, who stood with his hands in his pockets, looking strangely young and sorry.

She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. "Okay. I'm still annoyed, but okay."

Shane was hugging her before she finished talking, pressing his face into her shoulder, eyes pricking with unshed tears. "I love you, Svetlana Vetrova," he whispered, breathing in the faint lilac scent of her perfume. "Always. Always, always."

She sagged briefly into his embrace. "I love you too, Shane Hollander." Then she leaned back, sniffing, and squared her posture. "No more lying," she said, pointing at each of them in turn. "I'm going to bed. Sort your shit out. Understood?"

Shane nodded. Ilya stepped up to kiss Svetlana's cheek. "Understood."

The roof-access door shut behind her like an exclamation point, leaving only Shane and Ilya and the ambient noise of the city below.

"Fuck," Shane said, shaky with adrenaline. He stumbled his way back to the railing, pressing his forehead against the cool metal and trying to remember how to breathe.

"Yes," Ilya agreed, leaning against the railing beside him.

Shane watched him light another cigarette. It took a few tries. Ilya's hands were trembling, just a bit.

Somewhere far below, a siren wailed. "I'm sorry," Shane said, head still ringing. "I'm sorry I made you lie to her. That wasn't fair of me. To either of you."

Ilya scrubbed a hand through his hair. "No, it wasn't. But I agreed. So it's not all your fault." He rubbed his nose, sniffing.

"Do you have plans tonight?" Shane asked, in what he hoped was a casual voice. "Or, I mean—you don't have to—I know you're probably getting ready to fly back—"

Ilya tapped the ash off his cigarette. "Yes, I will be busy."

Shane nodded, looking away and stuffing down his disappointment.

Ilya nudged his shoe against Shane's. "I will be busy doing you."

Shane laughed, shaking his head. "You are such an asshole."

Ilya shrugged. "So are you." He gave a lopsided smile. "I guess we match."

Shane couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah. I guess so."

Then he sighed and ground a knuckle into his eye. "Fuck. I think I should—I need to talk to Sveta. Really talk to her. She's leaving for Moscow tomorrow morning, and I don't want to have this conversation over the phone or Skype or whatever. I'll text you when I'm done?"

Ilya took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out against the railing. "You have my number.

Svetlana let Shane into her room without comment, going back to her spot against the headboard. His tux jacket was folded over the armchair. There were half a dozen minibar shot bottles on her nightstand, and three of them were empty.

Shane took a bottle of water for himself and sat down next to her. They were quiet for a long moment.

"I thought you were fucking one of your teammates," she said, and threw back another shot.

Shane choked on an ill-timed sip of water and began to cough. "What?"

"The only things you're shy about are sex things, and you would have said if it was a serious boyfriend, so I figured you'd found some nice closeted boy on your team to fuck you. Mutually assured destruction." She took another shot.

"Jesus Christ, Sveta," Shane said, running a hand over his face.

"Ilya was so squirrelly the last time I was in Boston," she continued, tapping her nails on the side of the little plastic bottle, a short staccato rhythm. "I should have known. He's always been terrible at hiding things from me." She sighed. "I know I can be pushy, Shane. I don't mean to be." Her eyes were shiny, long lashes brushing the apples of her cheeks.

Shane swallowed. "It is not that," he said awkwardly, trying to think of how best to explain it. "I am sorry. I did not tell you because I knew I could tell you."

She looked at him, quiet the way she always was when she was giving him time to puzzle out his own feelings. It made him want to cry.

Fuck, he could barely articulate this to himself in English, let alone Russian.

"You were the first person who just liked being around me as me," he said finally. "I just—I spend so much energy just trying to figure people out, trying to be what they want, and I never have to do that with you. It's such a relief." He closed his eyes, fingers clenching into fists against the tops of his thighs.

He fixed his gaze on the faint texture of the hotel room's wallpaper. "From the first time we met, you never asked me to change. You just wanted to talk to me and listen to me and be around me. You made me feel like I wasn't too much." He wiped his eyes with his thumb. "And I didn't want to—I didn't want to make you have to walk me through this. You already do too much for me, Sveta. I didn't want to use you."

He took a sip of water, unable to meet her eyes. "And there was also—you know how I can get caught up about things. It wasn't even about control, it was just—a rule in my head. Something that made it feel safe. If no one knew, then maybe it didn't change anything about me. So yeah, it was selfish, and I'm sorry. I just—you're too important."

When he finally chanced a look her, his heart stuttered to a stop.

Her face was crumpled, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, hands tangled in the edge of the duvet. "Did you never think—" she began, voice thick, then grabbed a tissue to blot at her running mascara. "Did you never think that it was the same for me? That you were the same?"

He stared at her. "What? What do you mean?" He had never seen her cry before, never made her cry before, and it made him want to shrivel up and die.

She grabbed another tissue and blew her nose. "Growing up in Moscow was...complicated. Everyone around me wanted things from me—money, influence, sex—and they all fucking hated me for it, especially because I'm a woman, and because my mother is not white, not Russian. Ilyusha and Sasha were outliers, not the norm."

"And then I met you. You were so interesting, and kind, and earnest, and you loved the art of hockey the same way I did. You let me be pushy and nosy and inappropriate. You didn't want me to make myself smaller. You didn't want anything from me. You just let me be—"

And Shane couldn't help it, he leaned forward and pulled her into a hug, and then they were both crying and hiccuping, her nails digging into his back through his dress shirt.

Ilya's suite was nice. A bathtub with whirpool jets, floor to ceiling windows, and a fridge full of fruit and nuts and cheese.

But—more important than any of the amenities—it wasn't next to Shane's parents' room.

Shane barely had time to look around before Ilya pushed him down on the bed and kissed him, long and deep and slow.

The first time since All-Stars, part of Shane realized, the part that wasn't melting into a puddle of goo at the heat of Ilya, the sudden all-encompassing closeness of him.

His eyes were still a little sore from crying, and he was way past overstimulated from the awards ceremony, but all of that seemed to fade into the background when Ilya applied himself to taking Shane apart.

Clothes had a habit of evaporating when they were alone in a room together. Shane didn't remember folding the remains of his tux and couldn't bring himself to care, not when he was laying on his stomach moaning, Ilya's weight pressing him into the mattress, Ilya's hard cock thrusting lazily between Shane's cheeks.

It had been six months since All-Stars. Six months since the most thorough debauchery of Shane's life, four orgasms in twelve hours. Six months since Shane had realized he wanted Ilya to fuck him.

Still, he wasn't prepared for Ilya to lean in close to his ear and say, "Can I use fingers? Inside?"

Shane went stock-still. "Not—um. Not dry." He thought about how hard it was to get the right angle, the right amount of leverage, with his own fingers. He didn't think Ilya would encounter the same problems. He felt a little lightheaded.

"No, not dry. I have lube," Ilya said, because of course he did.

Shane nodded into the pillow, glad Ilya couldn't see how red his face was, and then Ilya was back, a cap snapping open, weight settling over Shane, and everything dissolved into heat.

"You will like it," Ilya assured him, stroking wet fingers between Shane's cheeks, rubbing at the pucker of his asshole. "And if not, we stop. But I think you will like it."

And fuck, fuck, he was right, Shane did like this, liked the filth and stretch of it, the way Ilya hooked two fingers against his rim and spat, almost came when Ilya slipped a third finger in and fucked them into Shane even harder, fingertips rubbing Shane's prostate with every stroke—

"Fuuuckk, Shane," Ilya groaned. There was the slick sound of Ilya touching himself with his free hand. Shane pulled his face out of the pillows, chest heaving, and peeked over his shoulder.

Ilya was staring at the spot where his fingers pumped in and out of Shane's ass, pupils wide, expression awed, flushed all the way down to his chest. Shane clenched automatically, like tonguing at a split lip, whining at the feel of Ilya's thumb rubbing against his rim, and suddenly it was too much, not enough, he needed to—

Shane reached down, past his dripping cock, past the crease of his thigh, and touched where Ilya's fingers were in him—

"Fuck, fuck—" Ilya choked out, and his cum hit Shane's ass, hot and sticky, and the fingers inside Shane curled—

Shane's orgasm hit like a fuse box struck by lightning, frying every relay, leaving everything blanketed in warm grey static.

Ilya flopped beside Shane, panting, an arm over his eyes. He was spattered in lube and cum like an abstract painting. "Not bad, yes?" he said hoarsely.

"Mmmrrfff," Shane said in confirmation, blinking spots out of his vision.

Ilya huffed out a laugh. "Stay. I'll get a towel."

There was some kind of event going on further down the Strip. When Ilya had wiped them clean, they sat up against the headboard and watched the distant fireworks, eating slices of fruit and handfuls of almonds.

"I should go," Shane said eventually, hauling himself to his feet. "I need to be at the airport by nine."

It was nearly 2AM, and he still had to pack, or at least stuff his dirty tux in a laundry bag and pray his dry-cleaner in Montreal could unfuck it. And, well, if wasn't salvageable, he could just buy a new one. That was a thing he could do now. Two million fucking dollars in one night. Shit, did Svetlana still have his tux jacket?

Ilya, lounging naked against the pillows, didn't seem to notice the whirlwind happening in Shane's head. "Fly safe," he said drowsily, with the ghost of a smile. "I will beat you next year."

"Not going to happen," Shane shot back, heart thumping wildly, grinning at this beautiful man laid out like art, like a feast, like someone Shane could have—

Shane turned and left, all the satiety in his veins turning to frozen slush, heart still pounding as he fumbled his way into his hotel room, as he got ready for bed in a daze.

Fuck, he was stupid, so stupid—

It didn't matter what it felt like, what it looked like, because Shane knew—knew—that Ilya was not his, and he was not Ilya's, and it could never happen—

And it would never happen, and Shane had gone into this with his eyes open, and he wasn't going to let his stupid brain and stupid body ruin this one thing was entirely his—

But as he lay there in the dark, he couldn't help but wonder if it was already a little bit ruined.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. Yes, Svetlana has military-grade gaydar.
2. Pretty sure the youngest player to score a hat trick in the NHL was around 18 and a half, so Shane's not the youngest, but he's still really damn good.
3. The "walk-and-talk" is from The West Wing.
4. I wrote a draft of the conversation between Shane and his mom and really loved it, but accidentally closed the tab before saving. Yes, it was crushing. Yes, I did have to eat a sandwich to recover enough emotionally to keep writing.
5. But for real, thank you all so much for the kudos and comments and the incredibly kind response to this fic, I love you all. ❤︎

Coming up for real this time: the off-season

Chapter 5: Aug 2011-Sep 2011

Chapter Notes

The off-season + 2011-2012 training camp.

Warnings:
- only minor horniness
- the culture of homophobia, racism, and misogyny in hockey
- Shane's increasingly disordered eating
- Ilya's whole family situation, which should be its own trigger warning

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

August 1, 2011
Montréal, Québec

He got the call he'd been expecting on the first of the month.

“Shane?” He’d never heard that particular note in his mother's voice before.

It had started with him thinking about renting out a place near his parents' cottage, somewhere he could invite Svetlana and Ilya and maybe JJ and Hayden and Jackie, somewhere they could all just relax.

It had ended with him staring at his bank account open-mouthed.

The thing was, he hadn't really been keeping track of it. He barely touched it besides travel expenses and food, and his lease was paid for another year, so there was never really any reason for him to check it.

“Yeah, mom?”

“Honey, did you—did you pay off our mortgage?”

As it turned out, not blowing all his money on sports cars and drugs and parties had some perks.

His signing bonus was half gone, but the other half had spent the season sitting in an account with his ELC salary, his play bonuses, his Rookie of the Year winnings, and his pay from brand deals and commercial work, all largely untouched. After he'd subtracted his costs—his living expenses, provincial and federal taxes, the percentages he paid his agent and his mom, Montreal's franchise escrow (which Shane still didn’t understand, but his teammates hated with a fiery passion)—he'd finished his first year in the MLH with roughly $2.5 million CAD in his bank account.

His newly acquired financial advisor had emailed him some investment options, but in the meantime it had all just been sitting there. Accruing a wild amount of interest, burning a hole in Shane's wallet.

He'd sat on the couch and stared at the number, unblinking, for a long time.

Then he'd called his bank and done what he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d overheard his parents stressing about how expensive his skates were, when he was fourteen and too young to do anything about it.

“Yeah. I did," he said into the phone, unrepentant.

Shane’s mom sucked in a breath. “Honey, no, that money is yours, you shouldn’t—”

“But I did,” he said firmly. “And it’s done. I wanted to. I’ll more than make it back next season. And it’s not like I wiped out my savings, I’ve still got more than two million dollars in my account. Two million, mom. That’s plenty for anyone.”

It was an insane amount for a rookie season, especially when his team hadn't even made playoffs, and he was trying really hard not to think about the eight-figure salary he was probably going to make once he hit Restricted Free Agency.

“God, you’re so stubborn,” she said with a hiccuping laugh, and now he could tell she was crying.

“Gee, I wonder where I got that from.”

“Don’t sass me, young man, I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”

“Mom, you and dad paid for ice time and gear and travel and everything for eight years. Let me say thank you."

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, voice breaking. “You’re so lucky I have meetings this week or I’d drive out there to hug you to death.”

"I'll see you at the cottage in two weeks," Shane promised. "You can hide the body better out there."

August 11, 2011
Montréal, Québec
Thursday

Svetlana flew in on Thursday night to start a coveted three-day weekend early, and Shane picked her up from YUL so she wouldn't have to fist-fight someone for a taxi.

"I am so glad to be out of New York," she said, rolling her shoulders. "The whole city smells like hot garbage in the summer. And every time I see a tourist blocking a sidewalk I get the urge to stick out a foot and trip them."

Shane turned on his blinker and nosed into his parking spot. "Please don't take any potshots at our tourists, I really don't want to have to go visit you in jail."

She leaned over and smacked a kiss on his cheek, then swiped away the lipstick smudge with her thumb. "My sweet Shanushka. As if any Canadian prison could hold me."

Hayden and JJ were still on the couch playing MLH when Shane and Svetlana stepped into Shane's apartment, still locked in a battle full of trash talk and swearing that didn't seem to have faltered in the hour Shane had been gone. Svetlana leaned over the back of the couch to heckle them while Shane put her bags in the guest room.

"—get you next time, JJ," Hayden swore, flopping back on the couch. "If Svetlana doesn't demolish you first."

"Please," JJ crowed, "I am the king of Mell, I will wreck you all—"

"Is that a challenge, Boiziau?" Svetlana said, grinning, and vaulted over the couch to grab Hayden's abandoned controller.

"Bring it on, my friend," JJ said, starting up a new round. "I will even let you play as the Metros, because I am a generous soul."

"Who the fuck wants to play as the Metros?" Svetlana said, sounding disgusted. "I'll play as San Diego, with Khoroshilov in goal—"

JJ booed loudly. "You would rather play as that cocksucker than your best buds the Metros? Fine, then I will play as us."

Svetlana paused the game. She put down the controller with a click.

Shane stopped what he was doing—opening the containers of Indian food he'd ordered before heading to the airport—and looked up. "Sveta," he said. "You do not have to—"

"That's an interesting word you just used." Svetlana's tone was conversational, but her body had become all hostile angles. "'Cocksucker.' You don't like getting your dick sucked, Boiziau?"

JJ looked at her, startled. "What? Of course I do. Who doesn't?"

"But you think calling someone a cocksucker is degrading?" Svetlana demanded, and her voice was no longer calm. "You think sucking your dick is degrading to the women who do it?"

JJ raised his hands placatingly. "No, no, of course not, but I was not talking about a woman, I would never—"

"Yes, you were talking about a man," Svetlana said, smiling unpleasantly. "Like it's degrading for men to do something women do. It sounds like you don't like women all that much, if being compared to one is an insult."

JJ flushed. "I'm sorry, that is not—"

"That's exactly what it is," and now she just sounded disappointed. "Have you never thought about the inherent misogyny of homophobia? Or have you never had to think about it?"

Hayden cleared his throat. "Hey, he apologized. Hockey players don't exactly get Ivy League classes on this stuff."

"Sveta," Shane said, heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Sveta, he hears all that and worse on the ice too. He gets it. Please let it go."

Svetlana shook her head. "Your team may be full of assholes, but I will not let your friends be assholes. And you, Pike. You are a white straight man. If you do not speak out against it, you are part of the problem—"

"Svetlana," Shane said, loud enough that they all turned to look at him, startled. He jerked his head towards his bedroom, not waiting to see if she would follow.

When the door clicked shut behind her, he scrubbed his hands over his face. "What the fuck, Sveta?" He was so used to her basically reading his mind that he didn't fully understand what had just happened. His fingers tingled, adrenaline pooling icy over his neck.

"You heard what he said," she said furiously. "That is not an okay thing for you to have to hear—"

"You think I don't know that?" he burst out. "I'm not fucking helpless, Sveta! A friend calling someone a cocksucker is the least of my fucking worries! You know he didn't mean it in a homophobic way, and yeah, it's shitty language, but are you actually angry at JJ? Or at the men who made him think he had to act this way?"

Svetlana looked away.

Shane ran his hands through his hair, breathing hard. "JJ and Hayden aren't the fucking problem, okay? They're good guys. And if you had given JJ a second to wrap his head around what you were saying, you might have gotten a more nuanced response. Or did you forget that English is his third language, after French and Haitian Creole?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the tears from welling. "I've had a long season. I invited you out because I love you, and I want to spend time with you, but please stop attacking my friends for being products of their environments. At least give them a chance to fix their behavior."

The room was suddenly achingly quiet, the only sound Shane's stuttered breathing and quiet sniffs.

Svetlana sat down on the bed with a thump. "You're right. I'm sorry." She huffed out a strangled breath, wiping at the corners of her eyes. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to treat you like you're a child, or like you aren't capable of setting your own boundaries. That was shitty of me. It's something my mom does to me all the time, and I fucking hate it. I'll apologize to JJ."

Shane nodded, throat tight. "Thank you, Sveta."

The living room was quiet when they finally came back out, the TV turned down low, game controllers put away. Hayden and JJ had replaced their beers with waters and finished setting out the Indian food on the table.

"I'm sorry, JJ," Svetlana said, looking wrung out. "I should not have attacked you like that. I know you didn't mean anything by it."

"No," JJ said firmly. His mouth was set, shoulders squared. "I did not. But...you were also right to say something. Just because it is not the worst word in the locker room does not mean it is an okay thing to say." He looked down at his hands. "I do not—I don't think less of gay people. Or women. And I don't want to be someone who says things like that."

"I'm sorry too," Hayden piped up, looking back and forth nervously. "I wasn't trying to like—get in the middle of stuff—"

And before Shane could complete their apology foursome—and probably burst into overwhelmed tears in the process—the door opened and Jackie stepped in, toeing off her shoes and hanging up her work bag on the hook. She looked dead on her feet, greenish bags under her eyes, the bun at the nape of her neck lopsided. "Sorry I'm late, that shift was never-ending."

"Jacks!" Hayden said, face lighting up. "Do you want something to eat? Shane ordered enough Indian food to feed an army."

She smiled at him, weary but pleased. "Sounds good."

After they'd all finished eating and calmed down a bit, they put on a movie and settled in. Jackie curled up sideways on the couch, head resting on Hayden's shoulder, and instantly fell asleep.

Shane shared a confused look with JJ, then they both turned to look at Hayden, who didn't notice, too busy gazing down at his wife with his usual blend of adoration and awe.

Svetlana looked at Jackie and Hayden for a long moment and then turned down the volume on the movie.

Half an hour into her impromptu nap, Jackie bolted upright and sprinted to Shane's hall washroom and was noisily sick.

Hayden leapt up after her, shutting the washroom door behind them.

Fuck, was she okay? Shane hated throwing up, hated the way it burned and made him dizzy. He really hoped she didn't have food poisoning from the food they'd all just eaten.

He got up and grabbed some water and Aspirin, then, after a moment of thought, a bottle of Gatorade.

When Jackie and Hayden eventually emerged, Shane handed it all over, and Jackie thanked him wanly. Then Hayden looked down at the Aspirin and glanced at Jackie and said, "Hey, uh, would you happen to have some Tylenol instead?

Before Shane could reply, Svetlana let out a sound like a tea kettle hitting boil and clapped her hands together.

Jackie shot her a fond, exasperated look. "Hayd, just tell them. Svetlana already knows."

Hayden gave Jackie another adoring look and took her hand. "Well, uh. It's a little earlier than we were going to say anything, but—Jackie's pregnant. And it's—um. Twins."

Shane's jaw dropped. Svetlana shrieked, enveloping Jackie in a hug, and JJ pulled Hayden in as well, congratulating him in rapidfire French. Shane went and got Jackie some Tylenol, and then pulled them both into hugs of his own.

Ottawa, Ontario
Friday

Shane's fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against the steering wheel as he waited for Ilya at the airport pickup curb. They hadn't spoken much since the MLH awards, since Shane had left and had a quiet, prolonged panic attack.

He didn't even really know why he'd panicked in the first place. He and Ilya were friends, friends who had good sex—great sex, even—and had a healthy rivalry on the ice.

But he was starting to realize that maybe he'd been going about this the wrong way. Maybe he needed to treat Ilya more like Hayden and JJ, like the hockey friends he trusted and liked. Maybe he needed to do better at separating out the sex part from the friends part.

A knock on his passenger window jolted him out of his thoughts. He looked up into Ilya's smirk and unlocked the car.

Ilya looked good. Well, he looked tired, actually, which made sense since he'd just stepped off an intercontinental flight and his body was still on Moscow time, but being home clearly hadn't stopped him from working out. The definition in his forearms drew Shane's eyes like a magnet, and he had to force himself to look away.

"Nice car," Ilya said when they were back on the highway. "Did your mom pick it out?"

"Shut up," Shane said, rolling his eyes. "You love my mom."

"Obviously," Ilya said, reclining his seat. "Where's Sveta? She didn't want to come jump into my arms like an American movie?"

"She is at the rental, taking a nap."

They'd woken up at 5AM to drive from Montreal to the cottage Shane had rented outside Ottawa, and by the time they'd arrived, her accumulated college/law-firm-internship sleep debt had caught up with her. She'd been snoring on the couch before he'd finished bringing their bags inside.

Ilya made a sound of acknowledgement and opened his phone.

They were quiet for a while, the sounds of traffic flowing around them, slowly tapering off as they began the winding trek through the woods that would take them up to the lake. Shane hadn't plugged his phone in since he mostly listened to podcasts, and he didn't think Ilya would be particularly interested in hearing about restoring old houses in Nova Scotia.

Shane jumped when Ilya's hand landed on his thigh.

Ilya huffed out a laugh. "Twitchy."

"Shut up."

Ilya's hand slid further up Shane's inseam, fingers stroking back and forth, perilously close to his dick. "You want to?"

"I'm driving," Shane retorted, heart in his throat. "Do you want to die?"

Ilya let out an amused noise and squeezed a big handful of Shane's thigh. "Pull over."

Against Shane's better judgment, he did. It was either that or accidentally drive them both into a tree.

It was only when Shane was laid out in the backseat, shirt bunched up over his pecs like they were tits, Ilya grinding down on top of him, necklace brushing Shane's chin with every thrust, that Shane remembered they were parked on the side of a random road in the woods in broad daylight. "We can't," he hissed, pushing weakly at Ilya's shoulders. "What if someone—"

"There is no one around," Ilya assured him, and shimmied down to swallow Shane whole.

Shane lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time. Maybe he should start hooking up more in between their encounters.

After, Ilya settled back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, eyes dark, lips set in a satisfied grin. "Fastest in the league."

"Fuck you," Shane said, suddenly burning with fresh irritation and arousal that almost hurt considering how recently he'd come. He grabbed the Ilya by the collar and flipped their positions, using his slightly lower center of mass to pin Ilya down. "You're such an asshole," Shane gritted out, hand gravitating to the thick line of Ilya's cock in his pants and pulling him out. Then he crunched himself up awkwardly in the footwell, let spit pool in his mouth, and sank down until he could feel the head of Ilya's cock pressing at the back of his throat.

Normally he would have refused point-blank, would have made Ilya shower first, would have made him wash off the staleness of the plane and the airports and half a day of sweat. But now that Shane had his mouth on him—well, he wasn't complaining. Being between Ilya's legs was musky and bitter and safe and Shane couldn't get enough.

"Fuck," Ilya moaned, hand sliding into Shane's hair. "You're so good at taking me."

Shane's dick, still soft and damp with Ilya's spit, twitched painfully in his pants. He doubled down, focusing on his breathing, relaxing his throat, cupping Ilya's balls and rolling them gently. Far too soon, Ilya cursed a warning, coming so hard a vein stood out on his forehead.

"That was a little disappointing," Shane admitted afterwards, chest heaving.

Ilya stared at him, shocked. "Disappointing? My dick?" He looked down at his softening dick, betrayed, then back up at Shane. "What the fuck?" He sounded genuinely distressed.

Shane rolled his eyes, face heating. "I meant—I had you too deep when you came. I didn't get to—you know. Taste you."

God that was fucking embarrassing to admit. But the taste of cum had lingered after that first time, something Pavlovian in Shane's hindbrain, something hot and filthy and needy, a tangible little pat on the head at the end of sex that meant 'good job.'

Ilya flung an arm over his face and slurred something into the crease of his elbow, words too muffled for Shane to catch.

"What?"

Ilya moved his arm. "I said you will kill me dead."

He blinked up at the roof of Shane's car and sighed. "We should go. Sveta will be annoyed if we keep her waiting."

Shane didn't say that they'd only stopped because Ilya had wanted to. He just pulled a box of wet wipes out of the glovebox so they could clean up.

For the last half hour of the drive, Ilya rolled down his window and hooked up his phone to the aux cord so he could play some unfamiliar American indie pop. Ilya propped his elbow on the open window and let the wind ruffle his hair, eyes closed under his fancy sunglasses.

"Did something happen?" Shane asked before he could stop himself. He hadn't noticed the subtle stiffness in Ilya's posture until it was gone, but now he couldn't not notice its absence. "While you were in Moscow?"

"Did you get real snacks or just clementines and cheese sticks?" Ilya asked, ignoring Shane's question. He didn't even bother to open his eyes. "We should stop at the store. I need Coke or vodka, and I do not trust your taste in vodka."

"Fuck you, I got you that bottle for Christmas," Shane replied automatically. "I have Cokes and beer. If you want anything else, you can go get it yourself later."

When they pulled up at the rental, Ilya whistled lowly. "Wow. Mister Big Roller."

"God, you're such a dick." Shane grabbed one of Ilya's bags out of the back and threw it at him. Ilya caught it, laughing, and they raced each other to the front door.

"—ah, good, the boys are back, I'll ask, just a moment," Svetlana said from the living room, and they rounded the corner to find Svetlana on the phone. She hit the mute button. "Do you two want to have dinner at the Hollanders' tonight or tomorrow?"

