Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Long-Distance Relationship, boston-montreal is nothing, Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Series:

Part 9 of perfect from now on

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-16 Completed: 2026-06-15 Words: 73,835 Chapters: 8/8

this year's wine

Summary

Shane was there when Ilya got the call, his arm heavy across Ilya's stomach, like even in sleep he could tell something was trying to take Ilya away from him.

When Boston realize Ilya wants out, they send him to the highest bidder. The highest bidder is LA.

Notes

title from screamland by father john misty. calling a tentative truce with father john misty bc he did write the song of the fic. sadness as a gift by adrianne lenker wears a little A on its chest on account of being the alternate song of the fic.
i don't know hockey but i follow other sports and am using that as a high-level guide for how trades/contracts work. it may be inaccurate. it is all in service of hollanov angst.
hopefully this will be clear from the text lol, but primer: the difference from canon in this fic is that rather than having one year left on his contract in boston Ilya has two, so instead of just waiting it out he requests a trade to ottawa. More minor departures from canon are just to speed things up a lil, namely svetlana and hayden already knowing about ilya and shane’s relationship and wiebe already being the coach in ottawa.

Chapter 1: fall (1)

Chapter Notes

watching with horror as the word count of the series this fic is in approaches 200k. i am hoping and praying and hoping subsequent chapters will not be nearly so long, this one just requires a lot of set up.

Shane was there when Ilya got the call, his arm heavy across Ilya's stomach, like even in sleep he knew something was trying to take Ilya away from him. It was 3am and they were in Shane’s bed, covers pushed aside to make way for leftover summer heat. Ilya had been in Montreal for five days with a flight booked back to Boston for that afternoon. Training camp was starting soon, for the both of them.

The call was from his agent and Ilya answered. Shane slept heavily and also with earplugs so firmly lodged in the canal that watching him insert them made Ilya uncomfortable, so the noise didn’t disturb him. Ilya, betraying a lifetime of carefully cultivated pessimism and suspicion, felt no dread. Somehow he expected good news.

“If I was saying this to basically any other client of mine,” his agent opened with, “It’d be good news.”

Ilya swung into sitting on the side of the bed. He wanted to go to Ottawa. He was the only player on the face of the earth to whom that would be good news. “Boston won’t trade me?” he asked. That couldn’t be it, because that wasn’t a middle of the night decision. Middle of the night meant a trade. There was the dread, the pessimism, the suspicion.

He was keeping his voice low but maybe there was a hockey exception to Shane’s heavy sleep, maybe the word trade broke through his subconscious, because Ilya heard rustling behind him, glanced back to see the outline of Shane sitting up. Ilya reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it on. Shane widened his eyes at Ilya, and Ilya shrugged back.

“No, they’ll trade you,” his agent said. “Actually, they have traded you. To LA.”

Ilya didn’t say anything, which his agent took as an invitation. Probably he’d rehearsed all this before hitting call. “You love LA, Ilya! It’s your favorite city, at least stateside. And they’re just off a finals berth, you’ll win with them. I can so easily see an MVP year for you. They want you so bad, they sold the fucking farm, man. And they’ll sell it again to re-sign you once the contract’s up.”

That broke through. “I will not re-sign,” he said. “You told them, they were told this? I am going to Ottawa, I will not sign with them.” That was the strategy, that was how he was supposed to force his way to Ottawa. It was made clear to the whole fucking league that if anyone else took his contract it’d be a rental, that he wouldn’t be there to stay, and Boston would be asking for too much for only two years of Ilya to be worth it.

“Of course,” his agent said. “I told them so, multiple times. LA is confident they can change your mind. You know, it might have been easier for me to convince them otherwise if I knew why you wanted to go to Ottawa. I mean, it’s Ottawa, man. It took a while for them to stop laughing when I brought it up.”

Ilya made a face, and Shane made a noise, presumably at Ilya’s face. Ilya decided against putting the call on speaker. The news felt physically smaller, more manageable, contained on this tinny line between him and his agent, who he’d never much liked. If he put it on speaker he'd start having to handle Shane's reaction as well as his own. “You don’t have to read my fucking diary to do your job. You just do what I ask, fuck.”

“I got you on a winning team that’s invested in you, in one of the best markets in the country. I’m sorry Ottawa didn’t have the chips to stay at the table, but I did my job.”

Ilya stood up. The first stage of grief was denial. “This doesn’t make fucking sense,” he said. “What about Moran? No way he is happy. They don’t need more star power. How can they afford it?”