Ilya stared at her, disgruntled. "Uh. What?"

She gave him a look like he was being purposefully obtuse. "Shane's parents have invited us all to dinner at their cabin, it's only a few miles away. Tonight or tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Shane said hastily. He needed time to brace himself.

Svetlana nodded and unmuted the call. "Tomorrow, please, Yuna."

While they discussed logistics, Ilya gave Shane a weird look. "Your parents want us all to come over for dinner?"

"Yes? My dad is a really good cook."

Ilya still looked disquieted, but he did grab his bags and find an empty bedroom, so Shane counted it as a success.

They had sandwiches for lunch, then Shane ended up making chicken tacos for dinner, partly because he wanted to eat some vegetables this weekend and partly because he'd been horrified to find out that by the time finals had rolled around, Svetlana had mostly survived on takeout and frozen dinners.

"You're going to get scurvy," he said acidly, adding more bell peppers to the pan. "Aren't you rich? Get a meal plan through your school. Hire a private chef. Something."

"Much as it pains me to admit it, Shane is right," Ilya said from where he was helpfully sitting on a bar stool and eating his way through a bowl of carrots and hummus.

"Right about what? Let me use your phone to put on some music, Ilyusha, mine is charging."

Ilya passed it over. "Right about you eating better. I don't want my cause of death to be 'Minister Sergei Vetrov found out I let his daughter die of malnutrition.' Eat an orange once in a while, it'll save us both."

Svetlana didn't stop scrolling to flip him off. "I already found a meal service for next year, so you can both fuck right off. You sound like my fucking mother."

"Maybe Auntie Eva is right too," Ilya said mildly.

Svetlana opened her mouth, probably to say something cutting and furious, but then Ilya's phone buzzed in her hand. "It's your brother," she said, nose wrinkling.

Shane glanced up. Ilya had a brother?

"Ignore it," Ilya said, waving a carrot. "Shane, when will tacos be ready? I am dying of hunger," he said, scooping an unconscionable amount of hummus.

Shane checked the meat thermometer. "Two or three minutes?"

"You cannot cook faster? More heat?"

"Sure, if you want dry chicken."

Ilya sighed and leaned his face into the counter. "I waste away. I am skin and bones. My muscles turn to dust."

"Yeah, you're a real martyr," Shane said, exasperated.

"Martyr?" Ilya's brow wrinkled the way it did whenever he encountered an English word he didn't know.

"Like—someone who suffers for a cause."

"Yes, this. I suffer. I suffer greatly."

Shane pulled the pans off the stove, turning off the burners and pulling out plates. "Well, if you would just suffer quietly, I think we'd all be a little happier—"

"Ilyusha. What is this?"

They stopped bickering and looked at Svetlana, who still held Ilya's phone in one hand.

"What is what?"

"Has Alexei been messaging you like this all year?" she said, scrolling with her thumb, eyes widening. "Last year too? All these calls—"

"Sveta—" Ilya leaned forward to take his phone back, but Svetlana pulled away, ducking around the counter to stand behind Shane.

"Uh, Sveta?" Shane said, moving the hot pans back and trying to steer her away from the stove.

"Ilyusha," she said, staring down at Ilya's phone, then looking back up at Ilya, who had gone paper-white. "You—"

"What?" he snapped, crossing his arms, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Ilyusha," she repeatedly slowly, dangerously. "You've sent him nearly a hundred-thousand dollars in the past ten months. And before that you sent him fifty-thousand dollars of your signing bonus."

"Yes," Ilya said, face unchanging.

"Why?" Svetlana demanded. "You know he's just spending it all up his nose—"

"Because he knows I fuck men!" Ilya exploded, the thing that had been lurking under his skin all day rocketing to the surface. "I don't know how he knows, he just fucking does, and he said he'd report me, okay? Fuck." He stalked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, hunched over his knees, face in his hands. "Fuck. And there's something—father isn't—" He raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't know," he said hollowly. "Something isn't right with him. The money is all I can do from here, okay?"

The silence in the rental cabin was suddenly very loud. Shane, still frozen at the counter, put down the kitchen towel he'd been unconsciously worrying between his hands.

"Okay," Svetlana said gently, recalibrating. "Well, you're not doing that anymore." She put the phone on the counter like it was a dead rat.

Ilya sighed, a tiredness that was years, decades old. "Sveta, it's fine, it's just something I have to—"

"No," Svetlana interrupted. "No, it's not. What would your mama think about you letting him treat you this way?"

Ilya's face contorted. "Sveta—"

"You know as well as I that she had no patience for cruelty."

Past tense, Shane noted, stomach twisting. Fuck, he really didn't know anything about Ilya, did he?

Svetlana walked into the living room and crouched in front of Ilya, resting her forehead against his. "He threatened to tell the state you fuck men, Ilya." She said it like her heart was breaking for him. "That is a death threat. You owe him nothing."

Ilya turned his face away. "I need a smoke," he mumbled, and ducked out of Svetlana's grasp, out the sliding back door to the patio.

Shane dished up dinner in silence, casting glances at Svetlana as he worked. He didn't like the look on her face. "Sveta," he warned quietly. "You cannot kill his brother."

"Of course I can," she said, frighteningly dismissive. Then she took a breath and sank into a chair at the dining table. "Oh, Ilyusha. My Ilyusha." She rubbed her brow. "His father and brother work for the FSB," she said, like that explained everything.

"FSB?"

"What used to be the KGB."

The hair stood up on the back of Shane's neck. "So like...state secret police?"

"Not exactly. More like the FBI, if the FBI ran on corruption and nepotism."

Shane swallowed hard and went to rinse the pans he'd used for cooking.

Ilya came back in a few minutes later, smelling like smoke and pine sap. Neither Shane nor Svetlana commented on his red eyes. Ilya mustered up a thank you when Shane passed him a can of Coke, but otherwise dinner was a quiet affair.

At least the chicken isn't overcooked, Shane thought, and almost burst into laughter at the sheer inanity of it.

Afterwards, out by the fire pit, the inky blackness of rural Quebec blanketing the sky, Svetlana looked over at Ilya, that calculating motor spinning behind her eyes. "When I visit my papa next month, I'll do some digging on Alexei. He'll leave you alone."

Ilya stared at the dying remains of the fire. "And if he doesn't?"

She smiled, not very nicely. "Then I'm sure his bosses would be very interested in a call from Minister Vetrov."

"How do you know there will be something to find?" Shane asked hesitantly. He didn't love the idea of Ilya and Svetlana being involved in some kind of blackmail scheme, but this was serious. This was Ilya's safety.

Svetlana snorted. "There's always shit on men like Alexei."

"She's right," Ilya agreed, rubbing his temple. "There will be something. He's too greedy not to abuse his authority."

"I'm always right." Svetlana uncurled from the patio couch and yawned so hard her jaw cracked. "I'm going to bed. If you two are going to fuck, be quiet about it." Then she slipped inside, leaving Shane and Ilya with the glowing embers.

An owl hooted in the distance. The night was full of creatures whose senses had evolved to work best in the dark, in the cold, in the damp. The air was still, and the lake was calm.

"Why didn't you ever say anything? About all of this?" Shane asked finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore. "We text all the time. And we—you know. Hang out."

Ilya rolled his eyes. "You mean when we fuck? Would that have been a good time to say that my brother is a piece of shit and my father hates me? Would not have ruined the mood?"

Despite the lingering heat from the fire, Shane felt cold, cold all over. "You could have said something," he insisted. "Is that what happened in March? Marly said your dad called—"

"Why would I have talked to you about this?" Ilya's face was stone. "Why do you need to know? Rookie of the Year was not enough, you need to win something else too, Mister Perfect Family?"

Hurt stabbed through Shane, sudden and breathtaking. His hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs. "That's not—I just—" He swallowed hard. "I thought we were friends." Then he got up and went to bed, leaving Ilya with only the burnt out remains of the fire and the buzz of insects.

Saturday

Shane woke up in the pale hour before dawn and spent a long time listening to the slow rise of birdsong and the distant sounds of the lake lapping at the shore. Then he made himself get up and get ready for his run.

He tried to move quietly. The house had some creaky floorboards and hinges that needed oil, and he didn't want to wake Svetlana.

But when he slipped into the living room, running shoes in hand, Ilya was already awake and sitting on the couch, an empty mug of coffee in front of him.

"Morning," Shane said quietly. "You're up early."

Ilya shrugged. "Moscow time."

Shane nodded and sat on the bench by the front door to tie his laces.

"You are running?" Ilya said, leaning over the back of the couch.

"Yeah."

"I can come too?"

Shane looked up at him. Looked at the exhaustion that still filled every line of his body, looked at the hesitation in his face. Shane sighed. "Yeah, okay."

They ran a 10km trail loop that was part of the reason Shane had rented the place. It was early enough for shreds of mist to linger, early enough to turn the world muffled and blurry. The trees were damp with condensation and moss, and the trail was black, loamy soil tamped flat by decades of use.

Ilya kept pace with him easily, more of a shadow than a running companion. They didn't talk. Shane timed his breaths to his footfalls, let his brain focus on a rhythm that forced all other concerns far away.

Svetlana was awake by the time they got back, music playing over the speakers, cooking a huge pan of eggs and maple bacon that made Shane's mouth water.

"I'll get the bread," Ilya said, and Shane found himself relegated to setting the table.

He should have had a protein shake or something before his run. Eggs were good, and Shane could maybe let himself have some maple bacon, but dark rye with jam and salted butter like Svetlana usually ate wasn't exactly—

Ilya set down two slices of whole wheat toast and a little dish of sliced avocado in front of Shane, not looking at him, and Shane forced down his complicated feelings about that and dug in.

When they were done eating, Svetlana announced that she wanted to swim, and somehow all three of them ended up on the dock, dousing themselves in bug spray and sunscreen. The last of the mist had burned off in the midmorning sun and left only a sticky humidity that made the heat of the day seem ten times worse.

"The water's going to be cold," Shane warned. "It's not California."

Svetlana gave him a withering look. "You say that like we're not from Russia."

Shane just raised his brows at her.

Ilya, creeping up behind Svetlana, grinned evilly and hoisted her up by the waist.

"Ilyusha!" she screeched, and he tossed her into the water, jumping after her with a laugh.

Shane got in more sedately, swim shoes protecting his feet from the sharp rocks that littered the bottom. "Told you," Shane said, biting back a smile, and a sopping wet Svetlana lunged for him, swearing revenge.

After a quick towel-dry and a thorough tick check, they lounged on the patio furniture and ate popsicles until their mouths were stained unnatural colors. Shane, eating his pomegranate fruit bar made of actual fruit, couldn't help but laugh at the neon green drips of 'Lizard Limeade' staining Ilya's swim trunks. Ilya scowled at him, then seemed to lose focus for a moment somewhere around Shane's mouth before snapping back into a conversation with Svetlana about their favorite blini restaurant in Moscow being bought out.

Even after brushing his teeth, Shane's lips and tongue stayed reddish-purple from the pomegranate. At least the copious amount of sunscreen had stopped his freckles from getting too dark.

They left for the Hollanders' cottage in mid-afternoon. It was only a fifteen minute drive, but Shane's dad liked to eat early so that Shane's mom had plenty of time after dinner to destroy her family at cards.

"Your father is David, yes?" Ilya asked, meeting Shane's eyes in the rear-view mirror as Shane parked. Svetlana was already climbing out, carrying the bottle of wine she'd seemingly produced out of thin air. "What does he do?"

He's nervous, Shane realized, a little surprised. "He works for the Treasury Board. It's, uh—a bureaucratic job. He sits in meetings and reads through—money laws. Financial regulations." He didn't know the right words in Russian.

Ilya nodded tightly, like there would be a quiz, and got out of the car.

Shane didn't bother knocking—his mom had texted him to let him know the front door was unlocked. "Mom, dad, we're here," he called, stepping inside and putting his shoes on the rack.

"In the kitchen, sweetie!" his mom called back, and Shane led Ilya and Svetlana through his parents' cottage, the little three-bedroom cabin by the lake where he'd spent his summers growing up.

Looking at it through the eyes of an adult, Shane cringed a little. It was mismatched, with worn edges on some of the furniture, patches sewn onto cushion covers. There were pictures everywhere, of Shane and his cousins as kids, round-faced and sunburnt, playing on a swingset, making faces against the netting of a bouncy castle, in a rowboat off Blueberry Island out in PEI. Pictures from his first year in the Timbits league, when he was so small he'd had to wear two pairs of socks to get his skates to fit. Nothing like the casual wealth of Svetlana's apartment in New York, or the ultra-modern lines Ilya preferred.

Shane gulped down the sudden rush of nerves. "So, uh—yeah. This is my parents' cottage. We used to come out here every summer for a few weeks when school was out." Until Shane had been scouted and vacations had become snatched weekends between training camps.

The door to the back patio slid open, and Shane's dad stepped inside, smiling when he caught sight of them. "Shane! Come here, kiddo," he said, and pulled Shane into a hug that smelled like charcoal and marinade spices. "Svetlana, good to see you again," he said, eyes crinkling, and then turned to Ilya, who smiled awkwardly at the attention. "Ilya Rozanov? I'm David Hollander, good to meet you." He held out a hand, and Ilya shook it. "I never thought this day would come."

"Dad," Shane hissed.

"What? It's true," Shane's dad said, wrapping an arm around Shane's shoulders. "You know your mom's got a heck of an evil eye. I was pretty sure any Boston Raider would have burst into flames the minute they crossed the threshold."

Shane's mom appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "You're lucky I don't use my evil powers on you," she told her husband dryly. She accepted cheek kisses and the wine bottle from Svetlana. "Good to see you, sweetie."

Then she turned to Ilya and smiled. "And Ilya! It's been too long." She pulled him into a hug that he returned gingerly.

"Um. Thank you for having me in your home," Ilya said, rubbing his nose and looking away. "It is good to see you, Mrs Hollander."

Shane's mom raised her brows. "I thought I told you to call me Yuna," she admonished lightly, guiding him towards the dining table. "Do you want something to eat, honey? You seem thinner than you should for off-season. Shane, will you help me grab the snacks?"

"You worried for nothing, Ilyusha," Svetlana muttered, and Ilya elbowed her. She dug her nails into his wrist in retaliation, and Ilya stuck out his tongue, and then they both burst into giggles as Shane rolled his eyes and followed his parents into the kitchen.

It wasn't until after dinner—so many meat and vegetable skewers that even Ilya refused thirds—that Shane's parents cornered Shane in the hall and confronted him about the mortgage.

"Don't you ever do that again," Shane's mom said fiercely, making good on her promise to crush him in a hug. "Thank you, sweetheart, but we don't want your money. Ever." She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, stepping into the kitchen.

"What your mom said, kiddo," Shane's dad said. "You don't owe us a dime, and if you try to pull that kind of bone-headed stunt again, I'll call the bank and tell them to give it all back." His phrasing was light-hearted, but his eyes were serious.

"Okay," Shane said, looking down at his feet, mouth twitching with a smile. "I promise to never pay off your house mortgage again."

Shane's dad snorted and reeled him into a hug that forced all the air out of his lungs. The pressure relaxed something inside Shane that had been tight all season. "Go show your friends the puzzle hoard, I got a new one last month that I've been itching to crack into. Your mom and I will put away the food." He gave Shane a gentle kiss on the side of the head.

Ilya's eyes followed Shane when he walked back into the living room. Shane wondered with a pang how much of that Ilya and Svetlana had overheard.

Mister Perfect Family.

Shane looked away, jaw clenched. He crossed to the credenza under the window, opening one of the cabinet doors.

"What are those?" Svetlana said, peering around him.

"Jigsaw puzzles. My dad really likes them, and he's got a new one he wants to open." Shane pulled out the only one still wrapped in cellophane.

"Or we have cards," Shane's mom called, sticking her head through the doorway. "Gin rummy, anyone?"

Shane groaned. "Don't do it, she's a shark—"

"Yes, please," Svetlana said with relish. "Sorry, Ilyusha, Shanushka. I'll leave you to your—" she leaned over the brand new puzzle, studying the picture on the box, "—old gas station covered in road signs? Shanushka, this looks like a nightmare, this is what your dad does for fun?"

Shane flipped her the fig. "Go play cards with my mom, don't get pissed when she wins all your candy."

"Candy?"

"We play for Hershey's kisses," Shane explained, and didn't mention that on the rare occasions he won, he usually replaced the chocolates with almonds.

Svetlana's phone trilled loudly, and she sighed. "My mom. I should take it."

"Guest room's on the right," Shane said, and she shot him a grateful look.

Then it was just Ilya and Shane, sitting on the soft carpet of Shane's childhood, a brand new jigsaw puzzle between them, the only sound the faint murmurs of Shane's parents as they put away the last of the tupperware.

"Cigarette," Ilya muttered, fiddling with his necklace, eyes fixed anywhere but Shane, and levered himself to his feet, padding towards the back door.

Shane slowly rested his forehead against the edge of the ancient coffee table. When had things gotten so complicated? Ilya was back to being a dick for no apparent reason, Shane's mom was so focused on not mentioning the Metros that she'd seemingly forgotten her decades-long hatred of the Raiders, and Shane had found himself automatically choosing the leanest bits of beef despite the fact that it was the off-season.

He looked at the puzzle, still in its wrapping, the bright colors of all the little painted signs making his eyes swim. Then he stood up and went to help with the dishes.

His dad was alone when Shane stepped into the kitchen, and he gave Shane a grateful nod. "Your gloves are under the sink. If you'll wash, I'll dry."

Shane hated doing dishes bare-handed, had hated it since he first started doing chores, and when he'd found a set of kitchen gloves that fit well and felt okay on his hands, he'd bought three pairs: one set for his apartment, one set for his parents' house, and one set for the cottage.

With the gloves on, Shane found dishes relaxing, even meditative. He and his father made quick work of it, a rhythm long since turned into a science.

The sliding door opened and closed. Shane's mom stepped into the kitchen, a wisp of cigarette smoke clinging to her cardigan. She patted Shane's dad on the shoulder. "I'll finish up, sweetheart, I know you're dying to open that puzzle."

"You're the love of my life," Shane's dad said seriously, and smacked a kiss on her cheek, making her laugh, before surrendering the last of the dishes to her capable hands.

Shane's mom shook her head fondly, drying each piece of silverware as Shane handed it to her.

"What were you talking to Ilya about?" he asked, in what he hoped was a casual tone.

His mom glanced at him. "Just wanted to make sure he was alright. I didn't get a chance to see him at the awards show. He seems different, this summer. Quieter."

Sometimes Shane forgot how perceptive his mom was, and then she would casually drop something like that. "It's been a long year," he said. "His family isn't—supportive." That felt like a massive understatement, but was also maybe more than he ought to have said.

"Of his career?" his mom said, looking bewildered, like the idea of not doing everything to help your child succeed was anathema.

Of his career, his sexuality, his fucking existence—

"Of him."

His mom looked down, mouth tightening. "Oh."

"Yeah."

She frowned at the fork in her hands. "Well, I made sure he knows he's always welcome here. And his family are fools if they can't see what a nice young man he is."

Shane didn't argue.

"I was also asking him about his schedule," Shane's mom continued. "You know, brands, advertising stuff."

Shane frowned. "What? Why?"

"Because he's barely been in anything since that CCM ad last summer, sweetheart," she said gently. "So I offered to represent him, if he wants."

Shane turned off the water and looked at her. "What?"

"He said he'd think about it," she continued, like she hadn't just done something that would have made Yuna Hollander of a year and a half ago lose her goddamn mind. "His current manager is Russian, which is good in terms of communication and a shared culture, but Ilya didn't seem too enthused about him. I think there's a lot of untapped potential for Ilya in the Boston ad market."

Shane turned the faucet back on, finished rinsing the handful of silverware in his fist, and said nothing.

"I also thought it might be good for you and me," she added. "Let me spread out my focus a little." She put a hand on Shane's shoulder. "Have you thought any more about what I said? About us maybe going to therapy together?"

Shane swallowed. "I'm thinking about it," he said, which was true.

"And?"

"And I think it could be a good idea," he admitted begrudgingly. "But I don't—I'm not sure about doing it now. I just want to relax before pre-season training."

He needed the time, needed to get his head on right about hockey, needed to neaten up all the smudged partitions in his head, needed to mentally rehearse conversations and paths through airports and plays on the ice.

"Shane, this isn't something you can schedule for after you retire. The sooner we get started—"

"Mom," he said, and she fell silent. Fuck, he hated that he'd made her so hesitant to talk to him. "Mom," he tried again. "I promise. I'll let you know soon."

Apparently sensing that this was the best she was going to get, Shane's mom squeezed his shoulder and let the subject drop.

"You still up for cards?" Shane's mom asked Svetlana, when the dishes were done and they had all reconvened in the living room. "Did Shane tell you the stakes are chocolate?"

"He told me, don't worry," Svetlana said, grinning, and shuffled the cards expertly between her hands.

Shane's mom narrowed her eyes. "Then deal me in, Vetrova, I've got some candy to win." She pulled up the little folding card table that lived behind her recliner and set it up between them.

"God help us," Shane's dad muttered, sitting down cross-legged in front of the coffee table and ripping open the puzzle packaging with undisguised glee. He looked to Ilya. "Are you a puzzle guy, Ilya?"

Ilya frowned down at the box. "I have not done this since I was young. I do puzzle games on my phone, but they are different. Word games."

"You do?" Shane's dad said, delighted. "Which ones? I love doing the crossword."

Ilya looked up at him, visibly surprised. "Yes. Crossword. I started them when I was first learning English. Less boring than studying textbooks." He blew a raspberry.

Shane's dad laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're absolutely right, Ilya. Crosswords are much more interesting than memorizing definitions."

Ilya relaxed a little. "Yes, it was also helpful for—what is word?—context. Lots of North American pop culture I did not know."

"A man after my own heart," Shane's dad said, pouring some of the pieces onto the coffee table.

"What does that mean?" Ilya hissed to Shane.

"It means he likes you," Shane murmured back. "Hey, dad, why don't you show Ilya the right way to start a puzzle?"

"There is a wrong way?" Ilya asked, bewildered.

"Oh boy, there are so many wrong ways," Shane's dad said, and eagerly launched into his explanation of the most efficient way to sort the edge pieces and how the picture on the box was usually a slightly different color to the actual printed puzzle. Ilya listened to it all with rapt focus, more patient than Shane had ever seen him outside of hockey or sex, and their slow puzzle progress was only occassionally interrupted by Svetlana and Shane's mom trading wins and losses and loudly demanding rematches.

Sunday

Svetlana's flight back to New York left at 9:15AM, so Shane and Ilya dropped her at the airport at 6:45. She hugged them tightly, kissed their cheeks, and whisked away into the crowds. Ilya watched her go with a complicated look on his face.

Shane fiddled absently with his keys. Ilya's flight down to Boston didn't leave until 11. "Want to go get some breakfast?"

Ilya nodded. "McDonald's?"

Shane made a face. "I meant real breakfast."

"McGriddle is not real breakfast? Who will tell Boston?" Ilya said, grinning.

"God, you're such an asshole," Shane muttered, and looked up the nearest McDonald's on his GPS.

The McDonald's nearest the airport was, perhaps predictably, crowded with American tourists. Ilya looked entirely unbothered, stepping into the noise and ordering himself two McGriddles, a hashbrown, and a large Coke. Shane got a wrap and tried not to think about how much saturated fat was probably in the sauce. They ate outside on plastic picnic benches set under sad yellow umbrellas.

"Not as good as American McDonald's," Ilya said when he was done, mouth shimmery with grease.

Shane couldn't help but smile. "Probably a little bit healthier."

"Like I said, not as good." Ilya took an obnoxiously loud sip of his Coke and then wiped his hands and threw away his trash. "Want to walk for a bit? I hate sitting still on flights."

Shane shrugged. "Sure."

Besides the line of cars around the McDonald's, the strip mall was mostly empty this early on a Sunday. They wandered the perimeter, Ilya asking about stores and stopping to pet two huge German Shepherds who could probably smell his breakfast on him and kept nosing in his pockets like he was hiding it.

"Sorry, no treats for you," Ilya said mournfully, holding out his palms for them to lick.

The woman walking them laughed. "That's probably a good thing, our vet says Archie's getting a little fat."

Ilya looked outraged on the dog's behalf. "No, he is perfect, aren't you?" He let Archie snuffle his face. "Such a good boy," he murmured, and waved goodbye happily when the woman and the dogs continued on their walk.

Shane stood frozen for a long moment, then shook himself out of his stupor, trying to forget the way his dick had throbbed when Ilya had said the words good boy.

Finally, when they'd whiled away enough time that Ilya could still catch his flight without having to spend hours stuck in an airport terminal, they got back in the car.

"What are you doing for the rest of the summer?" Shane asked, darting a glance at Ilya when they stopped at a light.

"Moving," Ilya said, twisting his spine and groaning at the stretch. "Marly and the team helped me find an apartment, but I still have to sign the paperwork and move all my stuff before training camp." He thumbed at his lip. "I'll also need to talk to Sveta more," he added, looking out the window. "About things in Russia. About her plans."

The reminder of everything Ilya had left in Russia—his father, his brother, a state that wouldn't hesitate to throw him in prison or make him disappear—made Shane's mouth go dry. "Oh. Right."

Fuck, why was this so hard? He should have brought this up earlier, but the timing had never been right. He tried again. "The Raiders' training camp doesn't start for a few weeks, right?"

Ilya nodded. "September."

"Well, you could—" Shane swallowed. "You could always come back out here for a few days."

Maybe it had been a bit presumptuous when his plans with Svetlana and Ilya had only been for a weekend, but the minimum rental period had been two weeks, and it hadn't cost that much more for four.

"Once you're done moving, I mean. I have the rental for a month, so—yeah." They pulled up at the drop-off curb. Shane snuck another look at Ilya.

Ilya was staring at him, expression strained. "Ah. Uh—No. I cannot. Sorry." For the first time in Shane's memory, Ilya sounded completely wrong-footed.

"Right, yeah, of course," Shane said in what he hoped was a breezy tone, putting the car in park and turning on the hazards. "Well, fly safe, yeah? I'll see you next month. Let me know when you land." He got out of the car and pulled Ilya's bags out of the trunk.

Ilya climbed out more slowly, taking his bags with ease, still looking at Shane like he was a grenade about to go off. "See you next month," Ilya said finally, face unreadable, accent as thick as the first day they'd met.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the chatter and long lines of YOW, a head of dirty blond curls that slipped out of view behind a pillar. Shane got back in his car and drove.

Okay, that couldn't have been more clear if Ilya had spelled it out in red ink. Shane merged onto the highway, muscle memory taking over as he headed back to the rental.

There needed to be rules, going forward. That would help.

Firstly, he needed to separate Ilya into three people, not two. There was Ilya fucking Rozanov, who he played against on the ice, his rival. There was Svetlana's Ilyusha, Shane's friend, the one who was funny and kind and smart. And then there was the Ilya Shane had sex with, the one who sometimes called him Shanyk, the one who was gentle and careful to the point of compulsion.

The first two mixed sometimes, depending on who they were with, on how many eyes were on them. The last one seemed to barely exist at all, even in the privacy of locked hotel rooms.

Which was fine, obviously. But if Shane wanted to keep doing this—and he did, god, he did—he needed to treat them differently. So that was the first rule: don't get confused about which Ilya he was talking to.

The second rule was probably silly and wouldn't affect much in the long run, but it would make Shane feel better, would give him a clearer demarcation: no more sleepovers in the same bed. Passing out for a quick nap after sex was fine, it was just something that happened, but spending the night made things messy, and this shouldn't be messy.

The third rule was the one he hesitated over: don't push Ilya to be soft after sex.

The thing was, Shane liked being soft afterwards. He liked being so full of endorphins and the simple human joy of sex that it left his thoughts quiet, his body soothed.

And he wanted to be soft with someone. Wanted to trust them and relax and just exist together.

But every time he reached out for that connection, tried to talk in the afterglow, Ilya had pulled away. Not always cruelly, but firmly.

And Ilya was right. That wasn't what this was about. Shane needed to stop trying to take more than he was given. They had awesome, athletic sex that made Shane see stars, made him understand his body better than a decade of hockey training ever had, and if Shane wanted to be soft after sex, he could, but he needed to not keep puncturing it by trying to force Ilya to be soft too. It wasn't fair to Ilya, and it wasn't fair to Shane.

Shane blew out a long breath and took the turn that would take him to the rental.

He could buy a house out here, he realized, as he slowly wended his way through the trees. He had the money. It would be close enough to his parents' cottage for visits, but far enough away that he'd have some privacy.

In the year since he'd moved out of his childhood home, he'd gotten used to having his own space, and he liked the idea of somewhere more permanent. His apartment in Montreal was nice, but it wasn't his. He hadn't picked out the fixtures, or looked at color palettes, or chosen layouts.

Or...maybe he could have something built? That was way too expensive to think about for now, but maybe in a year or two. Or on his RFA contract, when he had more money than he'd ever know what to do with. Maybe he could just buy the land now and build it later?

When he got back to the rental, he packed his bags and emptied the kitchen of everything he'd bought, stuffed it all in his car, and drove to his parents' cottage. They were already gone, back home in Ottawa, but Shane wanted to be somewhere familiar, in sheets that smelled like home.

He closed and locked the cottage door behind him. It was silent, blinds closed, fridge empty, but utterly familiar. Safe. He dialed the realtor who'd found him the rental.

"Hi—yes, it's Shane Hollander, I wanted to let you know that I won't need the property for the rest of the month. I left the keys in the lockbox—yes, I know it's only been a week, I don't expect a refund or anything, I just wanted to let you know I won't be there—"

Late August 2011
Hurricane Irene

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Shane
Holy shit
Sveta, are you okay?
My parents and I are watching the storm footage on the news.

Sveta
I'm fine, just annoyed and bored
My internship has given us leave since all the subways are closed

Ilyusha
lucky
in boston they shut down the trains and declared "a state of emergency" but i still have to go in for special media training?? 😠

Shane
You brought that on yourself.

Ilyusha
slander
I've never done anything wrong in my life

Shane
Ilya you tagged Hunter in TWENTY SEVEN fossil photos.
There's a fucking Buzzfeed article about it, with a quiz at the bottom to find out which fossil photo you are.
[...]

Sveta
oh my god ilyusha whyyy 😂😂😂😂😂
i'm dying holy fuck )00)))))

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
It's that time of year, folks! Join us as we dive into the 2011 MLH season with the top three draft picks! 🥳🎉 Watch the full promo video here: [...] @ᴍᴀʀᴄᴜsᴊʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @ᴛᴏᴍᴀs_ʜᴇʟsɪɴᴋɪ @ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇᴏɴᴅ
#MLH #MajorLeagueHockey #MarcusJeffries #TomasInnanen #EddieBridges #TorontoGuardians #BrooklynScouts #TampaHammerheads

Isaiah @ᴄᴇʀᴛɪғɪᴇᴅᴘᴜᴄᴋʙᴏʏ
Is it sad that everything after last year's Hollanov CCM photoshoot feels like a letdown
#wowimgay #bringbackmyboys

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
going from @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ and @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ's draft stats to these guys is kind of 😕 (no offense)

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
⤷but what are they gonna do, find two MORE once-in-a-generation talents for a third and fourth time in a generation???? 💀💀💀

Emilio @ᴇᴍɪʟɪᴏᴀʟᴠᴀʀᴇᴢᴍᴜsɪᴄ
I kind of want to give these new draft picks some soup and blankets and tell them not to worry, Ilya Rozanov isn't real and can't hurt them

nora @ᴄʜᴇᴡᴛʜᴇᴍᴀɢɪᴄɪᴀɴ𝟽𝟽
⤷@ᴇᴍɪʟɪᴏᴀʟᴠᴀʀᴇᴢᴍᴜsɪᴄ
you shouldn't lie to children

Emilio @ᴇᴍɪʟɪᴏᴀʟᴠᴀʀᴇᴢᴍᴜsɪᴄ
⤷@ᴄʜᴇᴡᴛʜᴇᴍᴀɢɪᴄɪᴀɴ𝟽𝟽
i just want them to enjoy this brief moment of peace, since it's the last they'll know

Early September 2011
Montréal, Québec

When Shane arrived at the CN an hour before the first practice of training camp, there was a lanky teenager sitting in the players' lounge. His face was covered in acne scars and patchy stubble, and he badly needed some lip balm. He was clutching a shiny new Metros' team duffel like it was trying to escape.

For the first time in his life, Shane felt old. He summoned a smile and approached the kid. "Hey, are you the rookie we signed?" Shane asked, holding out a hand to shake. "Shane Hollander, nice to meet you."

The kid shook it, eyes big and worried. "Yes," he said, thickly accented. "I am Vasily Markov. It is good to meet you."

First round draft pick, Shane's brain supplied. 6th overall. Versatile center and winger, good edges, solid control.

"Oh. Do you speak Russian?" Shane asked. "Where are you from?"

Vasily's shoulders sagged. "Oh, thank god. You're the first person I've met in Canada other than my billeters who speaks any Russian. I'm from Piter—St Petersburg." He gave Shane a nervous smile. "Sorry, Mister Hollander. My English is usually better, I swear." His Russian was a different shape than Svetlana and Ilya's, a little softer on some vowels, harsher on others. Despite that, it was giving Shane a strong sense of déjà vu.

"Call me Shane," he said firmly, trying not to feel like his bones would crumble to dust if this kid called him 'Mister Hollander' again. "And do not worry about it. English is a difficult language. Want to come skate with me? I like to come early, to warm up."

Some more of the tension bled out of Vasily's frame. "Yes, please."

Shane led the way into the locker room, got the kid settled at the locker with his nameplate, and started pulling out his gear. "So, who are you living with?" He got ready the way he always did, one piece at a time, a checklist in his brain that he could complete in his sleep.

Hesitantly, Vasily sat on the bench and followed suit. "Michael Andropov? He doesn't speak much Russian, but he understands a bit. His wife Tatsiana is fluent, she and her family emigrated from Minsk after the breakup of the Union. She's nice."

He didn't say that Andropov was nice, Shane noted.

"I have never met her," Shane admitted. "I do not go to many team parties."

Vasily shrugged, lacing his skates left first, then right, rapping each with his knuckles when he was done. Shane didn't comment. He'd seen much more bizarre hockey player rituals.

Getting back on the Metros' training facility ice after a summer away loosened something behind Shane's lungs. He knew this ice, knew how it held edges, how it felt under his skates. Summer training down at the Centaurs' Sensplex had been fun, but this was home turf.

He and Vasily skated gentle laps, breathing in the smells of artificial cold and concrete. The kid kept pace easily, looking more relaxed by the second.

"Boooo!" called a voice, and they both looked up. Hayden stood at the gate, still in street clothes, holding his bag and waving. "I bet JJ twenty bucks I'd get here first for once. You suck, Hollzy!" Since they'd broken the news of Jackie's pregnancy, Hayden had been grinning basically nonstop, and today was no exception.

Shane coasted to a stop in front of the boards. "Does that count as sports betting? Someone should tell Crowell."

"Narc," Hayden said fondly, then seemed to notice Vasily. "Oh, hey, I'm Hayden Pike. Good to meet you." He held out a hand.

"Good to meet you too," said Vasily, shaking it. "I am Vasily Markov."

"Do you have a hockey nickname yet?" Hayden asked. "I'm lucky, my last name's only one syllable, so the team mostly sticks with Pike."

Vasily's brow wrinkled. "Nickname?"

"Usually a shortening of your surname," Shane explained. "Like Hollander to Hollzy."

Vasily's expression cleared. "Ah, yes. At Metro camp they called me Marksy."

"Does Russian not have nicknames?" Hayden asked, looking confused.

Shane shrugged. "It does, but they're not the same. They're called diminutives, most traditional Russian names have them. But they don't have to make the name shorter."

"Like when Svetlana calls you Shanushka," Hayden said, snapping his fingers.

Vasily badly covered up a laugh by coughing into his fist.

Shane ignored that. "What is the diminutive for Vasily?"

Vasily looked down at his skates. "My family calls me Vasyenka," he muttered, reddening.

"So that would be...Vasya? For friends?" Shane hazarded.

Vasily blinked. "I—yes."

Shane nodded. "Vasya, then. You can save Marksy for the ice."

"Oh, is Vasya the nickname for Vasily?" Hayden said, looking between them. "Cool! Is it okay if we call you that?"

Vasily nodded. "If you want."

Hayden grinned even wider. "Well, Vasya, let me go get dressed and find JJ, and then we can get warmed up a bit before the rest of the team gets here. Sound okay?"

Vasily smiled, revealing one crooked front canine. "Sounds okay."

Training camp was a mess, as per usual.

Theriault was in fine form, barking orders, changing up the lines every ten minutes, moving players until he found something he liked and then dissecting everything around them to fit it. His pen scribbled constantly against his clipboard, whistle dangling from his lips, eyes hard and locked-in.

Shane ignored the extra scrutiny. He'd spent most of the summer skating and bulking, and the time off had been good for his body and his brain. He felt stronger and faster, more sure, and now he had a season of MLH games under his belt and the fucking Rookie of the Year award. Shane could fucking fly.

"Ostie," JJ groaned, after Shane sent a disgusting snipe into the top left. "Did you spend the summer training with God?"

Shane smirked and bumped his shoulder as he passed. "With the Centaurs, actually."

JJ gawped at him. "Did you leave any of them alive?"

Shane laughed and caught a pass from Wilson, snapping the puck through traffic into Hayden's waiting tape, and Hayden found the lane Shane had forced open and threaded the puck clean under Miitka's glove.

"Oh, come the fuck on," Miitka complained, straightening up and lifting his cage so he could glare at his D-men. "JJ, Gagnon, get the fuck out of my crease and give me some sightlines! If I can't see shit, I can't block shit!"

Shane grinned. He fucking loved hockey.

"Starter scrimmage," Theriault announced after the water break. "Team A is Hollander-Johanssen-Comeau, Roy and Gagnon on D, Miitka in goal. Team B is Pike-Markov-Stedlund, Franklin and Boiziau on D, Drapeau in goal. Everyone else, go get your physicals and baselines logged with medical. I don't want anyone rupturing disks because they lifted too heavy trying to show off."

Half the team obediently headed off into the tunnel, already taking off their sweaty practice jerseys and talking about dinner.

"This is good, right?" Vasily said under his breath, looking around.

Shane nodded. "Uh, yeah. Yes. He is testing you as the second line center."

"What?" Vasily stared. "But that's your position."

Shane shrugged. "Not right now." He patted Vasily on the shoulder and crossed the neutral zone, passing Stedlund going the other way. Stedlund, who had played 1LW all of last season, gave him a sour look but didn't comment.

First line. Left wing. Fuck. Okay.

Johanssen gave Shane a nod as he skated into position, but Comeau seemed unimpressed. "Do you even know how to play winger, Holly?"

"A little," Shane said, keeping his face still. He'd switched between wing and center until Juniors, but he hadn't played as anything but center in a long time. His palms were sweatier than usual in his gloves.

"It's not just playing center off to one side," Comeau scoffed.

"I know," Shane said, fingers tightening on his stick. "It's up to coach. I do what he says."

Comeau sneered. "Yeah, I bet you do." He spat on the ice.

"Gil," said Johanssen.

"What, Johnny?"

Johanssen opened his mouth to say something, but then Theriault whistled them forward for the face-off, and the scrimmage began.

Shane threw himself into it. He needed to learn Johanssen and Comeau's timing now, in practice, before they were playing with real points at stake. Assuming Theriault decided to keep him on the first line after pre-season, opposing teams wouldn't hesitate to exploit the slightest weakness in a winger barely out of his rookie year. He needed to figure this the fuck out and fast.

The game stretched on and on, coaches calling out notes, trying to firm up their distances and timings, every turnover an exercise in frustration, but Theriault must have seen something redeemable about their line, because he gave them satisfied nods when they finally filed off the ice, slick with sweat.

Shane had no idea which team had won the scrimmage and couldn't find it in himself to care.

After his shower, Shane got dressed and tried to remember how to tune out the relentless noise of the locker room, the air thick with booming French rap and chirping. Being clean helped, and so did putting on his softest sweatpants and tee. Removing the mental pressure of uncomfortable clothing always gave him a little more leeway when it came to the rest of his senses.

"Need a ride home, Marksy?" Andropov said, spraying himself with foul-smelling cologne.

Vasily gave him a weak smile. "Ah, no, thank you, Andy. I call cab. I have—things to do."

Andropov shrugged. "Suit yourself. Tanya's at her sister's tonight, so I'm just going to order in. Want me to pick you up something for dinner?"

Shane watched as Vasily struggled his way through all the words in that sentence. "No, thank you. I am okay."

Andropov slapped him on the back and left, whistling cheerfully.

Vasily slumped against his stall, catching Shane's eye. "He speaks so quickly," he mumbled, rubbing his face. "What is 'suit yourself?' Was he talking about clothes?"

"No, it means—uh. It means you can do what you want, he will not stop you." Shane studied Vasily's face. "You do not want to go back to his house?"

"Is it that obvious?" Vasily zipped his bag and stood. The kid looked worn out, partially from his first day of professional hockey practice, but also from that brain-mashing weariness that came from constant internal translating. "He's just so impatient. And Tanya—Tatsiana—works nights, so it's just me and him. I usually just shut my door and pretend to be asleep. I told him it was jet lag. But today I'd rather just go find a library or cafe and chill for a few hours. I will get food after." He shrugged.

Shane was not going to offer to have dinner with a kid he'd met today. He was not.

He led Vasily out of the training facility, waving at Joan at the front desk. She waved back, long nails glittering as she simultaneously spoke into the phone and wrote something on a sticky note.

"That was Joan," Shane said, leading him out into players' parking exit. "Be nice to her."

Vasily shot him a confused look. "Why would I not be nice to her?"

Shane didn't say that some of the older guys—including Andropov—liked to leer at her and make crude jokes at her expense, sometimes not even waiting until they were out of earshot. It made Shane's skin crawl every time.

Instead, Shane folded like a wet napkin. "Do you want to join me for dinner? I made salmon and broccoli. And I still have some of those white mushroom and sour cream potato chips." he added, nose wrinkling in distaste. He would never understand why Svetlana ate them by the handful.

Vasily stopped, wide-eyed, painfully hopeful. "...Do you have Mell?"

ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴏᴋs

Shane
Guys don't be weird

Hayden
what?
??

JJ
?????

[Shane added Vasily to the chat]

Hayden
ONE OF US

Vasily
hello!
what is metrooks?
i do not know this word.
oh! like metro rookies?

Hayden
SEE??
our son gets it Shane!!!

JJ
he is precious, we are keeping him.

Shane
Is it too late to get traded to a team with normal people?

JJ
yes

Hayden
YES

Vasily
)))

Mid September 2011
Montréal, Québec

Training camp wasn't quite so painful this year. Maybe it was that Shane had already weathered a whole season of real games, or maybe it was that he knew he was only slated to play in half of the exhibition matches, but either way, he wasn't ground into the dirt the way he had been last year.

Vasily wasn't so lucky.

He was a technically skilled player, but he got nervous when Theriault spoke too quickly, and when Vasily got nervous, his English got worse, which was a problem when his lineys and D-men tried to communicate with him.

"I do not understand why this happens," Vasily said miserably, arms folded on Shane's kitchen counter. "I practice so hard, and I study the workbooks. But it all slides out of my head the second I'm on the ice. Theriault will send me down to the AHL, I know it."

Shane passed him a protein shake. "Drink that. You need to keep weight on. Do not be so hard on yourself. You just need time to adjust. You're eighteen, you've barely started your career."

Vasily drank, staring listlessly. He didn't even complain that it was soy protein instead of whey.

Shane sighed. "Okay, how about this? I got permission to reserve regular ice time this season. Why don't you come with me? We can practice English on the ice."

Vasily looked up at him. "Really? We can? You will?"

Shane nodded. "Yeah. But you'll have to wake up early. I got the only time slot they had left."

Vasily frowned. "How early?"

"This is evil," Vasily moaned as they approached the CN at 6AM. "You are evil." He had a huge cup of Tim Horton's coffee in one hand, and he gulped it frantically.

"Evil wins you Rookie of the Year," Shane said dryly. "English only while we're here. If you don't know a word, ask."

Vasily nodded, yawning. "Okay." His accent did the same thing Ilya's did, breaking the word into oh-kee. Shane bit back a smile.

They waved at Joan at reception, and Shane badged them into the players' area. He liked being at the rink this early. It cleared his head, gave him time to go over the day's schedule.

They spent an hour on the ice that morning doing drills, Shane calling out instructions in English as they went, starting slow and gradually speeding up. They only had to stop a few times when Vasily needed clarification and once to reset the cones.

By the end of the hour, Shane could tell that what Vasily really needed was to stop having to translate while playing hockey. He kept hesitating, body stalling for the split seconds of English-to-Russian that were probably unremarkable in normal conversation but were absolutely everything when it came to hockey.

Shane couldn't magically make the whole team speak Russian overnight, but what he could do was give Vasily more time. Hopefully, with enough hours on the ice, translation would become an autonomic process.

"You did well," Shane said, bumping the rookie's shoulder on their way back to the car. "We can practice more tomorrow. We will teach your brain to react instead of think."

Vasily scuffed one of his sneakers against the asphalt. "It's too much," he said, chewing his cheek. "You have other things to do. It is not fair to you."

"I'll be here every morning either way." Shane shrugged. "You do not have to come, but I will be here."

Vasily stopped and looked up at the CN, looming overhead. There was a big banner over the entrance that read Home of the Montreal Metros!

His throat bobbed. He looked back at Shane. "Okay. I will be here tomorrow."

The Star @sᴛᴀʀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Hockey star Ilya Rozanov out on the town with pre-season fling? [...]

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Boston Raiders lose to Tampa Bay Ospreys 2-1, Raiders' 1RW Douglas out on IR with lower body injury.

US Weekly @ᴜsᴡᴇᴇᴋʟʏᴍᴀɢ
Raiders spotted celebrating in the Theater District after pre-season win, click for exclusive photos of Ilya Rozanov and Mia Dietrich, lead singer of Flirtalicious! [...]

Buzzfeed @ʙᴜᴢᴢғᴇᴇᴅ
[EXCLUSIVE] Ilya Rozanov's girls tell all! 6 women told us the Russian hockey phenom's best moves in the bedroom—#3 will shock you! 🤭🤭🤭 [...]

Puck Talk Podcast @ᴘᴜᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴋᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Special midweek episode for all you Puckheads. Join us as we discuss Vancouver's facility management scandal, Garvey's broken leg and what that means for LA's playoff odds, and how Buzzfeed is capitalizing on Rozanov's party boy era. Seriously, should they be paying him contributor fees at this point? Tune in at 7PM EDT/4PM PDT!

ᴍᴜsᴄᴏᴠɪᴛᴇs + sʜᴀɴᴜsʜᴋᴀ

Sveta
Ilyusha PLEASE tell me you did not actually fuck #5 from that article
"He ate me out so long it was like he wanted to grow gills. 9/10, only because he refused to fuck me in his game gear."
has she never smelled hockey gear after a game??
🤢🤢🤢

Ilyusha
okay but the rest of it's a compliment
i WOULD grow gills to give better head
👅👅👅👅👅

Sveta
i was afraid this would happen
you got your own place and immediately reverted to Slut
i thought we were past this
where is Marlow?? he was supposed to be a good influence
did you lock him in a closet???

Ilyusha
Sveta you don't get to slutshame me, you were literally my slut role model
Marly's fine, he has a new rookie to fuss over

Sveta
oh god you're acting out because there's a new baby

Shane
My mom just called me about the article, she couldn't stop laughing.

Ilyusha
YUNA NO

Sveta
Yuna yes!! ))))))

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. Mell/MLH is my GC-verse version of Chel/NHL. No, I could not come up with a better name. Yes, I am still bitter about it. (Be grateful, my first idea was 'Laych.')
2. re: Svetlana yelling at JJ about saying "cocksucker"—she isn't perfect. She's not meant to be. She has a temper, and she's very protective of her people, sometimes to the detriment of what her people actually want. That doesn't make her a bad person, just human.
3. The podcast about home restoration was inspired by a Youtuber I follow (whose day job is professional circus performer??) called Shannon Makes, who bought a 100+ year old house in Nova Scotia and has been fighting to repair it piece by piece. I love her videos (and her corgi, Cannelle).
4. As one of the commenters (redbeanxx) correctly predicted, there will be at least one Ilya POV chapter, because I love this Sad Queer Depressed Slav.
5. I wanted to give Shane a rookie! Now that he's no longer Baby, he deserves to have someone to look after.
6. I changed the Russian formatting to simple bold because it seems like the unicode characters broke the page for some people.
7. As always, thank you so much for all your love and support, it means everything ❤︎

Coming up next: more of the 2011-2012 season

Chapter 6: Sep 2011-Nov 2011

Chapter Notes

The 2011-2012 pre-season + start of the regular season.

Warnings:
- Your Honor, respectfully, they're Freaks (sex)
- remember that lace lingerie that Svetlana so generously gifted Shane for his birthday? 😈
- misogyny, homophobia, and general grossness from Known Assholes the Montreal Metros
- Shane's disordered eating
- mentions of systemic homophobic violence in Russia

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

Mid September 2011
Montréal, Québec

The problem was that Shane's body really wanted to play center.

He'd spent years building very specific patterns on the ice, and violating it felt wrong. He kept drifting, instinctively trying to cover ice that wasn't his to manage, and it was only through his morning skates with Vasily—and, eventually, Hayden and JJ—that his brain finally started to get the message.

"Tabarnak," JJ complained one morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes as they filed back into the locker room. "Did you know I had to leave the club at 11PM last night? This is really cutting into my fuckboy time."

Hayden laughed. "Dude, if we get signed to even half of a Hollzy contract, you'll have all the time in the world to be a fuckman."

"What is a fuckboy?" asked Vasily.

"A man who parties and likes to have sex," JJ said proudly.

"A man who just wants to have sex, not relationships," Hayden added. "It's usually used as an insult."

"Unfairly," JJ said. "Sex is fun, why would that be an insult? And I do want a relationship! Someday, when I'm done being hot and young and rich." He clapped a hand on Vasily's shoulder. "Speaking of—Vasya, do you want to come out on Saturday? My friend Tomas invited me to a new club that's opening."

Vasily looked at Shane. "Can I?"

"Do I look like your father?" Shane asked dryly.

Vasily shrugged. "I do not know, I never met him. Were you in St Petersburg nineteen years ago?"

Shane froze mid-step. "Oh, fuck. Sorry, I didn't mean—"

Vasily smiled. "Just chirping."

Tell that to Shane's mild arrhythmia. "Dick."

"That might be my patronymic, yes," Vasily said, face serious, then cracked a grin at Shane's stricken expression as Hayden and JJ burst into laughter.

"So, are you coming or not, baby Metrook?" JJ asked, hefting his bag onto his shoulder with a grin. "Because if you are, we should discuss clothing."

"I will come," Vasily said eagerly. "But—um—there will be many girls there, yes? What clothes do Canadian girls like?"

Which launched into a heated discussion that Shane stayed firmly out of.

By the end of the week, Shane and the boys had settled into a new routine. Every morning at 6AM, they skated for an hour, got breakfast from the cafeteria, and then holed up in one of the media rooms to watch game tape and nap before team practice.

"It feels like I'm dying," Vasily whined one evening, after a PT had gone to town on his iliotibial band. "She's so little, how do her hands hurt so much?" he muttered to himself, looking perplexed. He shifted an ice pack against his hip, wincing.

Shane shrugged. "Just do the exercises she gave you."

Vasily nodded glumly and settled further into Shane's couch. "Yes, dad."

Shane threw a pillow at him.

Besides studying their opponents, Shane also spent every spare moment watching old games with the Stedlund-Johanssen-Comeau line and taking notes, gauging their reaction times and stats, where they left holes and why. It wasn't the same as hours played, but it gave him an idea of when he'd need to compensate on the ice, when he'd need to let Johanssen take the lead on playmaking, when he'd need to account for their differences in speed and reach.

Team practice was—well—it was. Shane still didn't love playing winger the way he loved playing center, but he was good enough to keep his new spot on the first line, and that would have to be enough for now.

Theriault at least seemed pleased with his progress, and regardless of Comeau's less-than-friendly 'chirps,' Comeau and Johanssen passed to Shane consistently, slowly transforming their disjointed line into something functional.

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ 💕

Shane
How did that date go?

Sveta
awful
he said Legally Blonde was unrealistic because girls like that weren't smart enough to get into Harvard

Shane
Wow
Is he still alive?

Sveta
of course he is
what do you take me for
i ordered the most expensive wine on the menu, let him pay, and spilled it on him

Late September 2011
Montréal, Québec
Pre-Season

Shane didn't play in their first pre-season game, a home game against New Jersey that was mostly a chance for Theriault to try Vasily as a starting center and New Jersey to give their rookies some minutes.

The game started unsteadily and then ramped up as both teams found their footing, shifts smoothing out, the puck flashing back and forth as they battled for possession.

Then, in the second period, Wilson misjudged a distance and Ryan Price—one of New Jersey's new defensemen—drove him cleanly into the boards with barely a shift in weight, sending Wilson down in a clatter of gear. Shane winced in sympathy, watching as Price knocked the puck to a teammate and skated away like nothing had happened.