Joshua Moran was LA’s star right wing, maybe the best player in the west, and why they’d gotten to the finals that summer. He wasn’t why they’d lost, either. Ilya didn’t really know him, but he’d heard he had an ego. Whoever lost in the finals making moves in the off-season was inevitable, but shipping in another expensive forward did not seem like smart team building.

“They’ve hollowed out the depth a little, it’s true,” his agent said. “Look, Ilya. Maybe you don’t think this is a good hockey move, and I know that right now you don’t think it’s a good move for you, for your life, but it’s what is happening. And I’ve worked with you long enough to know you don’t like whining, you like getting shit done, so how about we talk next steps, okay?”

Ilya looked back at Shane. He didn’t want to plan. For as awful as the current moment was, he’d stay in it forever to stave off what was coming next. “Fucking text me,” he said, shamelessly petulant, and hung up.

The quiet that took over reminded Ilya of hospital waiting rooms. Shane stared at him, and Ilya felt guilty for making him be the one to break the silence. Eventually Shane asked, “What was that about?”

Anyone with a halfway decent knowledge of hockey would be able to piece together from Ilya’s side of the conversation that he had just been traded to the LA Brakemen, but Shane hated piecing things together. Ilya took Shane’s hand, and then felt embarrassed for taking his hand. Everything was still so new between them. He’d been telling Shane he loved him, calling him his boyfriend, for less than three months. He’d never had to break bad news to him before. Ilya couldn’t really remember breaking bad news to anyone. Shane kept making him feel so inexperienced.

“I was traded, not to Ottawa,” he said, as though he was easing Shane into it, like that news wasn’t heartbreak enough. But that was the rub: it was one thing having their carefully laid plan fall apart, it was quite another having it self-destruct so spectacularly. Not getting to Ottawa on this contract had always been a possibility on the edge of their awareness, even if they didn’t talk about it. Being sent to LA was a nightmare they hadn’t even anticipated. Another coast, another conference, opposite points on the compass. Staying put in Boston would have been infinitely preferable.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Where?”

“Los Angeles,” Ilya said. That might have been another first, saying the full name aloud rather than just LA, every available shortcut in English always his preference. But spelling out their doom should take more than two syllables.

Shane kept staring at him, and Ilya didn’t know what else to say, which he usually interpreted as meaning there was nothing to say. He climbed back into bed, turned off the lamp, pulled Shane down with him. Shane rested heavily against him – rested was probably the wrong word, even if they were horizontal and in bed. They were braced, holding. Ilya’s fingers were digging into Shane’s ribs, the first time since the cottage he’d leave bruising. They were both stripped down, the blanket at the foot of the bed, necessary concessions if they still wanted to sleep on top of each other in the heat, and Ilya was glad of it then, glad for the long stretches of skin sticking together. That feeling he had thought was vanquished, that imminent sense of loss, was back and worse than it had ever been in any hotel room.

He knew Shane had been assuming the same thing as him, that if Boston weren’t willing to cede to his trade request they’d just keep him for the next two years in the hopes they could wring another cup out of him before letting him walk. Ilya felt suddenly deeply foolish that the real worst case scenario hadn’t for one moment occurred to him. He’d been too buoyed by that practical Hollander optimism, courtesy of mother and son both.

But it didn’t matter – all those plans, all those emails, suddenly rendered irrelevant. LA was the future, and more importantly, the present was Shane’s bed.

Both of their phones started buzzing around the same time and didn’t stop. It must have been hours since the call from Ilya’s agent, and warm light had started seeping in around the edges of the drawn shades. Ilya would follow Shane’s lead. It was maybe another ten minutes before he broke and reached for his phone. Ilya watched his face, lit up by the blue light that always reminded Ilya of ice. “Mom’s called,” Shane said, which Ilya could have guessed, if the news had broken.

“You can call back,” Ilya said.

Shane shook his head once, jerkily. “Want to figure out the situation a little myself first,” he said, and Ilya nodded like that made sense. There wasn’t anything to figure out. From a player’s perspective trades were always unsettlingly straightforward. Ilya would be told to go somewhere, and there would be a plane, and the plane would take him to his new city. He wagered they already had accommodation lined up for him. His name was likely being pressed into the back of a jersey as they spoke.

“I will make breakfast,” Ilya said, and pulled himself out of the bed. He felt stiff all over, and not good stiff like from a rough game, stiff like from a flight to Moscow. He slid his phone into the pocket of his shorts. He would have liked to silence it, but that would require lighting up the screen. A few seconds after he started making his way to Shane’s kitchen, he heard Shane start to follow.