The Metros won, a 2-0 shutout that had Miitka pressing kisses to his goalposts in thanks. Vasily—who had been so anxious the night before that Shane had let him stay in the guest room—scored one of those two goals, Hayden the other, and the Bell Centre roared for them both.

"You did well with him, Hollander," Johanssen said afterwards, when they lingered in the hallway. "All that extra training. It was just what he needed."

Then why didn't you do it? Shane wanted to ask, but didn't, because this was his captain. Instead, he swallowed and nodded. "Thanks, cap."

Vasily came out of the locker room still dripping wet from his shower and crushed Shane in a hug. "Shane, I fucking did it, I fucking did it—"

Shane chuckled and patted him on the back. "You did great, Vasya."

"Drinks on me!" Vasily declared, and the team whooped around them, and Shane let himself be dragged along because you only got one first game in the MLH.

Their second game was a close loss in Columbus that Shane couldn't help but feel was his fault.

It was 1-1 until the last five minutes, tighter than it ought to have been, but the Cottontails' goalie had been playing like a man possessed, batting aside shots like gnats.

Then—a hole. Ice where a D-man should have been but wasn't. Shane had instinctively fed it flat to Comeau, a play that should have worked, except Comeau had been two strides behind where Shane had expected him to be, and the puck had been eaten by a Cottontail.

Theriault had rightly chewed them both out afterwards, warning Comeau not to get complacent in the pre-season, telling Shane to pay better attention to his lineys' positioning, and Shane had spent the bus ride back to the hotel stewing in frustration.

"Can I room with Shane?" Vasily asked JJ and Hayden when they were grabbing room keys. "He speaks Russian, so if there is emergency—"

"Yeah, go for it, kid," Hayden said, flapping a hand.

JJ groaned. "Just know that you have doomed me to listening to Hayden be sappy on the phone with Jackie."

"Hey, we're not that bad! And she's pregnant, wouldn't you be—"

"I have earplugs if you want," Shane told JJ, cracking a smile for the first time in what felt like hours.

Raiders News @ʀᴀɪᴅᴇʀs_ᴇsᴛ𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟺
Boston's Captain Michaelson confirms in post-game interview that Rozanov has been named as one of his alternates: "Roz has been doing a d*mn good job, he's more than earned that A."

Despite the sting of Ilya becoming an alternate first, the Metros' third game of pre-season—a road win against the Washington Wardens—was when things started to fall into place.

Thanks to hours of game tape, Shane knew their 2RW was prone to overcommitting, and he took full advantage of that fact in the first period, ending in a nasty dangle and the sweet sound of the goal horn. Then, in the third, Shane cycled their defense into exhaustion and dumped the puck into Johanssen's waiting tape.

Shane spent the raucous ride back accepting fist-bumps, brimming with satisfaction, with relief, that the joy and simplicity of hockey hadn't completely vanished with a change in position.

Late September 2011
Montréal, Québec
Week 2 of Pre-Season

Shane didn't even think to warn Vasily about Ilya until they were pulling into player parking at the Bell Centre two hours before the game.

"Just, uh—heads up," Shane said. "You know Ilya Rozanov? He is on the Raiders, and he—"

Vasily's face brightened. "Yes, I know of Rozanov! I played against him a few times, in Juniors. He's a great player. Scary, of course, but great."

Shane rolled his eyes and got out of the car. "He is not scary. He is just—a lot. He and I are—friends."

Vasily's eyes widened. "You are?"

Shane nodded, pulling Vasily's skate bag out of the trunk and handing it over, a familiar motion after weeks of carpooling. "Yes. And as his friend, I'm telling you he's an annoying dickhead. He will chirp you relentlessly."

Vasily badged them in. "Why are you friends with a dickhead?"

Because he's actually kind and funny and smart and sometimes I drool a little thinking about having his cock inside me.

"Stockholm Syndrome," Shane said instead, and ushered him into the bowels of the Bell Centre.

The Metros weren't playing Shane in the game against Boston, something that had rubbed him the wrong way when Theriault had first announced it.

That's a bad decision. I'm your best weapon against Ilya, Shane had thought, but in the end, he'd bitten his cheek and nodded.

Except—evidently, it wasn't such a bad decision.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
booooo
they're not playing me either
832

Jane
What's that?

Lily
my room number
i'm bored, come play with me 💦

Sitting in the players' lounge, Shane almost swallowed his tongue.

He and Ilya hadn't spoken much since Shane's fumbling offer in the drop-off line at the airport. They also hadn't returned to their rookie season routine of regularly sexting and jerking off together, and it was honestly embarrassing how much Shane missed it. It had been such good stress relief, and he'd liked seeing Ilya's flirting laid out plainly, an open hunger that had assuaged the part of Shane that was forever second-guessing his own perceptions.

Shane had worried he'd pushed too far over the summer, gotten a little too greedy, and he'd thought that maybe the lull in sexting was Ilya's polite way of confirming I think it would be best if we were just non-sexy friends from now on.

But apparently...not.

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
I told my teammates I would watch the game.

Lily
you'll watch it back later anyways

He wasn't wrong. Shane would be watching it back later on his TV at home, notebook open in front of him, pausing and rewinding and doing all the data analysis necessary to shape hockey lines. Probably with Vasily at his side, now that he'd gotten Vasily his own hockey notebook and highlighters.

Shane glanced around the players' lounge, but it was empty. Besides Johanssen—who was already rink-side, performing his captain duties of visibly existing—none of the other scratched starters had even bothered to show up. They knew they'd be playing full-time soon enough, they didn't need to spend a Friday night at what was essentially a televised scrimmage.

Shane had never considered not coming. It was what you did, wasn't it? You showed up for your team, even if you weren't playing, even if most of them didn't like you very much.

...But did Shane really need to be here? It was a game against Boston, which meant the team would almost certainly be going out afterwards, win or lose. Shane wouldn't be missed, especially not by Andropov and the other third and fourth liners playing tonight, who all seemed to despise Shane on principle.

Hayden was home with Jackie, but JJ was playing, so if Vasily decided to go out with the team, he wouldn't be alone. And if Vasily decided not to go out, he could always call a rideshare back to the Andropovs'. They were all grown men. They could handle a night without him.

Shane breathed out slowly, grabbed his bag, and headed back towards player parking, already tapping out a message to the Metrooks' chat to explain his absence.

He only hesitated once he was back in his car. He knew which hotel the Raiders were staying at—it was the same one they always used, the Hilton—but he didn't really want to go there, not after all the...weirdness of that day last March.

ʟɪʟʏ

[Jane dropped a pin]

Lily
?

Jane
My apartment.
Give me an hour?

Lily
see you soon jane 😈

Ilya spent the entire walk upstairs and into Shane's apartment complaining about getting turned around by Montreal's street signs. It was impressive how he barely paused for breath.

"Did you know in France, the signs just say 'Stop'? But no, Montreal has to be special, has to prove they are more French than fucking France—"

Shane hid a grin as he followed Ilya down the hall. "Actually, Quebec French is linguistically distinct in a lot of ways—"

Ilya groaned and threw himself onto Shane's bed, folding his arms up behind his head, muscles straining against the rolled hems of his t-shirt. "I do not understand how anyone can be so boring and still suck dick like it is their purpose in life."

Shane's face flared red-hot. "Excuse me? I'm boring? Which one of us spent two hours doing a puzzle with my dad?"

Ilya gave him a look. "Do you really want to talk about your dad when I am in your bed?"

"Asshole," Shane ground out, but he was already pulling his shirt over his head. Ilya grinned lazily and followed suit.

They kissed for so long Shane went lightheaded with it, fuzzy with the weight and pressure of Ilya's long limbs spread out across him. There was something taunting and horribly addictive about it, about the way Ilya dipped his tongue into Shane's mouth and flicked it against the back of his teeth, the way he spat on his fingers and bullied one fingertip just inside the rim of Shane's ass, just tugging, playing, stretching mindlessly. The way he laughed at Shane's shocked little noises and used his other hand to trace maddening circles around one of Shane's nipples, intentionally avoiding the sensitive bud, hips held carefully away from where Shane needed it most.

It wasn't until Shane snaked a hand up into Ilya's curls and yanked that Ilya finally detached himself from where he'd seemingly been attempting to fuse them together at the mouth.

Except, instead of outrage, Ilya let out a high, soft sound, a whine broken in half, and Shane felt Ilya's hard dick drip a little blot of precome against Shane's belly.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya panted into the crook of Shane's neck. "Keep doing that and this will be over too soon." He ground helplessly down into the cradle of Shane's hips, and Shane had to force his body not to respond, not to fall into that endless, easy rhythm that Ilya's body always seemed to draw out of his.

"Just—fucking—" Shane put a hand on Ilya's chest, vaguely attempting to create some distance, except then he was just groping Ilya's pecs and groaning, the calluses on his fingers snagging against the delicate gold chain at Ilya's neck—

"Lube," Ilya said, sounding like he'd just played a full game, red and sweaty and dangerously close to unraveling. "You have lube?"

It took Shane an embarrassingly long few seconds to process the words, and then he was nodding, pointing at the nightstand, which was at that moment frustratingly distant. "In the drawer—"

Ilya rolled sideways with a curse, leaving Shane sucking in breaths, pushing his hair up out of his face, trying to drag his body back from the brink they'd been careening towards.

Sex with Ilya was like localized vertigo, probably something to do with all the blood in Shane's body being redirected towards his dick, and Shane could tell that the flush in his cheeks was creeping down his chest and shoulders. Fuck, things always went so quickly, both of them succumbing to some mixture of desperation and competitiveness and the arousal so thick you could have stirred it with a spoon—

"...What is this?" Ilya asked, and Shane turned his head to see Ilya holding up a black silk bag, smirking.

Fuck. Ilya had opened the bottom drawer, not the top.

Shane tried to snatch it away, but Ilya held it out of reach, putting one big palm on Shane's chest and forcing him back onto the mattress.

"They were a gift," Shane said, face on fire. "Just put them back, the lube's in the top—"

"A gift?" Ilya said, looking surprised. "Who is giving you naughty gifts in silk bags, Shane Hollander?"

Shane prayed for a tectonic fault line to suddenly open under Montreal and swallow him whole. At least that would spare him from this conversation. "Svetlana," he admitted.

Ilya's brows shot to his hairline. Then he pulled open the drawstring and let the contents slither out onto the bedspread.

Shane wondered if it was possible to rewind time approximately two hours, so he could be back in the Bell Centre about to watch the game, or maybe fifteen years, so he never played hockey at all—

Anything was preferable to explaining to Ilya why he owned three sets of incredibly expensive tailored lacy lingerie.

"This was...present," Ilya said, voice odd.

"A birthday present," Shane said. "She likes to give me—um—embarrassing gifts."

Ilya ran a hand over the cherry red panties, the ones with the little bow above the ass. "Have you ever..."

"Have I what?" Shane's blush was now turning into a full-body situation.

"Worn them?" Ilya rasped, eyes wide and dark with arousal.

Oh. The words seemed to suck all the air out of Shane's lungs.

Had he ever worn them? Yes.

Shane had tried them on exactly once, a month after Svetlana had sent them. He'd chosen the baby blue set at random, the one with the matching garters and stockings, and he'd had to watch a tutorial on how to do up the garter clips. Then he'd pulled it on piece by piece, the silk nice on his skin, cool and comfortable, a pleasing contrast to the coarse hair on his calves and thighs. He'd shivered as the fabric flowed over his legs and settled at his hips, decadent against his cock and balls and inner thighs.

Then he'd looked in the mirror and had a panic attack that had lasted the rest of the night.

Something must have shown in his face, because Ilya paused, switching gears. "Which one is your least favorite?"

Shane frowned. "They're all kind of the same, to be honest." They all scared him shitless in a way that he really didn't want to look at right now, and just seeing them all spread out on the bed like this was rapidly dulling the knife's-edge of arousal he usually felt around Ilya.

Ilya blew a raspberry. "Then I will choose," he said, and swiped the navy set and stood up.

"What are you doing?" Shane asked, leaning up on his elbows.

"What does it look like?" Ilya stepped into the panties and wriggled them up his thighs. He had to struggle a little to get them over his stupid incredible hockey ass, and Shane couldn't help the sound that came out of him when Ilya finally got tired of being gentle and pulled them up the rest of the way, thread definitely snapping somewhere, the lace pressing crisp lines into his ass and hips.

Ilya walked up to the floor-length mirror set into Shane's closet door and twisted back and forth, looking deeply smug. "Now I am pretty."

Shane couldn't speak. From this angle, he could see that Ilya's hard cock was pressed flat against his hip, ruddy pink skin peeking through the gaps in the lace pattern.

Shane didn't understand how Ilya just did that. How he decided to be unbothered by something, decided to be confident and was. Shane felt like he lived most of his life on a tightrope, like if he thought about his balance too hard, he'd fall off and die. Ilya never seemed to have that problem, never seemed to struggle with overthinking and anxieties and the self-doubt that had plagued Shane since before he'd even had a name for the feeling—

"You don't like it?" Ilya asked, face gone studiously blank. "I can take off—"

"No," Shane said, aware of his freshly aching cock and the saliva welling in his mouth. He fumbled his way out of bed, faintly dazed, and sank to his knees, palms smoothing up the back of Ilya's calves. "Just—"

He didn't know how he'd meant to finish that sentence because the minute he was close enough, he opened his mouth and pressed a lush kiss to the head of Ilya's cock through the lace, the texture foreign on the sensitive skin of his lips.

Ilya swore, hand carding through Shane's hair. "Fuuuck, you want?"

Shane panted into the crease of Ilya's thigh, nuzzling at the underside of his cock, nosing down to where his balls sat in the special gusset. He darted his tongue out, just to taste, and moaned at the feel of wet lace over hot salty skin. He let himself lick again, this time with the flat of his tongue, lapping until the navy lace was black with spit, until his lips stung and his teeth ached to scrape at the delicate fabric.

"Fuck," Ilya hissed. "On the bed, I will—" He hauled Shane to his feet and toppled them both over, rolling them until Shane ended up on top. The red head of his cock peeked out of the waistband, weeping precome against his belly. "Ah—okay, you can—keep going."

Shane barely heard him, too focused on laying himself between the dense muscle of Ilya's thighs and getting his mouth back on Ilya's dick.

There was something beautiful about Ilya, Shane thought distantly, as he licked and sucked at Ilya's dick and balls through the silky fabric. Something primitive and gestural, like an artist's sketch lines. Like this, Ilya was laid out open for Shane, eyes dark with want, leaking all over his abs, one hand in Shane's hair, the other playing with a nipple, and all the while biting out curses that stoked the fire in Shane higher and higher.

"God, fuck, that's so fucking hot," Shane said blissfully, rubbing his stubble against the lace behind Ilya's balls. "Can I—"

"Yes, yes, just fucking do it—" Ilya snarled, and Shane cupped Ilya's criminally luscious ass in his hands and folded him back just a little, just enough so that Shane could stretch his tongue out and press against the damp lace covering his hole—

The hand in Shane's hair clamped down hard. Shane whined as Ilya pulled him away, manhandling him up into a kiss that tasted like silk and precome and desire. Ilya flipped them, knocking Shane's knees apart and pinning his wrists above his head.

"Why didn't you let me—" Shane asked, wetness at the corners of his eyes, aware he was pouting and unable to stop it.

With his free hand, Ilya reached towards the nightstand again and finally grabbed the lube, almost dropping it in his haste. "Because I did not want to come in these panties," he panted, dropping back down to lick into Shane's mouth. "I want to come all over you."

Shane shuddered, barely aware of the snick of the cap, trying to push his hips up into Ilya's for something, anything, any kind of friction, but Ilya just hushed him and bit softly at his mouth when he begged. "Be good," he murmured into Shane's lips. "I want to fuck you."

Shane couldn't help the way he stiffened, but Ilya shook his head. "No, not like that, not today," he said, spreading the warm sticky lube between Shane's thighs. "Like this," he said, and pulled the lace aside, letting his cock and balls spring free to slap against his belly. Wiping the extra lube onto his cock, he twisted Shane's hips to the side, pressed Shane's legs together, and then thrust between his slick thighs.

"Oh fuck—" Shane moaned, head falling back into the pillows, heat thrumming a line from the press of Ilya's cock against his hole and balls to the leaking tip of his dick. "Fuck, Ilya, god—"

Every thrust was torture, lace-covered muscle slapping his ass, the weight of Ilya's cock bullying its way in and out. Shane crossed his ankles, squeezing, trying to make it tighter, the head of Ilya's cock dragging against the sensitive skin of Shane's inner thighs—

A gutteral sound wrenched itself out of Ilya's throat as he came all over Shane's dick and stomach, still thrusting, a bruising grip on Shane's hip. Shane tensed his shaking legs as much as he could, until Ilya groaned and pulled back, gasping, staring down at Shane.

"Fuck, come on, Ilya—" Shane begged, too turned on to care how needy he sounded, and instantly Ilya leaned back down, running a reverent hand over Shane's ass. "Shh, you did so good, let me see," Ilya crooned, prying Shane's legs open so Shane was laid out bare in front of him, covered in cum and lube, so close he was almost crying.

Ilya took his time, eyes dark and awed, still fighting to catch his breath. He nudged in even closer, folding Shane's knees up around his ears, spread Shane's ass, and looked his fill.

The air was startlingly cool, and Shane couldn't help the reflexive way his hole clenched and unclenched, still a little bit soft from when Ilya had played with it earlier. Ilya seemed mesmerized, petting at it, using his thumbs to pull it just that much more open.

It was too close, too much, Shane was going to pass out if he didn't get to come soon. "Please," he said again, so far beyond self-consciousness that he wasn't totally sure of his own name.

Then, slowly, like he was moving through molasses, Ilya swiped up some of the cum spattering Shane's belly and used two fingers to fuck his cum into Shane's hole.

"Ah—AH—"

"There you go, take it," Ilya panted, scooping up more cum and fucking his fingers back into Shane, curving up, up, against that—

"Good boy," Ilya groaned, and finally Shane came, sounds ripping their way out of his chest, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, cock throbbing untouched, because even at his most desperate, he hadn't even thought to touch himself.

After a shower and some electrolyte mix and some time pressed skin to skin—which was not cuddling—Shane felt substantially more like a person and less like a loosely-connected jumble of meat and static electricity.

Ilya spent their not-cuddling time looking at him, stroking his hair, rubbing his blunt nails against the back of Shane's neck, face still and utterly unreadable.

"I should go," he said eventually, when Shane was recovered enough to change his sheets. He pulled on his clothes and looked Shane up and down, a line between his brows. "You are okay?"

Shane sat up against the pillows and rolled his eyes, pretending the concern didn't make his chest twinge. "I'm fine, Ilya."

He didn't ask any of the things he really wanted to ask, like Is your brother still extorting you? or Did you ever figure out what was going on with your dad? or Why are you suddenly out partying every night? or Did I do something wrong that made you stop sexting me so much? or Are you okay, like really okay?

Ilya frowned at him. "You are being weird."

"No, I'm not," Shane said automatically, even though he knew he was definitely being weird. But he'd decided over the summer that he needed to stop overstepping with Ilya after sex, needed to stop making Ilya retreat into barbed words and physical distance. There was no reason Ilya had to tell him personal things—Shane didn't tell his friends everything, especially didn't tell them about the ugliest things, the things that hurt. So Shane needed to respect that boundary if he wanted to keep the friendship and the—whatever they were.

"Is there a reason we've mostly used English today?" Shane asked instead, sipping his electrolyte mix, propped up against the headboard.

Ilya slid on his jacket, pursing his lips and looking away. "I have been trying to use it more," he admitted. "I get too comfortable with you and Sveta, but I need to speak it more to improve."

"It's already very good," Shane said, frowning. Had someone insulted his English?

A familiar smirk settled in the corners of Ilya's mouth. "You would not understand, but I have to talk to the media more now, as an alternate—"

"Oh, fuck off," Shane said, crossing his arms, absolutely not sulking.

Ilya laughed and leaned in to kiss him, warm palm cradling Shane's cheek, and then he leaned back, eyes bright and pleased. "Bye."

"Bye," Shane repeated, smiling back helplessly.

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Boston Raiders continue pre-season win streak, beating Montreal Metros 2-1.

"So, how was your dick appointment?" Svetlana asked, and Shane choked on his morning protein shake, coughing wetly, eyes and nose burning.

"What the fuck?" he managed, and then had to go get a rag to wipe up the droplets of protein shake he'd managed to get all over his kitchen counter and floor.

"Neither of you played last night, but I know Ilyusha is in Montreal because he posted four Instagram stories about the airport's shitty coffee. Oh, and neither of you responded to my texts after the game," Svetlana said. "Ipso facto: dick appointment."

"You're a dick," Shane muttered, hating that she was right. Goddammit, there was protein shake on his shirt too. He rinsed it in the kitchen sink and threw it in the laundry. "I swear you're only learning lawyer talk to dunk on me."

"Yes, Shanushka, my incredibly stressful pre-law degree is all an elaborate scheme to annoy you to death."

"Well, you've definitely mastered the annoying part," Shane said, shrugging on a clean shirt and settling in to face Svetlana's wrath.

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Boston Raiders win in Brooklyn, beating Scouts 5-3.

By game five, the first line had settled into some solid hockey, the kind of thing that got them mentions from sports analysts and nods from Theriault and the other coaching staff.

It wasn't quite enough to beat the Carolina Bobcats, a legacy franchise who'd crashed and burned in division finals and were coming into the season with something to prove. Shane scored twice, the Metros' only goals of the matinee game, but it wasn't enough to make up for the onslaught from the Bobcats.

And to make it all worse, during the commercial break, the Raleigh arena started a Kiss Cam, and the fourth couple it landed on was a pair of lesbians.

It normally wouldn't have been so bad—after all, straight men loved to fetishize women kissing—but these women were not the 'lipstick lesbians' Svetlana had explained were usually the most palatable to misogynists. These were women with short hair and piercings, one of them with tattoos that reached down to her knuckles, and in their laps sat a chubby-fisted toddler in a tiny Bobcats jersey. They were both wearing wedding bands.

The crowd roared when the Kiss Cam settled on them, and the woman with all the tattoos blinked up at the screen, said something to her wife, and the two leaned in for a smiling kiss that had the crowd cheering and their toddler clapping excitedly.

"Fucking dykes," Drapeau sneered, and spat on the ice. "Wonder which one of them knocked up the other, eh?"

There were scattered snickers, and Johanssen rapped his stick loudly on the boards. "There's still plenty of hockey left to play, I want you all focused on the Bobcats."

Most of the team murmured their usual "Yes, cap," but Shane stayed silent, jaw clenched so hard he was worried he'd break a molar.

The drone of hotel air conditioning was usually a soothing sound, but tonight it may as well have been a screwdriver being twisted into Shane's brain. He spent an hour laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, doing his breathing exercises, before finally giving up and accepting that sleep wasn't going to come for him, not like this. He sat up and pulled on a pair of sweats.

"You're going out?" came a voice from the other bed.

Shane startled and nearly walked into the doorframe. "Vasya? Go back to sleep."

"I wasn't sleeping." There was the rustle of fabric. "Couldn't," Vasily admitted. "Kept thinking about that shot I missed in the third."

"It was a crazy angle," Shane said, finding his slides in the dark. "No one could have made that shot."

"You could have made that shot," Vasily said firmly, flicking on his bedside lamp and casting a warm glow over the room. "I do not understand why coach will not let you center the first line. Captain can play wing."

Shane sighed. "Let's go for a walk."

He told himself it didn't count as breaking curfew if they were just walking around the hotel. It wasn't like they were out partying or goofing off. Just two sleepless boys in the humidity of a North Carolina night.

"Why are you not an A?" Vasily asked bluntly. "I was talking to Gagnon and Stedlund, they did not know either."

Johanssen's only alternate was Eddie Franklin, nicknamed Hotdog, first line D-Man from Wisconsin. And yeah, it was disappointing not to get an A when Shane had been captain or alternate on every team since peewee, but it didn't matter, not really. It was about team politics, about team cohesion, and Theriault had made it clear that Shane was not doing well enough in either of those areas.

"You also had more points than Comeau last season," Vasily continued. "So why not—"

"Because they don't like me, Vasya," Shane said sharply, then took a second and softened his tone. "It's not only about being the best player. It's about who the team trusts, who they'll go to for help. And for a lot of them, that will never be me." He sucked in a breath and blew it out.

Hotels at night were all liminal spaces, simultaneously transient and unsettlingly familiar. Shane had spent hundreds of nights in hundreds of hotels across two countries, and when you stripped away the wallpaper, carpet, and unindentifiable landscapes tacked to every wall, every single hotel was essentially the same.

"Did you hear what Drapeau said during the Kiss Cam?" Shane asked.

Vasily glanced at him and away. "About the women and the baby?"

Shane nodded. "That's why I'm not an alternate."

Vasily gave him a strange look. "Because of lesbians?"

Shane cracked a smile, then sobered. "No. Because I don't laugh along. Because I don't pretend it's okay to say shit like that. Because I don't let them feel good about being homophobic pieces of shit."

They walked on in silence, Shane suddenly tired, so tired he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

"It's basically illegal, in Russia," Vasily said quietly, when they'd turned the corner back towards their room. "Forbidden to even talk about. The government says it is to protect families."

Vasily pulled his keycard out of his pocket and swiped it, holding the door so Shane could step inside. Then he sat down heavily on his bed, eyes fixed on his hands. "But it does not protect the families of gay people. It does not protect my mama from the cruel things people say about unmarried mothers. And what about those women and their baby? They are a family, who will protect them? Next time, I should tell Drapeau to shut his fat mouth," he muttered, scowling.

Shane's stomach twisted. "Vasya, no. You shouldn't." Vasily had his mom and sister, but also grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles, not to mention his friends and teammates, ex-girlfriends and classmates. The taint of publicly disagreeing with the government could be far-reaching and insidious.

Vasily shucked his shoes and laid back in bed with a fwump. "I know. But god it would feel good."

Shane sighed and turned off the light. "Just don't get yourself sent down to the AHL, we need you to center the second line."

"Yes, father," Vasily muttered. "Vasily Shanovich Markov, they call me."

"You're not going to have to worry about going back to Russia if I strangle you," Shane said, and Vasily laughed in the dark, the hum of the air conditioner smoothing out the raw edges of the day.

The Metros' last pre-season game was a win in Philadelphia that cast something into sharp clarity for Shane.

It happened in the second, when Johanssen's shot was swallowed by the goalie's glove.

I could have made that shot, Shane realized.

He finished the rest of the game still thinking about it, getting two assists and a goal of his own, and was still thinking about it when they filed out of the arena.

He'd known that things would be different on this line. He'd known that his role would change playing with two vets. He'd known his goals would likely go down and his assists would likely go up.

Despite his discomfort on wing, Shane knew he was playing fantastic hockey, the kind of hockey he'd drooled over as a teenager, fighting for every inch of ice, every rebound, every breath—

And he would hate it, if he had to play it for the rest of his career. He would hate watching other people miss shots he could have made, would hate compensating for a slower center, would hate how fucking tired he was after games where Comeau couldn't be bothered to push.

Is this what hockey was going to become for Shane? Always playing slightly out of place, two steps away from natural?

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
hollander what the fuck was that

Jane
What?

Lily
that slapshot
where the fuck did that come from
i was hard for the rest of tape review

Jane
🙄
And you call ME hot for hockey.

Lily
you're home from your roadie tomorrow, right?

Jane
Yeah?
Why?

Lily
we should video call
my dick misses you
[Attached Images]

Jane
I hate you.
Why are you like this.
You could not wait until tomorrow?
I am sitting on a bed six feet from our rookie.

Lily
¯\(ツ)/¯
sounds like a you problem

Early October 2011
Montréal, Québec

After the whiplash of pre-season line changes, the start of the regular season was something of a relief. The rhythm Shane and other boys had built since training camp held, with early morning skates when they were at home and 5k runs when they were on the road. Vasily's confidence in his English grew slowly but steadily as the team stopped seeming like a monolith of experience and became a group of men like any other. He even stopped clamming up when Theriault shouted, started taking it in stride when he could, started ignoring the sharp tone and focusing on the words.

As expected, Shane's goal count was lower than he'd like. But his assists were up, and with Theriault occasionally putting him on the power play, he still got plenty of ice time, so he didn't let himself obsess over it too much.

It helped that he and Ilya had tentatively started sexting again. Only once a week or so, nothing like the near-daily jerk off sessions of last year, but still. Better than nothing.

And the newly reacquired semi-regular orgasms confirmed that not pushing Ilya the last time they'd had sex had been the right approach. Ilya was like a puffer fish in that way, spines out when he was feeling threatened. If Shane could just keep from forcing Ilya into a corner, Ilya wouldn't go all spiky.

Having that routine back settled something in Shane's brain, and he didn't let himself think about what—or who—Ilya was doing the rest of the time.

Mid October 2011
Brooklyn, New York

After a Scouts game—3-2, to the Metros—Shane and Vasily took the subway to Svetlana's apartment. They went for two reasons: firstly because Svetlana had threatened grievous harm if Shane didn't introduce her to his Russian rookie, and secondly so Shane could finally meet her foodie theater friend.

It was a nice building, art deco exterior, with a doorman in the lobby and a working elevator, and Svetlana had clearly called down to put them on the allowed guest list, because they got upstairs with no problem.

"You're sure she said I should come?" Vasily said, fidgeting with his sleeves as Shane knocked. "Really sure?"

Shane gave him an unimpressed look.

Vasily threw his hands up. "You don't understand! Sergei Vetrov is a household name in Russia, he's like hockey Jesus."

The door opened, revealing Svetlana, looking deeply amused. "I'll tell him you said so," she said. Vasily looked like he was about to throw up on his shoes.

"Are you bullying him? It sounds like you're bullying him," said a voice from deeper in the apartment, and an oddly familiar girl with reddish blonde hair peeked around the corner. "Hi! I'm Rose."

Shane propelled Vasily forward, ignoring Svetlana's snorts of laughter, and followed the smell of food.

Dinner was easy, to Shane's relief. Svetlana had clearly ordered one of everything off the menu of a Russian deli, and the sight of it all calmed Vasily down enough that he stopped calling her 'Miss Vetrova' and stumbling over his English.

The food and company sapped the tension in Shane's shoulders that always came from new situations. Buoyed by a huge helping of something called Olivier Salad—which mostly looked like potato salad with cubed chicken and peas—Vasily managed to listen to Svetlana's in-depth dissection of his play without having a mental breakdown.

"I think she likes making people sweat," Rose said conspiratorially.

Shane laughed. Rose was...fun. There was no other word for it. When she talked, Shane felt himself instantly relaxing, at ease in a way that felt almost supernatural. And besides being a dedicated food connoisseur, she'd turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable about hockey for a New York theater kid.

"I'm actually from Michigan," she said, passing him the dish of pickled beets. "And my brothers all played growing up. We still have the matching 'Landry Lineys' shirts," she said with a grin.

Landry. Shane frowned. Rose Landry. Where did he know that name from?

"What?" Rose said, taking a bite of blini and caviar. "Is there something on my face?"

Shane shook his head. "Sorry, no, just—have we met before? You seem awfully familiar."

She raised her brows. "Does that line work for you often?"

"What? No, no, it's not a line!" he said hurriedly. "I meant I literally think I've seen you somewhere, but I can't place it. I'm not great at recognizing people out of context," he explained, rubbing his neck.

Her face softened. "Oh. Then yeah, you might have—" She bit her lip and looked down. "I was in this movie that came out last year? It was—"

Shane blurted, "Under Dark?" Now he remembered.

She groaned, cheeks going pink. "Oh god, you actually watched that? It was so bad."

He laughed. It had been bad, but in a good way, so silly it had distracted him from all the turbulence on the flight to All-Stars. "I fly a lot, I watch a lot of movies."

While Svetlana mildly traumatized Vasily with stories about her father's days in the Red Machine, Rose told Shane all about growing up with minor roles in B-movies, about the pressure to keep taking roles even if they weren't what she wanted, because taking a break from acting would kill any burgeoning career. She told him how the script for Under Dark had started off as a sequel pitch for another thriller and then been chopped up and repackaged into what the studio wanted.

"That's why the final cut was so weird," she explained. "They changed my lines basically every day, and the director couldn't decide what kind of tone he wanted, and then the continuity editor straight up quit halfway through, so nothing matched between takes. Ugh. It was a mess."

After dinner, Svetlana pulled out her pièce de résistance—some kind of cake made of paper-thin layers of pastry soaked in custard.

Vasily took a bite and promptly burst into tears.

"Sorry," he said, wiping his face and pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Sorry, just a minute." He retreated to the living room.

"I'll be right back," Shane told Svetlana and Rose, following him and pausing at the kitchen threshold.

Vasily stood next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone pressed to his ear. "—know it's late, sorry, I just—I had some Napoleon cake, and it reminded me of yours," Vasily said quietly, sniffing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He paused, nodding. "Yes, I know, I'll be home at New Years. Give mama a hug for me? Yes. I will. Yes, I love you too, Karolinka. Go back to bed, you have work in a few hours." He hung up and blew his nose.

Shane stepped silently back into the kitchen and filled a glass of water, and didn't look up until he heard Vasily shuffle in behind him.

"Good?" Shane asked, handing him the water.

Vasily nodded. "Good."

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ 💕

Sveta
thank you for bringing your son to dinner 😘

Shane
Vasya is a grown man, why does everyone keep calling him my son?

Sveta
Because he looks about five years old and inherited your place on the second line
He's a nice boy, even if he was so scared he could barely talk.

Shane
Don't complain, you did that on purpose.
I'm already worried Ilya's going to scare him to death on the ice.

Sveta
😂 valid
Oh, side note
I'm glad you finally got to meet Rose!
What did you think?

Shane
She seemed great!
She was really funny, and she knows a lot about hockey.
Wait, hang on, is she the girl you were hooking up with last year??

Sveta
No, that was Gwen, my TA
Sadly, as far as I know, Rose is straight 😞

ʀᴏsᴇ

Rose
Hey, this is Rose, it was great to meet you!
Hope it's not weird that I asked for your number, you just seem really nice, and I had a lot of fun talking.

Shane
No, not weird, I had fun too!

Rose
Let me know the next time you play in New York, we should talk shit about the Admirals!

Shane
haha sounds good

Mid October 2011
Ottawa, Ontario

During warmups, Shane introduced the boys to some of the Centaurs he'd trained with over the summer, guys who groaned good-naturedly and chirped about him coming back to finish them off.

On their way back into the tunnel, JJ muttered, "When you said you trained here this summer, I thought maybe you ate them to absorb their power," which made Shane laugh so hard he had to clutch the wall and wipe his streaming eyes.

Playing in the Sensplex again really was fun, especially when they crushed the Centaurs 4-0 with Shane's parents in the crowd. On his way out, Shane waved to the equipment manager and headed into the hall to wait for Vasily.

"Hollander," Theriault called, and jerked his head towards the visiting coaches' offices. Shane followed.

"You trained here over the summer, right?" Theriault said, leaning back on the desk and crossing his arms.

Shane nodded. "Yeah. There were only a couple of guys still around, but we made do."

"Any reason you didn't train in Montreal?"

Shane blinked. "Because my parents live here?" And because I don't like spending more time than necessary around most of my teammates, he added silently.

Theriault's face creased. "Well, next summer, I want to strongly suggest you stay in Montreal. Your parents can come visit you. If you ever want to hold a position of leadership, you'll need to start focusing on this team. The MLH isn't about making friends, it's about doing what it takes to win."

Shane frowned. "Franklin has an A, and he goes back to Wisconsin every summer," he said slowly. "How is that any different?"

Theriault gave him a pitying look.

It was a look Shane had been in the receiving end of many times throughout his life. It was all condescension and self-righteousness, like a human looking down at a bug about to be squashed under their shoe and feeling nothing but distant acceptance.

Shane hated that look.

"Because Franklin is never going to try for more, Hollander. And I know guys like you, I know the kind of ambition you're working with. If you want to succeed here, you need to learn how the game is played."

The only game I need to know is fucking hockey, Shane thought furiously, fighting to keep his face neutral. "I'll consider it, coach."

Theriault nodded. "Good."

Shane had decided to take Vasily to his parents' house for dinner to hopefully redirect their fussing, but he hadn't accounted for the sheer unbridled enthusiasm of his mother after a win.

"You both played great tonight," she said, passing Vasily a third serving of spaghetti bolognese. Shane pushed his much smaller and cheeseless portion around with a spoon, glad he'd had time to wolf down a protein bar on the cab ride over. "Vasily, that assist in the second was very well done. You and Hayden seem to have really clicked."

"I'll say," Shane's dad said with a chuckle. "If you keep playing like that, you've got a real shot at the rookie points race."

Vasily went red. "Thank you, Mr Hollander."

Shane's dad waved him off. "Call me David. Want some more parmesan?"

"Yes, please," Vasily said, and continued eating like a starving Victorian child.

With Vasily's mouth full, Shane became the only available target of his mother's attention. "Shane, sweetheart, how has it been playing wing? I know you said pre-season wasn't quite where you wanted it to be—"

"It's been fine, mom," he said. "We just need to focus on keeping our lines tight, we've got this." He realized too late that he'd basically just used his media voice on her, a voice she'd taught him.

She eyed him sharply, but mercifully didn't call him out.

"So, Vasily, how has it been living in Canada? Shane mentioned you're from St Petersburg, it must be quite an adjustment—"

Shane settled back in his chair and let the familiar chatter wash over him.

"You know, it's pretty impressive," Shane's dad said casually while they did dishes. "This is what, the third Russian you've managed to collect in as many years. Should we be worried about you defecting to the KHL?"

Shane huffed out an awkward laugh, icy dread dripping down his spine, and didn't say, Dad, I'm a man who fucks men, and if I was caught doing it in Russia, I could be murdered in an alleyway with no police investigation. So, no, I will not be joining the KHL.

"I'll stick to the MLH, thanks," Shane said with a weak smile. "I've got ten empty fingers waiting for Cup rings."

Late October 2011
Montréal, Québec

In Shane's defense, Vasily had been incredibly unobtrusive.

So unobtrusive, in fact, that Shane didn't notice the rookie was basically living with him until Shane paid his monthly grocery bill and realized it had more than doubled.

Now that he thought about it, he realized that Vasily had been crashing in his guest room pretty often. More often than not, actually. And yeah, Shane might have given Vasily the door code so he had somewhere to go during the day that wasn't loitering in a library or cafe, and maybe Shane had offered to take Vasily to get his Canadian driver's license, and sometimes Shane bought the gritty whey protein powder and the nasty hyper-processed snacks that Vasily couldn't get enough of—

But none of that meant Shane had agreed to a surprise teenage roommate, okay?

"I do not live here," Vasily protested, not meeting his eye. "I go back to the Andropov house!"

Shane crossed his arms. "Yeah? When?"

"Fridays," Vasily said instantly. "That is when Tanya makes pelmeni for the week, but she gets sad if she has to make them alone."

There was so much to unpack there. "Alone? Where's Andropov?"

"He is always out with friends. Not back until late." Vasily hesitated and looked down. "Sometimes he smells like perfume."

The more Shane learned about Michael Andropov, the less he liked the man.

Shane pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw stars. "Okay. Well, when do you go home and do your laundry and stuff? Fridays?"

Vasily studiously avoided his gaze.

"Vasya," Shane said sternly.

Vasily shrugged helplessly. "You have the laundry instructions and schedule on the closet door! It is laminated!"

"For guests, not for—" Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Just—give me a second."

What would Sveta do?

Laugh at me, he thought instantly, which was true but unhelpful.

Shane was aware he wasn't the easiest person to live with. He had systems, and organizational charts, and sometimes illogical but ironclad opinions about where everything ought to be. It had driven his parents mildly nuts when he was growing up, and moving out had been something of a relief for all of them.

But Vasily had somehow managed to slip in under the radar and stay there for weeks. Like a fucking ghost. And it had been...nicer, lately. Not coming home to an empty apartment. Having someone to talk to when he wanted. Having someone to practice Russian with, someone to skate with, eat with, exercise with. Steadying.

Like when zoos give anxious cheetahs a dog friend, his brain supplied, and then he wanted to slam his head into the table because he was pretty sure they were both the cheetah in this situation.

I'm going to have to be so fucking careful about my texts, he thought gloomily, which was the point when he realized he'd already decided to let Vasily stay.

The Boston Raiders @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴʀᴀɪᴅᴇʀsᴛᴇᴀᴍ
You asked, we're delivering! It's almost Mic Night here in Boston, and we're all psyched for our very own @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ to be mic'ed up for the first time ever! The Metros won't know what hit 'em!
#MLH #MajorLeagueHockey #BostonRaiders #IlyaRozanov
[Attached Images]

carrie @ᴄᴀʀᴏʟɪɴᴇʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴʀᴀɪᴅᴇʀsᴛᴇᴀᴍ @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
They're gonna wire that man like a bomb 😂😂

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ᴄᴀʀᴏʟɪɴᴇʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ
yes exactly!!! da bomb 😎💣

carrie @ᴄᴀʀᴏʟɪɴᴇʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ
⤷@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
"Da" like yes in russian? Yes bomb?

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@ᴄᴀʀᴏʟɪɴᴇʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
no, sorry, someone taught Roz 'da bomb dot com' last week and now we can't make him stop saying it

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
you cannot fight da bomb you can only run 😈

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
hey Hollzy any chance you could smother Roz in his sleep this year at All-Stars?

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
Sorry Marly, even death could not stop @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ from talking. He's like a Furby.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
what did you just call me???????????

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
😂😂😂

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
hey marly guess who taught me da bomb dot com? hint it was @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
jesus christ Hollzy is this psychological warfare? you couldn't even give him some modern slang?

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
Hang on, did @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ and @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ share a room at the last All-Stars? I thought All-Stars got singles.

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
⤷@ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼 @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
yeah plus there's no way they'd room players from rival teams together??

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
we do get singles, but Roz and Hollzy are still too young to drink in the US, so last year after the game they passed out on the floor like overtired toddlers.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
this is the thanks we get for babysitting??

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
and that is lies, we did not just pass out, we also got room service and watched a foreign film

Shane @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
Oh my god, Underworld is NOT a foreign film.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
if it is not russian it is foreign to me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
what the FUCK 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
That is somehow more bizarre and wholesome than anything I could have imagined happening at All-Stars.

Cliff @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
⤷@ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
stupidly competitive and bizarrely wholesome: the Hollzy/Roz bromance.

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ
aw marly are you jealous?? come over after the game, we will play mario kart, i will let you be yoshi this time

Early November 2011
Boston, Massachusetts

Ilya skated up to Shane during warmups, grinning around his mouthguard. "I am mic'ed," he warned, tapping his chest. "English, please."

Shane had a bad feeling about that look. "Sure. But why are you smiling like that?"

"No reason. I am just excited to meet your duckling," Ilya said innocently, glancing towards where Vasily and JJ were passing a puck near the goal.

Shane groaned. "Please don't break our rookie."

"Sveta told me the same thing," Ilya said, leaning on his stick and looking far too amused. "No faith in me. You think I would bully a child?"

"He's not a—" Shane tried to pinch the bridge of his nose and then realized he had gloves on. "Go bother Marly or something, it's too early in the season for this."

Ilya laughed and skated away, and Shane prayed to any god that was out there that Vasily survived the game with body and spirit intact.

Three shifts into the first, Vasily took a seat on the bench. "Shane?"

"Yeah, bud?" Shane said absently, eyes fixed on the ice, watching as Ilya rushed the puck and JJ and Gagnon fought to keep him away from Miitka.

"Why did Ilya Rozanov just quack at me?"

Shane looked up, startled, into Vasily's perplexed and frightened face, and then the words registered and Shane burst into laughter, leaning his forehead against the cool plastic of the boards, wheezing until he had to pull out his water bottle. He got it under control in time for a shift change, and Ilya skated past their bench, caught Shane's eye, and stuck out his tongue.

The game was a pure back and forth, Ilya winning a face-off against Johanssen and veering into the neutral zone, only for Shane to chase him down and wrestle the puck back, avoiding Marlow's check and tucking it into the top shelf.

Ilya blew a raspberry when they met back at the circle. "Lucky."

"Luckier than you," Shane said with a grin, and won the face-off.

Despite Shane's early goal and Comeau's buzzer-beater, the Metros still lost in overtime, and the Raiders' fans let them know it, screaming chants of MICH-AEL-SON and RO-ZA-NOV that rattled against the rafters of TD Garden.

Afterwards, still smarting from the loss and a heavy check in the third, Shane got dressed and waited in the hall, answering emails. Vasily came out next, hair still dripping from the shower, and took up a post next to him.

"Shane Hollander!" called a familiar aggravating voice, and Shane looked up into Ilya's stupid grinning face, Marlow a few steps behind him. "You come to mine, yes? Marly and the boys are coming too, bring your duckling."

"Wait, is that why you quacked at me?" asked Vasily, staring at Ilya like he was an alien. "What the fuck—"

"Ah-ah, baby Vasyushenka," Ilya admonished, sing-song and taunting, and wrapped an arm around Vasily's shoulders. "Children shouldn't swear, it's bad for them."

Vasily turned bright red and struggled out of Ilya's hold. "Rozanov, that's not my—"

"Shane, you should bring your other boys too," Ilya said, ignoring Vasily's protests. "Pike and Boiziau need to be destroyed at Mario Kart like I destroy them at hockey."

"Not going to happen," Shane shot back reflexively, then glanced at Marlow. "You sure it'll be cool if we come over?" He didn't want to think about how the older Metros would react to a group of Raiders at one of their hangouts.

Marlow nodded easily. "Yeah, no worries, the team knows you and Roz are bros. And Roz has been jonesing for a game night, I swear he bought like four extra controllers."

"Jones-ing?" Vasily said, looking to Shane for help.

But before Shane could speak, Ilya explained, "It's American slang, it means a craving." He looked up at Shane, smirking. "So, you will bring Pike and Boiziau and baby?"

Shane rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Text me your address, asshole."

Ilya's penthouse was in a tall building a few miles from TD Garden, and it came with a sweeping view of Boston Harbor that Hayden spent a good five minutes staring at.

"Holy shit," he breathed, then whipped out his phone to take a hundred pictures for Jackie.

The rest of the apartment was very...millionaire bachelor pad. Huge couches, lots of abstract art that Shane didn't really get, and fourteen-foot ceilings that Shane was suddenly incredibly jealous of. It was also weird seeing it all in person instead of just in the background of photos and video chats.

"Come in, Metros, no dawdling," Ilya said, ushering them towards the living room. "You want consolation drinks? Beer, vodka? Not for you, Vasyushenka, babies cannot drink."

"Beer, please," said JJ, smothering a laugh. "You need help carrying things?"

"Ah, Canadians, so polite," Ilya teased, leading JJ into the open floor-plan kitchen.

Shane took a seat on the couch by Marlow, who was struggling with the remote. "So, is your rookie coming? Ilya said you've got a new one living with you this year." Shane hadn't seen much of Boston's rookie on the ice—the kid was still on the fourth line.

Marlow finally got the TV to turn on, only to be faced with a message that said No Signal Detected. He tossed the remote back onto the coffee table and took a swig of beer. "Nah, Kane's out with his folks tonight. They live in Providence, so they drive up for most of our home games. It's only about an hour each way."

"That's nice," Shane said, meaning it. He saw his parents every month or so, more when he was particularly busy with brand deals and his mom came out to supervise, but their house was still just far enough away to make more regular visits a pain.

"Yeah, he's a good kid. Nothing like that goblin we drafted last year," he added loudly over his shoulder, and Ilya looked up from the fridge, pointing at himself and mouthing Me?

"Yes, you, the raccoon on skates," Marlow said. "Did Vic and Connors say when they'd get here?"

"Ah, yes, Vic said they will be late," Ilya said, piling a selection of chips and dip onto a tray and bringing them in the living room. "They had to pick up PB&J."

JJ followed more sedately, arms full of beer and soda and, surprisingly, a can of ginger ale. Shane took it, then looked up at Ilya, catching his eyes already on him.

"What, is not right brand?"

"No, it's great," Shane said. "Thanks."

Ilya shrugged. "You already lost game, no need to torture you with bad soda."

"Wow, rude," said Hayden, sliding into the seat next to Vasily and cracking a beer. "Are we playing Mario Kart or what?"

Just as Marlow had said, Ilya had enough controllers for them all to play, and besides a minor argument about who got to play Toad, it all felt shockingly normal. And despite his protestations, Ilya did give Vasily a small glass of his nice Russian vodka, reasoning, "He is only one who will appreciate it."

The doorbell rang midway through the second round, and Ilya instantly dropped his controller and leapt towards the front door. "My darlings are here!" He opened the door and St-Simon and Connors walked in, and then Ilya disappeared under the adoring kisses of two golden retrievers.

"Oh, hello," said St-Simon, putting down his bag, Québécois accent almost as heavy as JJ's. "Sorry, I did not realize there would be other people here. Hope you like dogs."

Connors snorted. "Roz would throw us out before he'd let your dogs leave. He's going to kidnap them one day."

"Dognap," Ilya corrected, sitting on his haunches as the dogs licked his face. "And, no, this is lie, I would never steal your sandwich dogs. But, if they decided they wanted to live with me..."

St-Simon rolled his eyes. "The big one with the fluffy ears is Peanut Butter, and her brother is Jelly. They are very sweet, but please do not give them people food, no matter how much they beg. There are treats in the kitchen, Rozy spoils them rotten."

Jelly abandoned Ilya to make his way into the living room, tail wagging so hard his whole body swung with the motion. He sniffed them each in turn, then hopped onto the couch next to JJ, giving him sad eyes until JJ obediently gave him ear scritches.

"He knows a fellow Quebecker," St-Simon joked, flopping down on the couch and nabbing a controller. "Rozy, are you hogging Princess Peach again? Come on, you fuck, let someone else have a turn."

Ilya scoffed, picking up Peanut Butter like a baby. "You can play Peach this round, I am too busy with the real royalty here. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" he murmured, and Peanut Butter seemed to get the gist, because her tail wagged like a happy feather duster.

"Wow, this is the terror of Boston?" Hayden said, stifling a laugh.

St-Simon nodded seriously. "One time my wife and I asked him to dogsit for a weekend and he sent us report cards."

"Because I am the best dog daycare," Ilya said defensively, but it was too late, the others were all dissolving into laughter, and Ilya, still cradling Peanut Butter, just rolled his eyes and muttered about them being ungrateful degenerates.

Shane bit back a smile, handed his controller to Connors, and then headed into the kitchen. He wasn't snooping, but he was maybe checking what brand of guacamole Ilya had bought because he really liked it. He'd dug through a truly irresponsible amount of cheese and pickles and fancy olive breads when he felt a familiar heat at his back.

"Looking for something, Hollander?" Ilya muttered in his ear, barely audible over the sounds of six hyper-competitive men loudly trash-talking each other's video game skills.

Shane fought down a blush. "Just another drink."

"Here, let me help," Ilya said, leaning in far enough to stroke a knuckle up the underside of Shane's wrist, leaving goosebumps in his wake—

"Shaaane!"

Shane jolted upright, banging his head on the fridge shelf and swearing. Ilya winced in sympathy and dug him out a new can of ginger ale.

It was Vasily who'd called out, head flopped over the back of the couch to look at him upside down. Jelly sat fully on top of him, paws on his shoulders, tongue lolling out, utterly content. "Can we get a dog?"

Shane stared at him. "What? No."

"Wait, are you billeting with Hollzy?" Marlow asked.

Shane gave Vasily an expectant look. This is your mess, you tell them.

Vasily went red, petting Jelly under his chin. "No. But, um—I sort of moved into his guest room. Without telling him."

The Raiders burst into startled laughter, and the flush on Vasily's face deepened. "You do not understand, living with Andropov was the worst—"

Connors made a face. "Oh yeah, that guy's a dick, he broke my nose in Juniors. No offense," he added to the other Metros. "You guys seem cool."

"None taken," Hayden said, clinking the necks of their beers together. "So, this is what the Raiders do on Friday nights? Get buzzed and play video games?"

"Too exciting for you, Pike?" Ilya said, leaning over the counter. "It is okay, would not expect fifteenth best Metro to know what fun is."

Hayden sputtered into his beer.

"This is one of Rozy's tamer nights," Connors said with a chuckle. "What about you guys? It's a Friday night, why aren't you out on the pull?"

"Don't look at me, man, I'm happily married," Hayden said, waggling his left hand to show off his ring.

"Fine, you get a pass. What about the rest of you? No game to be had?"

Marlow snorted. "Dude, are you kidding? Hollzy's got mad game. He got Gloria fucking Grey's phone number right in front of Vaughny at All-Stars!"

As one, JJ and Hayden turned to look at Shane. "My friend, what?" JJ choked out. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Shane squirmed in his seat, suddenly too aware of Ilya's hot gaze on the side of his face. "I kind of...forgot?"

"You forgot that you got Gloria Grey's phone number," Hayden said, rubbing his temple. "Of course you did. My god, Shane."

"To Hollzy the beautician," Marlow said, and they toasted, laughing and clapping Shane on the back. Ilya caught his eye over Peanut Butter's back and winked.

Shane smiled and challenged them to another game, and definitely didn't tell them that he hadn't been flirting with Gloria, or how he was worried he maybe didn't actually want to fuck women at all.