There were the last of the ingredients for an omelet in Shane’s fridge, because this was Ilya’s last day scheduled in Montreal; he wondered if his new team would reimburse him the price of the plane ticket to Boston that he’d no longer use. He heated oil on a pan as he emptied Shane’s prepped smoothie ingredients into the blender with seven different settings. Ilya had covered the dial with his hand one morning and challenged Shane to name even three of those settings, and Shane hadn’t been able to. Or maybe they’d just gotten distracted.

Shane sat at the counter frowning down at his phone. At some point he’d put his glasses on, but for once Ilya’s dick remained inert. He turned back to the breakfast prep, the smoothie ready in seconds. He handed it over to Shane and instead of saying thanks Shane said, “They basically mortgaged their future for you.”

Ilya made a noise of acknowledgment, glad his breakfast was less instant. He wasn’t sure how he’d procrastinate checking his own phone once he’d finished the omelet.

“It’ll probably take them like a decade to rebuild once you leave,” Shane continued. “They don’t have their own first round draft pick until 2025. If you don’t win them a cup in the next two years they’re so fucked.”

“Oh,” Ilya said.

Shane glanced at him once, and then again. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I just – I don’t really know how to react.”

Ilya laughed. They had been not knowing how to react for hours. “I know,” he said. “No, this is good. This is how I want to hear about it. From you.”

“Did your agent tell you what the package was?”

Ilya shook his head.

“Well,” Shane said. “They’re sending out every draft pick they can, and some decent players. Your defense is going to be mediocre, but you’re keeping Larkin, and he’s always been good at shoring up gaps. And Boston’s not just sending you, they’re sending Marlow too. That’s nice.”

Ilya glanced back at him, confused because nice wasn’t the kind of word Shane applied to hockey, until he realized Shane meant it would be nice for Ilya, to keep his best friend from the team alongside. Probably it would be, but Ilya was miles away from a place where he could appreciate that. Some still functional part of his brain added checking in with Marly to the list that had been populating in the back of his mind, entirely without his permission.

“What are people saying?” Ilya asked. “Do they hate me?”

“Boston fans?” Shane asked. “I haven’t checked socials yet, just the reporting.”

“Not Boston fans,” Ilya said. “They would hate me wherever I went. But all hockey fans could hate me for going to LA. Trophy hunting.”

“Oh,” Shane said. Ilya was surprised it hadn’t occurred to him already. “I haven’t seen anything about that – and none of the reporting is that you wanted LA because it was an easy path to winning. I don’t think it’s the narrative. Mostly they’re just talking about how you’ve always loved the city.”

Ilya resisted pressing the pad of his thumb to the frying pan. He spent two weeks in LA every year, the last two before training camp, working with a very elite coach and also partying very, very hard. Getting the summer out of his system. Boston couldn’t do trashy like LA, couldn’t do sleaze, and Ilya thrived on sleaze.

Two weeks every year until this one, when he’d instead orbited Shane through Montreal, Ottawa, and Boston. But that was secret, and Ilya’s love for LA wasn’t. When the Lakers had made it to the finals he’d been in Gucci row. And – this wasn’t public, but maybe people knew, because hockey was so fucking gossipy – it was a running bit in the locker room that Ilya harbored a personal grudge against the city of Edmonton for being so lifeless, which to an LA exec was just Ottawa in another light, really.

God, what Ilya wouldn’t give to have been traded to Edmonton.

He sat down with his omelet and felt Shane’s eyes on him, but Shane waited for him to finish before he spoke. Ilya regretted being such a fast eater. “You should check your phone,” Shane said, gentle. “I want – I want to know when you have to leave.”

Ilya had never seen his screen so crowded with notifications, and it kind of worked in his favor, his brain so overwhelmed he couldn’t really parse it even if he tried. He saw Svetlana’s name, and the Raider’s group chat, and nearly everything else blurred. One notification stood out, because it was from his very seldom used email app.

“Got an email from the Brakemen GM,” Ilya said. “James Arcott.”

“Let me see,” Shane said, rounding the counter as he said it. He hooked his chin over Ilya’s shoulder as Ilya pulled it open.

It was an overly enthusiastic welcome, with two actionable requests: to indicate a time that would suit for an introductory phone call, and to fly to LA in the next three days, so he could settle in by the time training camp started. Later than Boston’s and Montreal’s, presumably because of the extended post-season for LA, which was a scrap of good fortune. Ilya wouldn’t have to leave Montreal immediately.

He considered briefly making it back to Boston before going to LA, but decided against it. He should spend as much time with Shane as possible, and he could hire someone to pack up his closet and ship his cars. There wasn’t really anything else he was attached to. Marly was the only teammate who would warrant an in person goodbye, and apparently that wouldn’t be necessary. Svetlana spent enough time in LA as it was that it wasn’t necessary with her, either. She’d known about the Ottawa plan. Ilya wondered if she was relieved with how it had gone down in the end, his ending up in a city she could tolerate. He couldn’t blame her if she was.

While they read the email new notifications kept appearing at the top of his screen. Ilya was swiping them away impatiently but didn’t get to one quick enough – a message from an unsaved number, I hear you’re moving to my city baby I can. The preview mercifully cut off, but Shane wasn’t that dense.

“How nice,” Shane said. “Warm fucking welcome.”

“I don’t even know who that is,” Ilya said.

“Right,” Shane said. “Hard to tell all your admirers apart. How many messages like that have you gotten?”

Ilya smiled, weirdly comforted. It was familiar in a way nothing else that morning had been. Just Shane’s jealousy and Shane’s unnecessarily advanced blender. “I don’t know,” he said. “You want me to change my number?” He meant it as a joke, a ridiculous suggestion, but he could see Shane consider it.

“I will not change my number,” he said, patiently. “But I will start blocking them. Okay?” He navigated to the message and blocked it as quickly as possible, so Shane couldn’t see whatever chat history might have existed. Shane made a satisfied noise.

“Tell Arcott you’ll call him soon,” Shane said. “And I’ll call mom. And Hayden, too.”

Ilya had no idea why Hayden would need any taking care of in this situation, but he grunted and sent, deliberately lowercase, you can call me now to whoever was actually monitoring that email. He clenched and unclenched his fists, readying himself to face the music.

Ilya’s flight to LA was scheduled for seventy two hours after the news broke, and in those seventy two hours he did not leave Shane’s apartment. Usually staying cooped up like that would be hell, but his entire world narrowing to Shane’s body was all he wanted. They had too much sex, motivated as much by fear as by desire.

Yuna and his agent both had told him he should hold off on making the trade request until after the season started, for strategic reasons, but Ilya could only be so cut-throat about it. It would be better for Boston if they had more time to plan, so Ilya gave them more time. He wanted to let his team down easy: it’s not you, baby, it’s me. Now he hated himself for that sentimentality, too, because it had cost him more time with Shane. He was pretty sure he’d have still gotten traded to LA, but not so fucking soon. Not when there was still some off-season left.

Soon they’d consumed all of the seventy two hours, Ilya’s body was back to the good kind of stiff, and they were saying goodbye in Shane’s stairwell. Ilya could arrange to fly out from Montreal and people would keep their questions to themselves, but it wasn’t like Shane could drop him at the airport. Anyway, it was media day for the Metros, and Shane had somewhere to be too, somewhere other than with Ilya.

“I put together the schedule,” Shane said, staring at their hands between them. Ilya squeezed, bunching Shane’s fingers together. “Of when we’ll have chances to see each other. We get really lucky in March – that’s when LA comes up here, to play us and Toronto and Ottawa and Boston, and it overlaps with a Montreal home stand so we’ll be able to see each other basically every day for a week. As long as we’re willing to travel between those cities, which is never too crazy.”

Ilya hummed his agreement.

“I thought maybe I’d come down and see you when we’re in San Jose, but you’re in Miami that night. And I’m in Dallas when you’re in New York and New Jersey. Not that they’re so close, but.”

Ilya would have made the trip. He nodded. These were the kinds of conversations they should have been having all along, but they’d preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening. At least Ilya had preferred that; Shane must have worked all this out while Ilya was sleeping, or on the single occasion they showered apart.

“When are you in LA?” Ilya asked.

“First week of December,” Shane said, with a smile like that was any kind of silver lining. “We’ll have maybe three days together, if I come early.”

“Three days,” Ilya said, and tried to smile back. He must have done a terrible job, because Shane – Shane, who’d been so fucking brave this whole time, who hadn’t cracked even slightly – got teary.

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya said, and reached to cup Shane’s face.

“Shit, sorry,” Shane said. “I was going to wait until you left.”

Ilya hoped his alarm showed. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Show me.”

Shane shook his head, looked down. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he said. It was such a plain, simple assessment of the situation. Shane was so good at that, at simplifying things. Which was pretty ironic considering he was also responsible for almost every single complication in Ilya’s life. “We’re supposed to get what we want.”