Two hours and three ginger ales in, Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket.

Mom.

"Sorry, I've got to take this," he said, stepping carefully over the snoring dogs and wandering down the hall until he found a guest room before answering. "Hey, mom, what's up?" There was only a faint glow from the window, but he didn't bother turning on a light. The dark and relative quiet of the guest room was a balm after a full game and hours of talking to new people.

"Hi honey, sorry to interrupt your boys' night, but Calvin Klein just called!"

"Oh, uh—and it's good news?" He knew she'd been working on something with them last season, but she hadn't mentioned anything in a few months.

He could hear the smile in her voice. "It's great news. They want you heading up their new campaign next quarter. They're offering half a million for the initial campaign, plus a few supplemental photoshoots over the next six months at two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand each. Do you want to look it over, or should I call them back and accept?"

Shane stared down at the sleek flooring in Ilya's guest room. "I um. Holy shit. Okay. Yeah." His head was getting a little swimmy, the way it always did when he thought too hard about how much money he made. "Go ahead and accept it. You have my calendar, so just—schedule it however you can."

"Will do, sweetheart. Tell the boys your father and I say hello."

The door to the guest room eased open and Ilya slipped in, shutting it silently behind him. The click of the lock seemed overly loud.

Shane caught the look in Ilya's eyes and shivered. "I'll talk to you later, mom," he said, mouth dry. "Love you."

"Love you too, sweetie."

Shane hung up, and as soon as his phone was back in his pocket, Ilya sank to his knees and got his mouth on Shane's rapidly hardening cock.

"Fuck," Shane moaned, too loud, and then stuffed his knuckles into his mouth so he didn't give them away.

It didn't take long. It never seemed to, with Ilya.

But Ilya didn't tease him about being a quick shot this time, maybe because there was the added danger of six hockey players—and two dogs—on the other side of the door. He just stood up and fed Shane's cum back into his mouth, then jerked himself off into his fist while Shane panted wetly into the crook of Ilya's neck.

"Fuck," Ilya echoed harshly, after he'd come, when they were both sated and pressed together against the door, breathing hard.

Shane looked down, saw the sheen on Ilya's hand, and before he could overthink it, he pulled Ilya's hand up to his mouth and licked it clean.

"Fuck," Ilya hissed, and rubbed circles into the small of Shane's back with his clean hand. "Good boy, look at you. So good."

Shane fought to hold back another moan when Ilya fitted his mouth over Shane's and licked the taste of his own cum off Shane's tongue.

"I will go first," Ilya murmured, when he was done kneading Shane's ass like it was fruit and Ilya was checking its ripeness. He left as quietly as he came, and Shane sat down on the bed heavily, suddenly a little wobbly on his feet.

What the fuck just happened?

"See you guys next game," Connors said, offering fist bumps as the Metros got ready to leave.

"Yes, when we will kick your asses in Montreal," JJ said solemnly, then cracked a grin at St-Simon. "You should bring your dogs, we can get them some merch. They sell little doggy snow-boots in Metros' colors, they're very cute."

St-Simon rolled his eyes. "Absolutely not."

Vasily yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Is the cab here yet?"

"Aw, the baby needs his rest," Ilya said, pinching Vasily's cheek. "He is so cute when he is all sleepy. Shane, I see why you adopted him."

Vasily batted his hand away. "I am a full grown man, Rozanov," he insisted, indignant, and then squawked when Ilya pulled him into a noogie.

"Ilya, knock it off, that's child abuse," Shane said, and only realized what he'd said when Vasily gave him a betrayed look and the other guys burst into tipsy laughter.

The cold of 2AM Boston air was bracing, but the warmth in the back of the cab softened the harsh edges of the world. They crammed themselves in tight, too tired to care about things like personal space as they navigated the dark twisting streets.

"Hey, do you think—" Hayden started, then paused. "That was weird, right?"

"So weird," JJ agreed, head resting against the window.

"Yes, weird," Vasily agreed, hunkering down into his coat. It was a nice coat, but with all the muscle he'd been putting on, it wasn't fitting quite right across the shoulders and arms anymore, and there was a frayed patch at each wrist.

Hayden hummed, turning his phone over in his hands. "Guys...I think our teammates might just suck as people."

Shane looked at the ceiling of the cab and let his eyes drift closed.

Vasily  @ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴍᴀʀᴋᴏᴠ
TIL how bad @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ is at mario kart!
@ᴊᴊʙᴏɪᴢɪᴀᴜ𝟷𝟼 @ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴᴍᴀʀʟᴏᴡ @sᴛsɪᴍᴢ_ʙᴏsᴛᴏɴ @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @ʀᴀɪᴅᴇʀᴄᴏɴɴ @ɴᴏᴛᴛʜᴇғɪsʜ𝟹𝟻
[Attached Images]

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴍᴀʀᴋᴏᴠ
i let you eat my cheeze its and this is how you repay me

Ice Out Magazine @ɪᴄᴇᴏᴜᴛᴍᴀɢ
Are the Raiders and Metros finally burying the hatchet? We talked to retired MLH analyst Dylan Holomek about how the newest generation of hockey stars are building something stronger than rivalry. [...]
#MontrealMetros #BostonRaiders #HockeyBromance #HollanovBesties

Puck Talk Podcast @ᴘᴜᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴋᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
This week we're mostly talking about Vancouver's formidable power play, but honorable mention to Ilya Rozanov getting roasted (lovingly) by Metros' rookie Vasily Markov.
Tune in Wednesday at 4 PST/7 EST, puckheads!
#PuckTalk #MLH #MajorLeagueHockey

ᴍᴏᴍ

Mom
I'm sorry about the game, sweetheart.
Stedlund deserved the bin for that slash, but I can't BELIEVE Theriault didn't put you on the penalty kill.
Comeau and Johanssen alone against Ilya's line? Frankly insulting, he could outskate them blindfolded.
What was Theriault even thinking?

Shane
Honestly? Who knows.

Mom
At least you got to hang out with Ilya afterwards, hope you boys had fun!

Shane
Thanks mom.

Montréal, Québec

Two days after their roadie, one of the assistant coaches stopped Shane after practice. "Theriault wants a word before you go."

Shane traded a look with Hayden and JJ.

"Hey, Vasya," Hayden said. "Want to come hang out with me and Jackie tonight? She's been craving those dumplings you brought last time."

Vasily lit up. "Of course! But we will have to stop at the store that sells the lamb, let me find the address..."

With the rookie looked after, Shane nodded at JJ and headed towards the coaching offices.

He knocked on Theriault's open doorframe. "Hey, coach, you wanted to see me?"

"Come in, sit down."

Shane closed the door and sat.

Theriault slid a picture across his desk. "I called you in here to make sure this doesn't happen again."

Shane picked up the picture.

It was a shitty xerox print-out of one of the photos Vasily had posted that night at Ilya's, one that mostly showed Shane locked in a fierce Mario Kart battle with Marlow and St-Simon. In the background, Connors and Ilya were putting sunglasses and snapbacks on Peanut Butter and Jelly, who would apparently tolerate anything if there were snacks or petting involved.

"Is this a joke?" Shane asked, looking up.

Theriault's brows snapped down. "No, this is not a joke. This is serious, Hollander. This is your career."

Shane's fingers clenched, wrinkling the paper. "I still don't understand," he said slowly. "You called me in here because I went to a friend's house?"

"It's more than that. It's about the Metros' organization, and what kind of team they want to build. Look, Hollander, you're usually a good influence on the team. Then you pull something like this?"

"Something like what?"

Theriault steepled his fingers. "You took the rookie out in a foreign country where he doesn't speak the language, you didn't bother to check with his billeter, and then you all spent the night partying with our division rivals."

"Vasya speaks English," Shane said instantly, frowning.

Theriault waved a hand. "You know what I mean. Markov's a good kid, but he's not the brightest crayon in the box."

"No, I don't know what you mean," Shane said, teeth grinding. "And why would he check in with Andropov? He's eighteen, almost nineteen, and it was a green-light night. If Andropov was worried, he could have called Vasya." Except Andropov hadn't, because he didn't give a shit about Vasily on roadies, too busy draining his wallet at strip clubs and sleazy bars.

"You're missing the point," Theriault sighed, the way authority figures always did when you weren't automatically agreeing with them. "The Metros are a team. When you're splintering off some of our best players to go have a playdate with Rozanov, you're sending a message to the locker room, to the fans. It's demoralizing."

"Demoralizing? To go hang out with friends on another team after a game?"

A tick of annoyance crossed Theriault's face. "It's disloyal, Hollander. And frankly, I expected better from you."

"Better. From me," Shane repeated dully, struggling to keep his focus, to not slip into that strange half-aware state of dissociation that sometimes welled up when he was angry or tired or overwhelmed. Right now he was all three, and he could feel it rising behind his eyes like a tidal wave.

"Exactly," Theriault said, like Shane had finally seen reason. "We run a tight ship here at the Metros. So, no more fraternizing with the enemy, eh?"

Shane swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. Fraternizing. If only Theriault knew how true that was.

The drive home required just enough of Shane's attention to keep him from slipping out of focus, but not so much that he got overstimulated. He set his bag on the bench, put his shoes on the rack, and hung up his coat, the way he did after every practice. Then he made himself a cup of ginger tea to settle his rioting stomach and called Svetlana.

"Are you busy?"

"Just procrastinating writing a paper for my class on Sports Law," she said. There was water somewhere in the background. "Why, what's up?"

Shane told her what Theriault had said. Then he consciously forced himself to stop holding back and told her the rest of it, about the expectations that Shane would 'set an example,' about the ways he was held to a higher standard not because he was a great player, but because he was Asian-Canadian and private, like that instantly equated to 'willing to take all kinds of shit for the privilege of being the model minority.'

"I feel like I'm going crazy," he admitted. "I've always had a pretty even temper, I think, but lately this feels—" painful, hurtful "—wrong. Like I physically can't let shit go. I don't know what's changed, or why, and it's not helpful, but I can't make it stop."

"The things they are saying," Svetlana said quietly. "Is it worse? Worse than Juniors?"

"I mean, yeah, but that's not—" Shane ground a knuckle into his eyes, letting the little starburst of pain center him. "It's not so much that it's worse. It's just—I can't block it out anymore."

He'd been so good at that. He'd spent years honing his ability to zone in on hockey to the exclusion of everything else happening around him, and it had fucking worked. He was on the first line of an MLH team, for fuck's sake.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, he'd made friends, real friends, with Svetlana, and Ilya, and JJ, and Hayden, and Jackie, and Vasily, and now maybe with Rose, and Marlow, and Connors, and St-Simon, and Shane didn't know how to shut it off again. Didn't know how to stop caring.

"You should not have to block it out," Svetlana said, anger low and building in her voice. "And fuck Theriault, he's a washed-up AHL player who never drafted and was hired because he thinks he's playing Moneyball on ice. He doesn't know shit about what it takes to lead."

Shane laughed, wiping his nose. "I'll have to remember that one."

"Shanushka," she said, voice gentling. "You deserve better than this. Have you ever thought that maybe—maybe another team would be better?"

Shane blew out a breath and scrubbed away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. "You know it doesn't work like that, Sveta, they own me until I'm fucking twenty-six."

Six more years. Shane's stomach turned.

It was one of the little evils of drafting that could eat you alive. There were theoretically ways out of it—offer sheets, and arbitration, and trade deals with compensation—but the reality was that everything you were, every bit of hockey you played, would belong to the team that owned your rights until you hit unrestricted free agency or retired.

And if you signed to the wrong team, one with shitty stats, or shitty teammates, or shitty management—you were fucked for a decade. And not just a decade, but a decade that included your best hockey, your youngest joints, your least-damaged brain. That first decade of your career was everything.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," he said, suddenly aware of the tears slipping down his face. "But I think I should probably start looking for that therapist."

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. I would never forget the lace. 😉
2. Vasya is just a Sad Hockey Baby aka Shane's kryptonite.
3. We get to meet Rose! I really like her as a character, and I think she adds a new kind of friendship for Shane.
4. The Metrooks get to meet more Raiders + PB&J!
5. This chapter and the next were originally meant to be one big one, but then the wordcount hit 17k before I was even close to done. So you'll all have to wait a little bit longer for the Christmas special.
6. Thank you again for all the kudos and comments and love, you're seriously amazing!

Coming up next: more of the 2011-2012 regular season

Chapter 7: Nov 2011-Dec 2011

Chapter Notes

More of the 2011-2012 regular season.

Warnings:
- no sex this chapter, just lots of Anxious Shane having Big Feelings
- therapy, including discussions of anxiety disorders and systemic ableism
- misogyny, homophobia, and general grossness from Known Assholes the Montreal Metros
- no really, fuck Drapeau
- Shane's disordered eating
- hockey fighting
- mentions of systemic homophobic violence in Russia
- pregnancy

Language formatting:
English
Russian
French

November 12, 2011
Montréal, Québec

In the locker room after a 6AM skate, JJ unlocked his phone and snorted. "My friends, look—"

They crowded around and watched the video focus in on a sweaty, grinning Ilya, surrounded by a bristle of microphones.

"—anov, do you have anything to say about the rumors of a feud between you and Metros' rookie Vasily Markov?"

Ilya's expression tightened minutely. "What is a 'feud?'"

It took the reporters a moment of nervous tittering to realize he was being serious. Ilya's jaw ticked the way it always did when he was self-conscious about his English. Shane wanted to punch someone.

"Like a conflict," someone said. "A rivalry."

Ilya's face relaxed. "Ah. No, there is no rivalry. Marksy is a good kid. We played against each other in Juniors."

There were murmurs from the reporters, and then a new voice said, "But during Boston's latest mic night, you seemed especially determined to thwart Markov's scoring chances—"

Shane was pretty sure he was the only one who caught the tiny shift in Ilya's face at the word 'thwart.'

For fuck's sake. Were those reporters using less common words on purpose? And where the fuck was the Raiders' media team during all of this?

Ilya kept his face heroically bland as the reporter spoke, probably working out the meaning by context. "So you are saying I should have let him score?"

The reporter backtracked. "No, of course not, but you were also heard taunting him on the mic, people are saying—"

Ilya rolled his eyes. "I do not care what people are saying. I chirp at him, so what? If I was mean to him, would he come to my house and eat my snacks?"

There was scattered laughter.

Another voice said, "On that subject, do you often host get-togethers with players from rival teams—"

Finally, a frazzled man wearing a Raiders staff lanyard stepped into frame, clapping his hands. "Okay, it's about time to wrap it up here, folks. Let's let Rozanov go, tonight's game was a doozy. Last question?"

"So why did you invite four Metros over to your place after the game?" someone else persisted.

Ilya smirked, not quite a natural expression, but close enough for the cameras. "Well, I was only going to invite three Metros, but they could not leave their duckling alone at the hotel, it would be child abuse, yes?" He winked at the camera, the beleaguered Raiders staffer ushered him out, and the clip ended.

Shane, JJ, and Hayden started laughing.

Vasily was bright red. "That asshole. I am going to kill him. I am going to mail him medovik and it will be full of poison," he said, and then he broke and started laughing too.

"Rozanov is not what I expected," Vasily told Shane, when they were back at Shane's place. "Last time in Boston, and in that video. And on the ice, he is very different from Juniors."

"Different how?" Shane asked.

Vasily shrugged, taking his usual seat at the counter. "At his house? Calmer, maybe. Not so—dialed up?" He'd clearly been spending too much time with JJ and Hayden if their slang was starting to infect him.

Shane nodded. "And on the ice?"

"Focused, intense, but not so scary? Less, um—aggro." Yep, definitely too much time with JJ and Hayden. "Less mad."

To be fair, Shane would probably have been pretty mad too if he'd had to live with Ilya's father and brother. Moving out must have been like growing up underwater and finally being allowed to take a full breath.

"He's pretty good at showing the public what they want to see," Shane said instead.

Vasily nodded. "Yes, like you. It is a good skill, when there is so much media around."

Shane opened his mouth to ask What the hell do you mean 'like me?' and then didn't, because even if it felt a little unfair, it wasn't exactly wrong, was it?

They just came at it from different angles. Ilya used his reputation of extroversion to give them noise, a spectacle to focus on, look here, not there, a sleight of hand that could hide his whole life.

Shane...didn't do that. He wasn't like Ilya, he didn't have loudness to spare. He didn't have sacrificial outer layers that he could use to sate the media's hunger. The best he could do was keep back as much as he could, tuck it up close under his defensive shell, giving the media the thinnest possible veneer of a normal person so that they'd focus on his skating instead.

And when all else failed, Shane could always make himself quieter. It was something he'd had to learn, growing up with his life so widely publicized and criticized, and it had served him well. Give them less and less, hold his tongue, let the scraping teeth of the public rush overhead like diving under a wave, their grasping invasive attention blunted and useless. Eventually they'd give up, move on. They always did.

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Anaheim Hammerheads win in Montreal, beat Metros 3-1.

November 14, 2011
Montréal, Québec

Going into his first therapy session the day after a loss was not exactly ideal, but at least it had been to the Hammerheads, who were currently at the top of the the Pacific Division. It had taken the Hammerheads' defense a full period to really wake up to the fact that Montreal wasn't a lazy roadie win anymore, but it had been nothing like the 5-0 thrashing the Hammerheads had handed down last year.

Shane had started researching therapists by making a list of his requirements:

1) must be based in Montreal.
2) offices must be discreet.
3) must be completely independent from the MLH.
4) must be willing to sign an additional NDA.
5) must already have some knowledge of hockey.

(The last one was slightly less important, except that Shane really didn't want to waste portions of his sessions having to explain how hockey worked.)

After combing through patient reviews, mental health award recipients, and even Reddit, he'd settled on a psychiatrist named Isaac Duval. Duval was in his late thirties and had played D1 hockey for a year before blowing out his knee, so he definitely knew enough about hockey to keep up. His profile on the therapy intake website listed him as specializing in sports psychiatry, specifically anxiety disorders, OCD, and body dysmorphic disorder.

He also happened to be queer.

Shane knew that because Duval's Facebook page—discovered during Shane's entirely necessary snooping—included photos of him kitesurfing with his husband and their kids in Newfoundland. 

Duval's office was a converted house in a sleepy neighborhood a few miles from Shane's apartment, close enough to be accessible, but far enough from the Bell Centre that Shane wasn't constantly looking over his shoulder. Much.

The office had a waiting room—a former living room—which Shane appreciated. He didn't feel like loitering on a doorstep, especially not when he'd gotten there fifteen minutes early out of habit and nerves. He wiped his shoes on the mat in the mudroom and rang the little bell at the counter.

A door opened and Duval himself stepped out, smiling easily. "Shane Hollander? We spoke on the phone, I'm Dr Isaac Duval," he said, shaking Shane's hand. He was an average white man with blondish hair, although it was greying at the temples, and he was wearing a blue sweater-vest over a button down and jeans.

"Oh, sorry, I was expecting a receptionist or something, I didn't mean to interrupt—" Shane started, suddenly awkward, but Duval shook his head.

"You didn't interrupt anything, I promise. My receptionist is at lunch, but I keep a half hour blocked off between each session so I can enter my notes. And I had a cancellation earlier, so I'm actually running a little early," Duval said. "If you're ready, we can get started now."

Shane swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He followed Duval into a cozy room with a sofa, a few comfortable looking chairs, and a desk setup in the corner. Duval's framed certifications were hung on the wall next to a photo of his family. All the windows were covered by curtains. A knot released in Shane's shoulders.

Duval followed his gaze and nodded, taking a seat in one of the chairs. "I'll make sure the curtains are closed next time too," he promised, and scribbled something on a notepad. "Please, take a seat wherever you're comfortable. The water's for you, if you'd like."

Shane absolutely didn't scan the room overthinking what each seat choice said about him as a person. He ended up in the seat opposite Duval. There was a box of tissues and an unopened bottle of water on a coaster on the coffee table between them. The chair was as comfortable as it looked. He rubbed his palms on his jeans and tried not to blink too much or too little.

"This first session won't go into anything too deeply," Duval assured him. "Today we're here to talk about what you want out of therapy. In your intake, you said you wanted to better manage your anxiety and to deal with the stressors of your job. Can you tell me a little bit more about that?"

"I'm on a hockey team. The Metros," he said, aware he sounded like a fucking asshole explaining who the Metros were to a former D1 hockey player. "And since I was drafted, things have been going—not great."

This was the hard part. The unpicking every bit of media training, forcing himself to say the nasty parts out loud, talking about things that would make the Metros' management burn his fucking contract. He'd known it was going to be difficult, and he'd known his brain was going to fight it every step of the way, but he didn't see any other way out of this except through.

"The organization isn't—great, about a lot of things," he said, looking at his shoes. "Racism, misogyny, homophobia, that kind of stuff. They just think of it as normal locker room talk. And when I was younger, I was better at compartmentalizing it—" maybe too good, actually "—but I kind of lost the skill. So I need to figure out how to get back to some kind of—equilibrium. Or something."

Duval nodded. "Okay. And the anxiety aspect of it?"

"I've always been anxious," Shane admitted. This part was easier to talk about, in a weird way. Maybe because it was just his brain's wiring, not anything external. "Since I was a kid. My head's loud all the time, always worrying, always trying to out-plan life. The only thing that helps is hockey." And sex, he amended silently. "Oh, and I get panic attacks. Not like, crazy often, but—yeah." That felt like pertinent information for his therapist to have.

"And do you have any goals for therapy in regards to your anxiety?"

Shane frowned. "To be...less anxious?"

Duval nodded. "We can certainly work towards that. We can start by identifying the triggers of your panic or anxiety attacks and hopefully give you the tools to diffuse them. We could also look into medication, if that's something—"

"No," Shane blurted, then chewed his cheek. "No, sorry, just—if I'm on medication, then I have to tell the team doctors."

Duval studied him for a moment. "That's fine. We can completely table the discussion of medication, if you'd like."

Shane nodded shakily. "Yeah. That's—yeah."

Okay, this wasn't that bad. Yes, his heart was beating a million times per minute, and yes, he was definitely going to throw up once he got home, but Duval wasn't pushy or cold like some of the team doctors Shane had had over the years, and so far Shane hadn't panicked and revealed that he liked sucking dick, or mentioned that—

Wait, fuck. He actually probably should tell Duval about the other thing, right? It was a fundamental aspect of his brain, which meant it was probably going to be kind of important for his therapist to know. Fuck.

He cleared his throat. Duval put down his pen and gave Shane his full attention again.

"I don't—I'm not—" He picked at the edge of his thumbnail. "I'm bad at recognizing social cues. Like, really bad. And sometimes I have a hard time with subtext and facial expressions and tone, especially if I don't know someone well. I also, um, I have routines? Like, more than just hockey superstitions. I like to do things in a certain order, and I have a hard time adjusting when my plans change suddenly. I've done some research—" too much, maybe "—and I'm pretty sure I'm on the spectrum. I'm just telling you so that you know that I know, if that makes sense. I thought it could give you, uh. Context."

Duval nodded. "Okay. Have you ever considered getting a formal evaluation?"

"Fuck no," Shane said automatically. "Sorry, I meant—no, I don't want anything formal. Not that there's anything wrong with being on the spectrum, it's just—it's the same with the, uh—medication. It would go in my medical records."

Medical records in professional sports were hypothetically completely confidential, only shared with other healthcare professionals on a need-to-know basis, and in Canada, discrimination on the basis of those records was illegal.

In reality, people within organizations talked, and if it pertained to the team, management would inevitably find out, and then suddenly your career was fucking finished, a slow dismissal wrapped in so much plausible deniability that you could never take them to court for it.

Shane already had too much shit to hide. Fucking men was bad enough, adding a thin candy-coating of dread to every interaction, the constant low-grade fear of being outed.

Him being weird? That could just be hockey. Plenty of hockey players were weird, ultra-neurotic, superstitious about their game to the point of compulsion. There was a guy on the Canadian national team who ate two whole apples before every playoff game, core and all, because he said it helped his focus.

Hockey players were intrinsically allowed a certain level of weird. It just couldn't become an official distinction, not for Shane. He couldn't afford anything else.

Duval nodded and made another note. "I understand. I won't mention it again unless you do. But if you ever change your mind, or you decide you'd like to talk about strategies to handle stressful changes in your routine, please remember it's always an option."

Shane twisted the cap off the water bottle and drained half of it in three gulps. "Okay."

The rest of the session passed agonizingly slowly, as Duval asked careful questions designed to tease out useful answers and Shane slowly realized he only had a surface understanding of his own brain. He kind of hated it, actually, hated digging around in his thoughts and feelings, finding the sorest spots so Duval would know not to push on them. Yet.

By the end of the hour, he was sure he had pit-stains on his shirt. But the session had been calm, Duval's voice had been light and easy, never pushing too hard, always respectful and open, even if the subjects had made Shane want to itch his skin off.

And, begrudgingly, Shane could admit that underneath the wild discomfort, he did feel a little bit better. He also felt fucking exhausted, like someone had taken a wire brush to the inside of his skull. But maybe that was what it would take to fortify the sandcastle that was his brain, remaking structural divisions that had slowly been eroded by the ceaseless tide of stress. Maybe he needed to be scoured.

When their time was up, Duval opened a datebook and flipped to a new page. "I think we've made a great start today, Shane. Would you like to schedule another appointment?"

Not 'When would you like your next appointment?' Shane noted. The lack of presumption added to his resolve. "Same time next week?"

Duval nodded. "I can keep this slot open going forward. And if you think of anything you'd like to discuss, or something comes up, please let me know. We can also switch to video call appointments if your team is out of town, if you'd like."

Appointments on roadies would require kicking Vasily out of the hotel room for an hour, either with no explanation, or—even more horrifyingly—telling him the truth. Neither option sounded great, but Shane had to keep reminding himself that therapy was like PT, it didn't work unless you actually did it.

He swallowed. "I'll make it work." He finished the bottle of water, putting it back in the exact middle of the coaster. "And, uh—your website said you do joint therapy sessions?"

He hadn't actually planned to ask about that today. He'd planned to go a few times, get a feel for it, write out a pros and cons list, then make his decision. But even after an hour spent ankle-deep in the mire of Shane's brain, Duval remained completely unflapped. That was enough for Shane.

"That's right. Is there someone you had in mind?"

Shane nodded. "Yeah, um—my mom."

November 17, 2011
New York, New York

ESPN Hockey Updates @ᴇsᴘɴ_ʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
Montreal Metros beat New York Admirals in 4-2 NYC upset.

The final buzzer had never sounded so sweet.

Shane skated up to Hunter, who was hunched over and panting after an admittedly lackluster showing. Hunter had been just a little slower to react than usual, not enough for the Admirals' coaches to pull him, not enough to matter against most other teams. Even on his off days, Hunter was—contrary to Ilya's bitching—a powerhouse on the ice.

But the Admirals hadn't been playing most other teams, and Shane, who had been studying Admirals games for a decade, had just scored a fucking hat trick on Eric Bennett, one of the best goalies in the MLH, while playing fucking left wing.

And if Shane could do that? Shane could do fucking anything.

"Great game, Hunter," Shane chirped, flush with victory. "Maybe next time you'll decide to show up."

Hunter, still trying to catch his breath, leaned over to spit on the ice. "Cheap."

Shane frowned. The fuck was his problem? "True," he countered, and spat the taste of mouthguard out of his mouth.

Hunter's expression shuttered. "Wow. So original. What, your little playdates with Roz don't include chirping lessons?"

The noise of Madison Square Garden was suddenly very hard to hear over the ringing in Shane's ears.

It felt like someone else was operating his mouth. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"You fucking heard me, Hollander," Hunter said, shoving upright, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck.

For a moment, Shane was sixteen again, looking up at that poster, wanting and wondering things that he could barely let himself examine the shape of.

And then the image dissolved into stark reality, another man on the ice, a man who had just insinuated something in front of cameras and microphones that could blow up Shane's career, that could get Ilya deported and fucking killed—

Shane's fist hit Hunter's face before he'd even made the conscious decision to swing.

Afterwards, Shane kept quiet in the locker room, ignoring the congratulatory shoulder-claps of his teammates, the buzzing of his phone, shaking his head at the guys when they asked if he needed anything, just wanting the day to be fucking over already. He showered and changed out as quickly as he could manage considering it felt like someone had filled his limbs with concrete.

"Hollander, you're suspended for the next game," Theriault informed him on his way out. "And the PR team wants a word with you when we're back in Montreal."

It was frankly better than Shane had have expected considering he'd punched an opposing captain in the face after the final buzzer. He nodded, eyes fixed on his shoes, and slipped out into the hall.

"Shane? Shane."

He looked up, blinking, and found Svetlana. She was wearing his jersey.

Somehow, for the second time in a year, she'd managed to talk her way into the players' area of Madison Square Garden. Security must be slipping, he thought distantly. By why was she—?

"Oh, fuck," he said, throat tight. "I'm sorry, Sveta, I totally forgot about dinner, is Rose waiting—"

"Holy shit, is that Vetrova?" drawled a familiar voice, and Shane's hands clenched into fists automatically, bruised knuckles aching. Svetlana looked down at his hands and then back at his face. Not commenting, just...noticing.

Shane turned.

A few more of the Metros had stepped out into the hall, wearing expressions of shock and interest, including Drapeau, who was eyeing Svetlana like a prime cut of meat. Comeau let out a wolf whistle, and there was scattered laughter from some of the other guys. Not from Johanssen, Shane noted. Wilson and Gagnon either.

Svetlana's face went flat, the classic Slavic death-stare which Shane had been fortunate enough to never have aimed at him. She studied the men in front of her before singling out the man who'd drawn her ire. "Drapeau, yes?"

He looked surprised, then smirked. "You know me?"

Shane leaned against the wall. He didn't feel like trying to stop whatever was about to happen.

"Yes, your mediocre 0.907 save percentage is very memorable," Svetlana said disdainfully. "Almost as memorable as you being taken to court twice for not paying your child support. Or wait, was it three times?"

Drapeau turned a mottled purple. "What the fuck did you just say? You little bitc—"

"Patrice," Johanssen snapped, shoving forward.

Shane mostly forgot how big of a guy Johanssen was, considering how rarely he used his size off the ice. He was well over six feet tall, with a frame that could hold up a house, and when he looked at Drapeau, Drapeau shut his mouth, scowling.

The door to the locker room opened and closed again, a quick rise and fall in the noise level, and Vasily stepped out, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. He lit up when he saw Svetlana, opened his mouth to greet her, then shut it again when he saw her expression.

Johanssen turned to Svetlana, looking pained. "Miss Vetrova, I'm sorry about my teammates, that was incredibly rude. It's been a stressful night, I hope you understand that tempers are...high."

"I think I understand perfectly well, captain," she said, voice dripping with scorn. "Shane, let's go. They're polluting my air."

Vasily strangled a laugh into a cough, looking anywhere but at his teammates.

Svetlana's iron gaze softened minutely. "Ah, I didn't mean you, sunshine. I'm stealing him for dinner. Can you take his stuff to the hotel and tell the boys he's with me? I'll get him back by curfew."

Vasily nodded hastily. "Yeah, of course." He took Shane's bag, and Shane didn't bother to argue, just nodded his thanks.

Svetlana turned another one of her not-very-nice smiles on the other players, looped a possessive arm around Shane's waist, and guided him down the twisting hallways towards the exit.

"Sveta—"

"Soon," she said firmly, steps an even metronome. "Let's get out of this monument to capitalism first. Rose is meeting us there—"

But because Shane lived a tortured life, as they turned the last corner before the exit, there was a familiar figure leaning against the wall, staring down at his phone.

"Sveta, don't—" Shane said, but before he could stop her, Svetlana unstuck herself from Shane's side and marched forward.

"Scott Hunter!" she said, showing all her teeth. "Good to see you again. You are coming to dinner with us."

Hunter jolted, dropping his phone on the linoleum, and then scrambled to pick it up. "Oh, uh—no thank you, Miss Vetrova—" he said, eyes wide, darting between them. "Sorry, I was just waiting for Hollander, I wanted to apologize—"

"It was not a question," she interrupted. "You are coming to dinner. You can apologize there."

Hunter looked between them again, tension in every line of his body, and then his eyes dropped. The screen was dark, and there were cracks spiderwebbing over his screen protector. His shoulders slumped. "Okay," he said, shoving his phone in his pocket. "Where are we going?"

The Brewery was something Svetlana called a gastropub, and it looked more like a restaurant and a fancy bar were trying to occupy the same retail space.

"Over here!" called a voice, and Shane's eyes found Rose in a back booth, waving cheerfully.

"Our friend Rose," Svetlana explained to Hunter, and led them around the pool tables.

"I wasn't sure you guys would make it, that was a crazy game," Rose said, grinning at Svetlana and Shane, and then doing a double-take when her eyes landed on Hunter. "Oh, shit. Uh, why—"

"Drinks," Svetlana interrupted, taking Rose by the arm. "Talk to him," she ordered Shane, nodding at Hunter. Rose kept trying to twist around to peek at them, but Svetlana held firm, frog-marching her towards the bar.

Hunter looked at Svetlana and Rose's retreating backs, looked at Shane, sighed, and slid into the booth. Shane took a seat opposite him.

"Listen, Hollander," Hunter said, dragging a hand over the stubble on his jaw. There was a bruise blooming under it.

There was a matching one on Shane's cheek, throbbing gently in time with his heartbeat, much more visible on his clean-shaven face.

"I'm really sorry about earlier. I had a shitty day, and a shitty few games, and last week Roz wouldn't stop fucking yapping at me on the ice, and it all kind of boiled over. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. So, yeah. Sorry."

Shane looked down at his hands. His knuckles were still swollen, and he'd picked some threads free on one of the cuffs of his sweater. "I grew up watching your games," he said, and then immediately wished he could take it back. "What I mean is—I'm sorry too. I know you didn't mean shit. You're a good guy."

Shane remembered the last time he'd been punched in the face, and it had definitely hurt more than this low-grade throbbing. Hunter clearly hadn't been trying to actually hurt him, had probably just punched back out of instinct.

Hunter flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't even realize how it sounded until after I'd said it," he admitted quietly. "I just—everyone knows you and Roz had that movie marathon last year at All-Stars. I was trying to call you—you know. Childish." He groaned, putting his head in his hands. "And having to explain this all out loud is making me even more aware of how fucking stupid it sounds. Jesus, now I want to punch me."

Shane laughed, something easing inside him. "Must be all those concussions catching up with you."

Hunter rolled his eyes. "I've only ever had one, rook."

"Then maybe it's just old age," Shane said, and slid out of the booth to help Svetlana and Rose put down their drinks, a waiter at their heels with trays of food.

"No ginger ale," Svetlana said apologetically. "So I got you ginger beer. It is non-alcoholic," she assured him.

"Now that we're all sitting down," Rose said, when the waiter had gone. "Can I ask why the fuck Scott Hunter is joining us for dinner? Svetlana didn't mention you were coming, and after that game—well."

"So we could clear the air," Shane said, and took a sip of his ginger beer. It was actually pretty good, a stronger flavor than he was used to, but still refreshing and familiar enough to be comforting. "It was a stupid fight. Scott's a good guy."

"That's...shockingly mature of you two," Rose said, looking genuinely surprised that two grown men were capable of apologizing to each other. "Just as long as you both know you're going to get your asses kicked in Detroit."

Hunter, already digging into the basket of onion rings, let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah right, the Swifts aren't winning shit without Oren in goal. Him retiring was a death knell for Michigan hockey."

Rose looked around. "Should we reserve another booth?"

"What? Why?" Svetlana asked, frowning.

"So we have room for Hunter's ego."

Shane let out a laugh, leaning over to give a grinning Rose a high-five, and Svetlana pinched Rose's cheek fondly.

Hunter shook his head, biting back a smile. He seemed a little lighter after hashing it out, less likely to collapse inward like a neutron star. "Good to know that all your friends are like this, rook."

Now that Svetlana had been reassured she didn't need to murder Hunter and hide his body, she slipped easily into friend-mode, asking him about living in the city, if he liked his apartment building, because Svetlana was considering moving over the summer and she wanted a place with key-code locks and an actual security system beyond a middle-aged doorman named Trent. "My father would never forgive me if I were murdered," she said, taking another bite of loaded nachos and sipping her pint.

"He's not the only one." Shane was contentedly working his way something the menu called the Power Plate, which was mostly thinly-cut steak and roasted cauliflower in a spicy peanut sauce.

"You might want to just buy a place," Hunter said. "Then you can change the locks and add whatever security you want."

Svetlana sighed. "Sadly, I will probably be leaving New York after next year."

Shane's heart skipped a beat. "What? Are you—you're not moving back to Russia, are you?" He knew her father kept hinting at having her closer to home, but she wasn't actually planning to do it—was she?

She squeezed his knee under the table. "Shanushka, breathe. I meant when I apply to law school."

"Oh. Right, sorry, Sveta." Shane took another sip of ginger beer, letting the taste settle his nerves.

"So, you speak Russian?" said Hunter.

Shane shrugged, glad to return to safer territory. "Enough to get by. I've been learning for years, and Sveta's a demanding teacher."

Svetlana smacked him in the arm, and he pulled it to his chest in mock-agony. "See what I put up with?"

She gave him a look. "Shanushka, if I bullied you for real, you wouldn't survive."

Fair enough. "If they find me dead in an ditch, tell the cops it was probably Sveta," he told Hunter and Rose, who had watched the exchange with clear amusement.

"Here's to not getting murdered in alleyways by scary russians," Rose said, holding up her hibiscus cocktail.

"Here, here," Hunter seconded, and they knocked their drinks together, laughing.

Unfortunately, Rose had to leave early, something about taking care of her roommate's cat. She tried to insist that they didn't need to walk her to the subway. "Seriously, it's fine, I take it alone all the time!"

"Kid, come on, just let me call you a ride home," Hunter said. "I make an insane amount of money, and this will make me feel better." He had his phone in one hand, probably already ordering a car.

Rose looked up at him, mouth open to argue some more, then saw the matching looks on Shane and Svetlana's faces and begrudingly agreed. "You're all fucking weird and pushy, just so you know," she said, pulling on her jacket and giving them all cheek kisses, even Hunter.

Svetlana shrugged. "We're rich eccentrics. What did you expect?"

When Rose was safely in the back of a cab, Svetlana returned to the table with a tray of shot glasses. "I need your input," she told them, downing one of the neon shots. "Which one of the women at the bar looks most likely to own a strap-on?"

Hunter gave her a wide-eyed look that could have been shock, could have been fear.

"The one in the green jumpsuit, definitely," said Shane. "She has a tattoo of a hammer on her forearm." He didn't know why that screamed 'owns a strap-on' to him, but it did.

Svetlana made a considering noise. "Yes, but I think she is here with someone, she has a lipstick mark at her throat. What about the person on the end?"

Shane twisted to see who she meant. "With the nose piercing? Maybe. You can go talk to them, find out."

She sighed, waving a hand. "Maybe later." Her focus settled on Hunter again. "So, did you two actually talk things out, or just agree to forget it because you fucked up each other's faces in equal amounts?"

"We actually talked," Hunter said.

Shane nodded, taking another swig of his ginger beer. "We did. And it was barely a real fight, we each landed like, one punch."

Svetlana rolled her eyes. "Gay on gay hate crimes."

Shane choked, ginger beer going up his nose, sinuses on fire. Tears streamed down his face, and Hunter passed him napkins to mop himself up.

"Sveta, what?" Shane said, when he could breathe again. "Hunter is not—I am not—"

Then he shut his mouth again, because the look on her face was somehow sympathetic and uncomfortably knowing, and he actually didn't want to hear how she'd respond to more denials tonight.

Hunter gave them a confused look, probably because he'd heard his own name amidst the Russian. "What did she say?"

"You don't want to know," Shane said glumly, rubbing his forehead where his sinuses still burned. "Really, I promise, you don't."

"You kids are so weird," Hunter said, shaking his head.

"You are only twenty-eight," Svetlana replied. "Not exactly ancient."

"I wish you'd tell Rozanov that. Did you know he tried to edit my Wikipedia page to list my date of birth as 'The Bronze Age'?"

"Oh my god," Shane groaned.

Svetlana laughed until she had to dab at the corners of her eyes with cocktail napkins.

"—still think they could have won," Shane argued, even though Hunter and Svetlana were both shaking their heads at him. "If they'd pulled their goalie—"

"Not a chance, rook. Their top line was already cooked going into the third, no way were they going to sneak two past Nemtsev. He was just too damn fast."

"Scott Hunter is right," Svetlana said. "Calgary's '98-'99 lineup was never going to lose to Mission."

Hunter rolled his eyes. "You don't have to call me by my full name, I'm not Bloody Mary. Scott's fine."

"Then you can call me Svetlana." An evil glint flickered to life in her eye. "You know...we have an opportunity here."

"For what?" Scott asked, lounging against the booth. "I'm an old man with team skate tomorrow, I need to get home soon."

Svetlana opened the front-facing camera on her phone. "How would you boys like to drive Ilya Rozanov completely fucking insane?"

Which was how they found themselves all crammed into a booth, Svetlana laying halfway across their laps, both Scott and Shane pressing exaggerated kissy-faces to her cheeks while she took a selfie.

"Want a copy?" Svetlana asked Scott, untangling herself and sliding into the booth across from them.

He shrugged and unlocked his phone, passing it over. "Sure, why not."

"Careful," Shane warned. "Once she has your number, there's no going back."

Svetlana sent Scott the picture and handed the phone back, giving Shane an unimpressed look.

Shane's phone dinged with a notification. She'd already posted the picture to Instagram, and she'd tagged all three of them.

While they waited, Svetlana and Scott sipped water and finished the plate of crispy sweet potato wedges, and Shane picked at the label on his empty ginger beer bottle, more than ready to be back in his quiet hotel room.

Two minutes after the Instagram post, Svetlana's phone started ringing, a Cyrillic name popping up.

"Ilyusha," she translated for Scott, smirking, and sent it to voicemail. "He does not like to be ignored. Next will be Shanushka."

She was right. Not even ten seconds later, Shane's phone started to buzz. Shane let it ring out, and Ilya immediately called again.

Scott drained his water, shaking his head. "You guys are trolls."

Shane finally took pity on Ilya and accepted the call. "Ilya? What's up?"

"Do not 'what's up' me," came Ilya's tinny voice. "Why the fuck are you and Sveta hanging out with the dinosaur?"

"We're at a bar," Shane said, struggling to keep the laughter out of his voice. "Hey, I've got to go, Scotty wants to do shots."

"What? Scotty? What the fu—"

For the first time since meeting Ilya, Shane hung up on him. The three of them traded looks and fell into laughter.

"I have never been so proud of you, Shanushka," she said, digging enough cash out of her purse for a monstrous tip. "That was real rat behavior."

"Hollzy's secretly a piece of work," Scott agreed. "Hey, why the hell is Rozanov in your phone as Lily?"

Shane's heart jumped, but he'd gotten that question enough to not react outwardly. "He did it himself, years ago. He thought it was funny." He slid out of the booth to let Svetlana up, and all three of them made their way outside.

"Yes, Ilyusha has always had a bad sense of humor," Svetlana said. "Like dad humor but worse."

"Isn't your old man Sergei Vetrov?" Scott asked. "I can't imagine any member of the Red Machine with much of a sense of humor."

She shrugged. "My father is many things. Funny? Not so much. But I know he loves me, in his own way. I'll take what I can get."

Scott's smile turned bittersweet. "You're a smart kid. And, uh—thanks for dinner. Both of you. This was—fun." He sounded almost surprised. They loitered at the curb upwind of the smokers, sobering in the cool wind off the Hudson. "My ride should be here any minute. You two okay to get home?"

Svetlana waved him off. "I ordered a cab. Shanushka and I will share, I promised his rookie I would drop him at the team's hotel."

Scott nodded. His phone pinged in his hand, the light refracting through the little cracks in the screen protector, and he gave Svetlana an awkward handshake, clapped Shane on the shoulder, and climbed into a towncar.

"He seems sad," Svetlana observed.

"He just lost a game and then got punched in the face," Shane said, watching his breath cloud the air. "Of course he's sad."

She gave him a look. "I meant chronically sad. Like when you break a bone and do not set it right, so it heals wrong. But emotionally."

Shane frowned and looked for the tail lights of the towncar, but it was already gone, melted into New York traffic.

ɢʟᴏʀɪᴀ

Gloria
booooo metros
i was in the admirals' box!!
you should have come said hi after the game!!
wait hang on you went out with scott?
AND two gorgeous women??
and didn't invite me??????

Shane
Hey, sorry, it was kind of a last minute thing!
I didn't realize you were there, I would have come said hello.

Gloria
well you'd better invite me and carter out next time you punch scott in the face

Shane
haha will do

austin @ᴀᴜsᴛɪɴᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ𝟼𝟼
They need to invent a sportsmanship award for getting into a fight on the ice and then immediately taking the guy out for beers to apologize. @sᴄᴏᴛᴛʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ you guys are absolute legends!
#HockeyBromance #HunterHollzyBesties #LadyByngWho

jessie @ᴊᴇss𝟺ʟᴇss
oh my god Vetrova's really out there collecting the best MLH players like pokemon?? incredible #VetrovaGoals #goddessbehavior

brosky @ʙᴀᴅʙᴏʏʀᴏᴢᴀɴᴏᴠ
look out admirals, rozy's not gonna let someone else lay hands on his bestie #hockeybromance #ripadmirals

Isaiah @ᴄᴇʀᴛɪғɪᴇᴅᴘᴜᴄᴋʙᴏʏ
oh to be a fly on that bedroom wall 🤤

November 18, 2011
Montréal, Québec

During afternoon practice the next day, when Theriault's attention was fixed safely on someone else, Franklin and Gagnon skated up to Shane.

"Hey, Hollzy," said Franklin, leaning on his stick.

Shane eyed them warily. "Uh. Yeah?"

"What did Hunter say to you?"

"It was stupid," Shane said with a sigh, already tired of telling this story. "I just got wound up and it turned out to be nothing. He apologized. We both did."

He and Gagnon traded a glance, then Franklin continued. "Well, whatever it was, it was enough for you to take a swing. That's not nothing."

Shane had already spent the flight home beating himself up about the suspension. "Look, I'm sorry, guys, I didn't mean to fuck up tomorrow's strategy—"

"Hey, no, don't apologize," Gagnon protested. "We're just—after that game in Toronto last year? The one where you were mic'ed?"

Like Shane could ever fucking forget.

Gagnon grimaced, clearly remembering too. "The point is, we didn't know until after the game, and by then, it was too late for us to do anything about it. So if Hunter or anyone else starts shit, you gotta tell us, man. We're enforcers, that's our job."

"Your hands are too good to be breaking them on other players' faces," Franklin added. "So just keep us in the loop, okay?"

Shane blinked. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, okay."

Franklin patted him on the shoulder, and the two of them slipped back into the defensive lines' drills like nothing had happened.

November 19, 2011
Tampa Bay, Florida

Shane spent his game suspension in a hotel room in Tampa, eating too many of the addictive plantain fritters JJ had brought back from lunch, trying and failing to focus on a documentary about whales.

It didn't help that his phone kept pinging.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
come on tell me
tell meeeee
shaaaaaaaneeeeeee

Jane
For fuck's sake, Ilya
I told you, it was a misunderstanding!
Then we ran into him on the way out of MSG and Sveta invited him to dinner so we could apologize to each other.
That is all.

Had Shane trusted it when Svetlana had said that picture would get on Ilya's nerves? Yeah, of course. Svetlana knew Ilya better than just about anyone on the planet, and if he had buttons to push, it was because she'd installed them.

But to have it still bothering Ilya now, days later? Ilya and Svetlana had always maintained that there was nothing romantic between them, but this level of possessiveness over her was getting a little ridiculous.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
yes you said
dinner with the dinosaur
but what else

Jane
Ilya, I have no idea what you are talking about.

Lily
so you didn't fulfill your teenage fantasy and suck him off in the bathroom?
disappointing

Shane stared at his phone.

What the fuck?

He would wonder where Ilya had even gotten the idea, except Ilya seemed to have laser vision specifically into Shane's libido, and yeah, maybe teenage Shane had jerked off to that poster once or twice, but it wasn't a fucking crush, okay?

And even if Shane had given Scott Hunter a blowjob in the bathroom of a bar—which was an objectively insane sentence to think—why the fuck would Ilya even care? He spent every other night with girls hanging off each arm.

ʟɪʟʏ

Jane
You are insane
No
Hunter does not even like men

Lily
😒

November 21, 201
Montréal, Québec

"And what were you feeling when you hit him?" Duval asked, notepad on one knee as usual.

"Anger." And fear, but that was treading a little too close to revealing.

"And afterwards?"

"I felt like I'd overreacted massively. And like I was fucking lucky we're hockey players, or I'd have been arrested for punching America's sweetheart," Shane quipped.

Duval didn't take the bait. He never did. "Anything else?"

Shane sobered. "Shame." That one was easy. Shane was intimately acquainted with many, many flavors of shame. "Like I'd let the team down. Like I'd let myself down. I felt out of control, and I hated it."

Duval nodded. "You had an older player—someone more established in the same field—provoke you in public."

Shane nodded. "I think the public part of it was what really got to me. I already live a really public life, you know? And having him throw a, uh—friendship in my face like that?" He shook his head. "It wasn't—I just reacted."

"Anger is an understandable reaction to that kind of active provocation, especially in high-stress situations," Duval said. "And he said it on the ice, which is normally a space you feel very in-control."

"Yeah, exactly," Shane said with relief, the muddled feelings that had haunted him for days finally taking shape. "It felt like someone pulled a fire alarm in my head." He sipped his water—he'd brought his own this time, in his reusable bottle with the straw. "And it did get better once we'd both apologized. But it's been a rough week."

"You apologized to each other?" Duval said, and for the first time since Shane had met him, he looked a little surprised.

Shane nodded. "Yeah, we ran into each other after the game and talked it out. He's a good guy. I think he's just going through something right now."

He thought about Svetlana's words. Chronically sad. Shane remembered how Scott had kept glancing at his phone. He wondered who Scott had been waiting to hear from.

"Just as long as you remember that you don't need to accept other people's bad moods as an excuse for their bad behavior," Duval said. "But you two apologizing to each other is a commendable step. And not one that most professional hockey players would have taken after an on-ice altercation."

Shane snorted. "I know hockey players aren't known for being in touch with our feelings, but I do know how to say sorry."

"You'd be surprised how many people don't."

"It was mostly Svetlana," Shane said, shrugging. "She was the one who made sure Scott and I had the time to talk away from the arena."

"You've mentioned her before. Tell me a little about her?"

Talking about Svetlana was almost as easy as hockey. Shane gave Duval the basics of how they'd met, how they'd stayed in touch over the years, how her forthrightness made her easy for Shane to understand, to trust. He was glad Duval knew he was probably on the spectrum, because it made it easier to explain how important it was to him that she'd never once even blinked at his idiosyncrasies.

"She sounds like a good friend," said Duval. "And it sounds like she's an important part of your support system."

"She is," Shane said unhesitatingly. "She's one of those people who's scarily perceptive, you know? Sometimes it feels like she knows me better than I know myself."

"Sometimes our loved ones see us more clearly than we can see ourselves," Duval agreed. "Like trying to see the exterior of a house when you're standing inside it."

sᴠᴇᴛᴀ 💕

Shane
Do you have a recipe for Olivier salad?
Vasya wants to invite Andropov's wife over for dinner

Sveta
Shanushka how long have we known each other

Shane
Three years
Why?

Sveta
In those three years have I done anything to make you think I know shit about cooking

November 23-26, 2011

The next roadie took the Metros down through Utah before swinging north to Vancouver, two losses that left Shane with bruises all down the left side of his body. Thankfully, the other guys wanted to go sightseeing on their day off in Utah, so Shane didn't have to invent a reason to kick Vasily out of their hotel room for his therapy appointment.

But with more time on the power play, Shane's goal total had started to creep steadily upwards again, bringing him back into a range that quieted down the worst of the anxious noise in his head. It wasn't quite enough to match Ilya, who was current tied for third in the scoring race, but it was better than Shane had thought he'd get when the season had started.

Theriault had even started trialing him on more penalty kills, switching off pairing him with Johanssen and Comeau. Weirdly, it was sometimes easier for Shane to score on the penalty kill because there were just fewer bodies on the ice, fewer obstacles to outmaneuver, fewer things to keep track of. And Comeau might be a fucking asshole, but he could be good at his job when he wanted to, peeling guys off Shane's back and getting himself to empty ice. In the brief rush of victory, Shane could even stand to let Comeau knock their helmets together and roar "Let's fucking go, Holly!"

In Colorado, Vasily asked a question Shane couldn't answer.

"What are 'pipistrelles'?" he asked, staring wide-eyed at the banner of Colorado's mascot as the team bus pulled into the stadium.

"Isn't it some kind of fox?" Stedlund said.

"No way, there's no tail," said Hayden.

"Uh. A rodent, maybe?" Shane hazarded, craning his head. But that didn't feel quite right either.

Which led to a huddle of professional hockey players in the underground parking lot, gathered around JJ's phone as they argued about how to spell pipistrelle, then leaning in and making confused noises when it turned out to be a fucking bat.

The game against the Pipistrelles was unremarkable until some asshole hooked Shane's skate in the second, the guy spitting a slur over his shoulder as Shane climbed back to his feet. As an official led the guy to the box, Franklin caught Shane's eye, expectant.

"He say shit?" he asked under his breath.

Shane's eyes dropped to the ice. "Nothing important, you don't have to—"

Franklin nudged Shane's shoulder. "Eyes on the puck, kid. We've got him."

And true to his word, the minute the Pipistrelle forward touched the puck in the third period, Gagnon checked him up and over the boards, into the waiting laps of his teammates.

Franklin winked at Shane as Gagnon made his way to the box. Shane shook his head, hiding a grin behind his mouthguard, and scored on the fucking bats.

ʟɪʟʏ

Lily
brought home a beautiful girl and boy for the night

Jane
Okay?

Lily
should I let them sleep in my bed?

Jane
Why are you asking me?

Lily
[Attached Images]

Jane
Oh you meant the dogs

Lily
of course, who else?
Vic and Janine are on an anniversary trip
so the sandwiches came to stay with Uncle Ilya

Jane
No report cards this time?

Lily
fuck you, they both get A++

November 27, 2011
Montréal, Québec

The doorbell rang five minutes early, and Vasily startled and dripped mayonnaise down the front of his shirt and onto the counter.

Shane gave Vasily an unimpressed look as he hastily set down the mayonnaise jar and ran towards the hall. "Can you get it, Shane?" he asked over his shoulder. "I need to—"

"I've got it," Shane assured him, already crossing to the door.

Tatsiana Andropova—Tanya—stood in the doorway of Shane's apartment, holding a bulging canvas grocery bag. She was a short blonde woman with a button nose and chipped yellow nail polish.

She smiled up at Shane. "Shane Hollander? Good to meet you, I'm Tanya."

"Call me Shane."

"Be back out in a minute, Tanya!" Vasily called from his room, voice muffled.

Tanya stepped inside and set her shoes on the rack, rolling her eyes fondly. "What was it this time? Olive oil? Apple juice?"

"Mayonnaise," Shane said, and she laughed.

"I swear, that boy is allergic to cooking without making a mess." She put the grocery bag on the counter—not in the mayonnaise, thankfully—and pushed up her sleeves. "I already rolled the dough out, but do you have some wine glasses so we can cut it?"

"Uh, maybe?" He opened some of the upper cabinets, frowning. When he'd moved in a year and a half ago, his mom had gone to Canadian Tire and bought him a set of all the basics, some of which still hadn't been touched. But he thought he remembered seeing some—

"Here we go," he said, pulling out two wine glasses and giving them a quick rinse to get the dust off.

"I'm back, I'm good," Vasily said, skidding into the kitchen in a clean shirt. "Did I miss pelmeni time?"

Tanya gave him a look. "Wipe all that mayo off the counter, wash your hands, and sit down, you goose. Then we'll make the pelmeni."

Over the course of dinner—including Vasily's Olivier salad, which turned out to not be as overpoweringly mayonnaise-y as Shane had feared—Shane realized that he'd maybe been missing out by not going to team parties.

Vasily had mentioned once that Tanya worked nights. What that actually meant was that she worked remotely for a tech conglomerate in Singapore, doing real-time code fixes for their proprietary computer systems during local business hours. Four days a week, she worked from 5PM to 2AM, and the other three days—including Fridays—were her own. She mostly spent her free time doing DIY around the house, including refinishing the hardwood floors and building a new nightstand for the guest room that had been Vasily's.

She was also freakishly good at making pelmeni. Shane struggled through thirty misshapen blobs while she cranked out a hundred or so perfect little pillows, all while easily chatting in English and Russian. Shane's brain, which had finally mostly adjusted to the sounds of the St Petersburg accent, struggled with her Belarusian Russian, but every time she or Vasily caught the confusion in his face, they immediately repeated it in English, like it was no big deal. Like they didn't mind not speaking their mother tongue because Shane couldn't understand.

When the kitchen was clean and the dining table was covered with pelmeni, Tanya divvied up half into her tupperware and half into a heavy-duty ziplock bag, which she promptly stuck in Shane's freezer. Then she gave Vasily a long hug and ruffled his hair. "I'm glad you landed such a sweet apartment, little bear," she said. "Good job on the Olivier, but next time try to get less mayo on yourself."

He laughed, hugging her back. "I'll be over next Friday," he promised.

To Shane's surprise, she hugged him too. "Thank you for dinner, Shane. This was really nice. And thank you for taking care of him. I'm sorry he moved out, but I'm glad he had somewhere good to go."

Shane swallowed, throat suddenly tight. He hugged her back gently. "I'm glad too."

November 28, 2011
Montréal, Québec

"I want you to know that you're being incredibly unhelpful," Rose said, voice distorted through his headphones.

"What? How?" Shane panted, words punctuated by footfalls as he finished his 10km treadmill run.

"Really? I tell you that I maybe got offered a part by my favorite director and might take a semester off school to shoot it, and your only comment is 'If that's what you want to do.' Really, Shane?"

"What?" he reiterated, pace slowing as he entered the cooldown phase. "I'm serious. If it's what you really want to do, then it's the right choice for you. You said you have the savings to take the semester off, and you said you've always wanted to work with this guy. What's the hang-up?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that I could embarrass myself in front of an industry icon? Or maybe that even if everything goes smoothly, the shooting schedule could run long and I could have to take a second semester off, which would totally fuck up my scholarship?"

Shane finished his run, wiped his face on his gym towel, and took a swig of electrolyte mix. "Okay, can you pause? Do you have a quarter in your wallet?"

"...What?"

"A quarter. Or another coin would work, I guess. Just—trust me. Find a coin."

He heard the sounds of fabric and movement. "Alright, I found a nickel in the couch."

"Good," he said, taking another drink and settling onto his yoga mat. "Let's say heads is you accept the job offer and take a semester off. Tails is you pass on the job and stay in school."

"Okay," she said slowly. "What now?"

"Flip it."

There was a faint ping of metal. "It's tails."

"That doesn't matter," he said. "When you flipped it, there was a side you were suddenly hoping it would be. Which one was it?"

Rose was silent for a long minute. "What the fuck, Shane?"

"Which side did you want it to be?" he prompted again.

"Heads," she said begrudgingly.

"Heads," he agreed, grinning. "So, what kind of movie is it?"

ɢʟᴏʀɪᴀ

Shane
Hey, can I ask a work-related question?

Gloria
is it about the pilot i'm currently filming?
bc the answer is yes, i will definitely get you a copy so you know how bad it is 😂

Shane
haha no, it's not about that, but thank you.
It's about this director, Jorge Sandoval.
A friend got offered a big part in one of his movies, but she's anxious about taking the time off of school for it.
Do you know happen to know if his shooting schedules tend to run long?

November 29, 2011
Montréal, Québec

"Shane, can you take me to the hospital?" Vasily asked after their game against the Edmonton Pronghorns (2-1 to Montreal).

"What? I mean—yeah, of course we can go, are you okay?" Shane asked, chancing a look at Vasily at a stoplight.

Vasily looked paler than usual. "I think maybe I broke some fingers when that guy boarded me in the third. They're starting to really hurt."

Shane glanced down at where he was cradling two fingers on his right hand—fingers which were indeed purplish red and swollen and maybe sitting a little out of true—and took the turn towards the hospital.

Montreal General was loud and overcrowded, even on a Tuesday night. It took an hour to be taken back for X-rays, and then Vasily had been given a bag of ice for his hand and they'd been stashed in an exam room to wait for a doctor.

They'd been in the exam room for half an hour—Vasily getting progressively more sweaty—when Shane started to second-guess himself.

I should have just taken him back to the Bell Centre, Shane thought guiltily. The Metros' medical team might have still been there. Or maybe a private clinic—

Then the exam room door swung open, and a voice said, "Oh good lord, you're still in your suits. Did you come here straight from the game?"

They both looked up into the wonderfully familiar face of Jackie Pike in a set of scrubs patterned with little Winnie the Poohs.

"Oh, thank god," Shane said, slumping in relief. Finally, a real adult.

"Welcome to Montreal General, I'm Jackie Pike, and I'll be your nurse for the evening," she said with a grin, shutting the door behind her. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Vasya, laying flat on the exam table, waved with his good hand. "Hi, Jackie."

"Ouch," she said sympathetically, lifting the ice pack to peek at his fingers. "How did this happen?"

"Boarded, in the third," Vasily said, voice tight with discomfort. "Did not hurt much until we were driving home."

Probably when the game adrenaline finally wore off, Shane realized.

Jackie logged into the computer terminal and started clicking through his chart, starting with the X-rays. "Well, as much as it sucks that you're hurt, it's not as bad as it could have been," she said, absently pressing a hand to her lower back. "You've got a hairline fracture on your fourth middle phalanx and some deep bruising to the tissue of your third finger. I'll be back in a minute with Dr Singh, and she'll splint them and prescribe some painkillers. I know it looks nasty, but you should be able to go home soon, okay? Your team doctors can take care of the rest."

"Okay," Vasily said, and waited until she'd left to turn to Shane and say, "I only caught about half of that. Are they broken or not?"

Shane didn't know enough Russian anatomical jargon to be specific, so he tapped his own ring finger. "A little break, not all the way." He tapped his middle finger. "Bruising, nothing broken. The doctor will bandage you and give you medication, and then we can go home."

Vasily sighed in relief.

When Dr Singh had come and gone, when Vasily's fingers were splinted and his first dose of painkillers had been taken with a Capri-sun and snacks from what Jackie called the "good" vending machine, Shane was more than ready to head home. It was nearly midnight, they still hadn't eaten real dinner, and they had team skate the next day.

"I'll walk you out," Jackie said, grabbing her coat. "I'm on break for another half an hour, and I need to see something besides beige walls."

She led them through the maze of hospital corridors and out into the parking lot, waving at other hospital staff as they went.

"God, I'm so glad I'm not throwing up all the time anymore," she said, as they stepped into the icy Montreal winter air. Shane hit the lock button on his key fob so the lights would flash, and they headed towards his car. "Working through that first trimester was the pits. Zero out of ten, would not recommend."

"But you will be on—what is the word? Leave? To have the babies?" Vasily asked.

Jackie nodded. "Maternity leave. I'll be out for probably three or four months, depending on how things go. But to be honest, I'm probably going to be climbing the walls by day seven." She grinned suddenly, digging in the pocket of her scrubs. "Hey, want to see the scans I had done last week?"

They all stopped to look down at the little ultrasound photos on her phone. Shane was startled at how human they looked—the first ultrasound Hayden had shown them had looked more like a Rorschach test.

"How far along are you?" Shane asked. "Or, uh—is that rude to ask? Sorry, I don't—"

"Twenty-two weeks," she answered, mercifully interrupting him. "Due sometime in March, probably."

"Probably?"

"Twins come a little early sometimes, it throws off the math a bit." She zoomed in on one of the photos. "We've been calling them the Jelly Beans. Bean One and Bean Two. It's going to be so weird having them in their cribs instead of right here," she said sliding a palm over her rounded belly.

"Well, I can't wait to meet them," Shane said, and was surprised to realize how much he meant it. He'd never really thought about whether he wanted kids, but something about the quiet glow of excitement in Jackie and Hayden had made him think yeah, maybe someday. Maybe when he was retired, when he had the time to give them the attention they deserved.

"Are we still seeing you and Hayd on Boxing Day?" he asked, as they cut across an empty row of parking spots and finally reached the car.

She nodded. "It gives us an excuse to escape if Hayden's mom tries to make us stay an extra night at the cabin in Peterborough. What about you, Vasya? Will we see you for Christmas?"

Vasily let himself be shepherded into the passenger seat, grinning from ear to ear. "No! I am going home, to St Petersburg. But I'm sorry I'll miss Christmas with the Hollanders," he said, slipping into Russian seemingly without noticing. "Maybe next year, Shane?"

Oh yeah, that painkiller was definitely starting to kick in. "Sure thing, Vasya."

Vasily nodded, yawning into his non-splinted fist, and Shane shook his head fondly and gave Jackie a hug. "See you later, Jackie. I've got to get him home and fed and put to bed before he turns into a pumpkin." Or a snoring two-hundred-pound hockey player that Shane would have to haul up the stairs.

She hugged him back. "Drive safe. Don't let him break any more fingers on your way home."

ʀᴏsᴇ

Rose
Shane
SHANE HOLLANDER

Shane
Are you okay?
Is something wrong?

Rose
Are you fucking kidding me
Why did I just get a phone call from fucking Gloria Grey??
The actual Gloria Grey????

Shane
Wait, is that what's wrong?
I asked her about that director's shooting schedule, and she offered to talk to you herself.
Sorry, I should have asked before I gave out your number.

Rose
No don't worry that's fine
But why were you talking to Gloria Grey??
And how do you even have her phone number???

Shane
Why are you freaking out?
I met her at All-Stars, she's dating Carter Vaughn.
She's nice.

Rose
Oh my god
She's nice??
NICE??
Like she didn't win a fucking emmy last year
You absolute goon
You're dead meat

Shane
I have no idea what's going on.

Rose
Yeah that's becoming increasingly clear

Rose @ʀᴏsᴇʟᴀɴᴅʀʏ𝟿𝟸
Anyone else ever get the urge to stuff @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ into a locker and then you remember he's six feet tall and beefy af and also a total sweetheart who doesn't deserve it

Svetlana Vetrova @sᴠᴇᴛᴠ
⤷@ʀᴏsᴇʟᴀɴᴅʀʏ𝟿𝟸
Yes

Ilya Rozanov @ɪʟʏᴀᴏғғɪᴄɪᴀʟ
⤷@ʀᴏsᴇʟᴀɴᴅʀʏ𝟿𝟸
yes

Shane  @sʜᴀɴᴇʜᴏʟʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀʜᴏᴄᴋᴇʏ
⤷@ʀᴏsᴇʟᴀɴᴅʀʏ𝟿𝟸
Rose, seriously, what the fuck?

December 1, 2011
New York, New York

Doing a photoshoot for Calvin Klein apparently involved a lot of Shane standing around in underwear and not flinching when random PAs misted him in oil.

Svetlana was no help, sitting backstage and chatting with the hair and makeup team, talking to Shane's mom between takes before inevitably wandering back to the Kraft Services table.

Shane's mom, on the other hand, seemed to have sidestepped the awkwardness of accompanying her son to an underwear modeling shoot by going full bodyguard-mode instead, keeping the director and photographer and head of wardrobe from asking for anything he was uncomfortable with, giving them polite but firm nos so he didn't have to. Whenever they needed to do a full reset, she brought him a warm robe and a ginger ale, and then it would all start back up again.

Shane didn't really get what the director and photographer meant by 'fierce,' or 'magnetic,' or 'powerful,' but he did his best to follow their instructions. He walked towards the camera and then away from it a hundred times, flexing so they could get whatever close-up shots of his ass and abs they needed, and automatically smiled and thanked crew-members.

Six hours in, they finally finished, and Shane had never been so glad to rinse off and put on the clothes Svetlana had picked out for him. Nudity in the locker room didn't bother him, mainly because it was a transitional state with a purpose, and he'd played in arenas that held tens of thousands of people without an issue, but spending hours in just his underwear in front of dozens of strangers and his mom had just been weird. Maybe for the next shoot he could gently suggest she stay home.

"You looked so hot, Shanushka," Svetlana said with a pouty sigh, leaned up outside his dressing room. "It's not too late to marry me, you know. We could travel the world and do IVF and make beautiful hockey star babies."

Shane laughed, pulling on his coat. "Where is my mom?"

"Talking to the director, scheduling the follow-ups."

"I spent six hours in enough oil to fry a chicken, what more do they want?" he grumbled.

"Six hours is nothing," came an unfamiliar voice, and they looked up.

A tall, pale woman in a CK sweatshirt and joggers stood in the doorway of a nearby dressing room. She was an inch or two taller than Shane, with wire-rimmed glasses that were clearly functional, not aesthetic, and long black hair plaited away from her face. "I'm in for four hours today and eight tomorrow," she said, and held out a hand to Shane. "Ekaterina Boyko."

Shane shook it, noting the strength and calluses. "Oh, you're the Olympic swimmer, right?" His mom's pre-shoot notes had included a little about the athlete modeling the women's line. "I'm Shane Hollander, this is Svetlana Vetrova."

Boyko shook Svetlana's hand too and looked them both over curiously. "I'd heard a rumor that Shane Hollander spoke Russian. I guess it's true."

"It's very true," Svetlana said, leaning an elbow on Shane's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I can't place your accent, Miss Boyko. What country did you represent?"

"Ukraine, then Canada," Boyko replied. "We moved when I was in middle school."

"That must have been a big change," Shane said.

"It was," Boyko said. "But it got me five gold medals, so I'm not complaining."

Svetlana whistled, low and impressed. "Five in what—two Summer Olympics cycles?"

Boyko smirked. "I don't like to waste time."

Svetlana raised her brows. Boyko's mouth twitched. Shane had a feeling there was some silent conversation going on, but not one that involved him, so he let it be.

"Shane, Svetlana, are you ready to—oh, hello!" said Shane's mom as she rounded the corner, a stack of paperwork in one hand. "Ekaterina Boyko, right? I'm Yuna Hollander, Shane's mom."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs Hollander," Boyko said. She looked back at Shane and Svetlana, gaze lingering. "I mostly go by Kat, or Katya. Ekaterina can be kind of a mouthful for westerners—"

"Miss Boyko?" called an intern, hurrying down the hallway. He had one of the dreaded spray bottles of oil clipped to his belt. "Sorry to interrupt, but the next set is ready, so if you'll just follow me—"

"Duty calls," Boyko—Kat—said, sighing. "Good to meet you all." She unzipped the sweatshirt and hung it on the door to her dressing room, leaving her in just the branded joggers and a black sports bra that did nothing to hide how insanely jacked and fucking cut she was.

Shane spent a fair amount of his life in the gym, hell, he was a fucking professional athlete, but he'd never been able to achieve that level of rippling muscle and hard edges. Her back and shoulders looked like some kind of classical painting from before they understood anatomy, when they just kept adding muscles to fill space.

"Holy fuck," Svetlana breathed, staring at Kat's retreating back. Stretching across her shoulder blades, between the straps of the sports bra, was a tattoo of the Olympic rings. "Five gold medals."

"You are drooling," Shane said, and she smacked him on the arm and started towards the exit.

Even Shane's mom fanned herself with her stack of papers. "What do they feed swimmers? She looked like she could bench press me."

“Mom!”

His mom laughed as they finally emerged, blinking, in the sunlight. “What? I’m married, not dead.”

Shane groaned. "Can we just go get some food and never talk about this again?"

"You're just jealous of her abs," Svetlana said knowingly, hooking an arm through his.

Shane didn't dignify that with a response. He was absolutely not jealous of her abs. (He was maybe a little jealous of her abs.)

"I like these clothes, Shane," his mom said after dinner, stamping her feet in the cold and flagging down a cab. "Svetlana, I assume this was your doing?"

Svetlana shrugged. "Of course. I couldn't let him show up to a Calvin Klein photoshoot looking like an ECHL player."

Shane's mom laughed at his affronted expression and gave Svetlana cheek kisses. "See you and Ilya at Christmas, sweetie." Shane handed her down into the cab and shut the door.

He turned and gave Svetlana a hug. "Hope you had fun today."

"So much fun," she said, smirking. "And I have a favor to ask."

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Ilyusha about this." Her face was full of some kind of unholy amusement. "Let it be a surprise when the ads come out."

Shane frowned. "Uh, sure? But why—"

Shane's mom rolled down her window. "Shane, honey, are you coming? We've got an early flight tomorrow."

Svetlana kissed Shane's cheek and shooed him into the cab.

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
did Vetrova and Hollzy really walk around NYC wearing coordinating outfits?? what is happening

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
⤷@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
Bites where have you been, she’s been dressing him up for years

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
⤷@𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
i'm just saying, if Svetlana Vetrova was dressing me up i'd expect her to make an honest man out of me

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
⤷@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
Bites aren't you a woman?

louisa @ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
⤷@𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
snackie i would be whatever the fuck she wanted me to be as long as there was a ring on my finger

mar @𝟹𝟼_sɴᴀᴄᴋᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ
⤷@ʙɪᴛᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅʙɪᴛᴄʜ
fair

December 2, 2011
Montréal, Québec

It wasn't until Shane and his mom were sitting in Duval's cozy office, the curtains drawn, that Shane's fight or flight really started to kick in.

She'd flown back to Montreal with him for this, so they could do the first joint session in-person instead of over Skype, and he was already regretting it.

He'd picked the chair he always picked, the green one with the faint corduroy texture that felt good on his hands, and she'd chosen the one next to him, bag set on the coffee table a foot or so away from his water bottle.

"We appreciate you making the time for us, Dr Duval," she said, consummately polite. "I'm Yuna. Before we get started, could you tell me a bit about what to expect from today?" She, like Shane, deeply disliked going into situations unprepared.

"Good to meet you, Yuna," Duval said, accepting her handshake. "Today will mostly be about you and Shane talking to each other. I'm here to support."

Shane's mom's mouth tightened fractionally. That wasn't an exact enough answer to soothe her nerves. Shane empathized, but he'd had enough sessions by now to not be completely paralyzed by the idea of an amorphous hour of talking about his feelings.

Duval didn't give either of them time to get stuck in their heads about it. "Shane, you mentioned you'd written down some things you wanted to talk about?"

Shane swallowed and pulled out his phone. "Yeah, I, um—I made some notes." His eyes flitted between the screen and his water bottle, focusing on the bead of condensation rolling towards the coaster. He cleared his throat. "Mom, I think you being my manager changed our relationship."

"Last season, before we talked about the—the reality of the team, I felt like whenever I talked to you, it always came back around to work. Because we didn't put good boundaries on how often we talked about work stuff, suddenly it was all work stuff, and I stopped wanting to share other parts of my life."

He took a shaky breath and blew it out. "You're a great manager, mom. I don't want you to stop being my manager. You're so good at what you do, and there's no one I'd rather have in my corner. But I feel like sometimes I just need to be able to talk to you about my life without getting ten-step action plans." He stole a glance at her. "Does, uh—does that make sense?"

Her eyes were wet. "It does," she said, snagging a tissue and blowing her nose. "I've been talking to my therapist about it too," she admitted. "About how we kind of dove into the manager-athlete dynamic without talking about what it would mean for our relationship."

She turned in her chair to face him more fully. "I don't want to only talk to you about work, Shane. I want to know about your life. I like hearing about your life. And you're right, we should have planned it out better. Set aside time just for work, so it doesn't bleed into everything else. I hope we can do that going foward."

"Yeah," Shane croaked, wiping his eyes. "Yeah, I think we can do that."

By the end of the hour, they'd gone through half a box of tissues, and Shane felt like a wet towel someone had wrung out and laid over a clothesline.

"I want you both to know that you're doing really well," Duval said as he walked them out. "You've started doing the work necessary to talk, and, just as importantly, you've started doing the work necessary to listen."

The quiet car ride to the airport was stretched by midday traffic, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It gave them each a chance to put themselves back together, to eat some of the granola Shane had packed, for Shane's mom to fix her eyeliner and put on her favorite cardigan.

Then she got that little crease between her brows, the one that instinctively made Shane's stomach drop.

But instead of letting it sit there, festering, he swallowed and said, "What are you thinking about?"

It was something Duval had suggested in an earlier session—instead of letting his brain make assumptions about what people were thinking, he should just ask.

She looked up at him. "What? Oh, I was wondering if I could look up the release date for the next book in that sci-fi series your dad likes."

That was—not what Shane had expected.

He stared at her, glad they were at a red light. "Really?"

"Yeah, I want to see if I can preorder it for his birthday. Why?"

Because part of me always thought that look meant disappointment, or disapproval, or criticism, he thought. And now I can't stop wondering what else I've been missing. What else I've been misinterpreting.

He thought about Franklin and Gagnon, and how they'd asked him to tell them if other teams said shit on the ice. He thought about the unreadable looks Johanssen kept giving him, and then he thought about the way Johanssen had physically stepped between Drapeau and Svetlana.

He wondered how many of his other teammates he'd been ignoring, not making the effort because he'd mentally lumped them in with Comeau and Andropov and fucking Drapeau. He wondered how many of them stayed quiet not because they agreed with the shitty things being said, but because—like Vasily—they lived more precariously than Shane did.

Not everyone was drafted second overall and signed to a max-salary ELC with the expectation that they'd someday become the face of a franchise. The pressure he lived under was also a shield that a lot of other guys in the locker room—guys with two-way contracts, guys without no-trade clauses, guys with families and lives in Montreal—didn't have.

The light turned green. Shane drove.

At the airport, Shane handed his mom her bags and folded her into a hug. "Thanks for this weekend, mom. For the photoshoot and the—session." He still couldn't bring himself to say the word 'therapy' in public.

She squeezed him back. "We can schedule the next one for when I'm in Montreal in January, if you want."

"Sounds good."

"Did you see it's supposed to snow for Christmas? I'm going to make you boys shovel the cottage driveway."

"What? Mom, you still have that little snow blower dad got you when you strained your back."

"But why would we use that when we have two professional athletes?" she asked innocently. "It's more eco-friendly. Builds character."

He laughed. "See you in a few weeks, mom." He gave her a kiss on the cheek and waved her off.

Somewhere between Duval's office and the airport, some internal misalignment between them had started to click back into place, and it was such a fucking relief that this thing between them was fixable, that the distance was something that could be worked on and mended and made better, that he was a little lightheaded.

He couldn't wait for Christmas. He was going to sleep for ten hours a night, and maybe eat some of his dad's fried chicken, and maybe, if the lake froze early and solid enough, he could take Svetlana and Ilya skating. It was going to be awesome.

He ignored an insistent airport attendant trying to usher him along and waited until his mom was safely inside before he left.

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I'm not Canadian, and I hate AI. Do not feed this into AI.

Misc:
1. This whole fic was originally only supposed to be around 35k words, yet here we are at 90k and less than halfway done. Is the untreated ADHD in the room with us right now? *jazz hands*
2. Poor Scott is so confused by the whole Svetlana/Shane/Ilya dynamic.
Shane: wtf ilya, hunter's not gay
Ilya: sure, jan
3. Went back and changed a lot of usage of the word québécois to just French, a helpful commenter pointed out that it's not used much by Anglophones. 🙏🏻
4. Also fixed the age I had listed Shane as entering UFA, another helpful commenter pointed out that it's 27 or 7 seasons. 🤙🏻
5. Shoutout to my college roomie from Peterborough, ON, who kindly took me home to her parents' house for Canadian Thanksgiving. (You were the best roomie, even if your boyfriend sucked. So glad you dumped his ass.)
6. Yall are the wind beneath my wings. Thanks again for reading and commenting and giving kudos, love you all!

Coming up next: Christmas and All-Stars with our favorite Sad Bi Slav 🤭