Ilya’s strength always seemed to well up when Shane’s shook. “We will get what we want, just two years later than we wanted. To us this is nothing, right?” Ilya snapped his fingers, and Shane’s lip twitched. “It will go like this.”

“I love you so much,” Shane said.

“I know,” Ilya said, and pulled him against his chest. “And you will still love me in two years.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, into Ilya’s neck. “Two years is nothing.”

Ilya didn’t have Shane to hide in on the plane. He pulled out his phone and texted Svetlana as he waited for it to take off, as abrupt and perfunctory as their few other exchanges since the trade. What should I read/listen to to know what people are saying abt this.

She sent back a link to a podcast, a daily national one he knew she didn’t respect which presumably meant she didn’t respect how the trade was being discussed, and he pressed play. Just as he went to lock the screen a text came in from Yuna: I’m sorry we didn’t get to see you before you left, I know it must have been a hard time. Let me know if there is anything we can do. Xx

The podcast opened with shock and horror, the hosts in disbelief over the most significant trade in the NHL in at least a decade. Ilya’s guilt forced him to respond immediately, a rare feat: Thank you Yuna you and David have been so good to me. I will be okay. He deleted a request for them to look after Shane, cringing at his presumption. They’d been doing it far longer than he had, and likely knew how to far better.

He could have seen Shane’s parents during those final three days, and probably he should have, but Shane hadn’t wanted to have them over and Ilya had gone along with him. It had been easy to make it seem like it was because he wanted as much time alone with Shane as possible, but really he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to meet their eyes. He felt like he’d already proven their worst fears about him true, that he couldn’t be there for Shane, couldn’t be what Shane needed, that all he did was make Shane’s life harder. There would be no charitable foundation, no slowly established narrative of friendship, no rehabilitation of Ilya’s image (this part of Yuna and Shane’s plan, while very much between the lines, had been glaring to Ilya). In fact his image would likely get grimier now. Ottawa would have just confused people, and Ilya had always enjoyed confusing people. LA reinforced all the worst ideas people had about him, which he’d used to enjoy too.

Roz moving to LA and he gets to bring his best friend. Living the dream, man.

You think that’s like a clause in his contract? That Marly goes where he goes?

The podcast was giving him such agency over how things had gone down. It was weird that Ilya would rather be seen as helpless, but it made him feel insane that people thought this was what he wanted, like his reality was entirely different from the reality of everyone else. At least they really didn’t seem to be saying he was joining LA as a cheap ticket to a championship, although perhaps only because people thought he cared more about the cheap ticket to celebrity and glamour. He pulled open twitter for the first time since the trade, ignored his timeline and posted a new tweet: I am sorry Boston I love you. Then he closed the app again.

The episode Svetlana had sent was from the day the news first broke, and he queued up the ones that had been posted subsequently, a self-destructive kind of white noise. His trade continued to dominate the discussions, joined by a couple smaller transactions he’d missed during his self-imposed seventy two hour exile from the hockey world. He kept stopping and starting the discussion, morbidly fascinated but sometimes overwhelmed. By the time he was approaching LA, they’d just posted that day’s episode. He listened to it as he waited for his car to pull up outside the airport, and it opened with reactions to his earlier tweet. About ten minutes into it, breaking down the first wave of media days, host number one said, ...and obviously, of course, Hollander was asked about Rozanov’s vanishing act.

Ilya clenched his eyes closed and pressed his earphones deeper into his ears as they played the audio of Shane’s cautious, smooth voice. “No, yeah, it’s. I’ll miss competing with him throughout the season. It’s a loss for our division. I’m, um… It’s lesser without him.”

Unusually heartfelt there. I mean, by Hollander’s standards.

Right? Well, he just lost the one guy in the east who could keep up with him.

He didn’t lose me, Ilya thought. Had to clench his jaw against actually saying it aloud. I’m not lost.

Ilya had let the team pick out his place for him, a rental he wouldn’t get attached to as a matter of principle, but he regretted it as soon as he stepped inside. Whoever had signed off on the arrangement obviously hadn’t been updated on the changes to Ilya Rozanov, that he was romantic and in love and trying. It was very much a bachelor pad, with sleek, uncomfortable furniture, lots of mirrors and not enough overhead lighting. Three bedrooms all obviously designed to get fucked in. That wouldn’t go to waste, anyway, when he was showing Shane the place in November. But he had never liked these hard, dark interiors, and based on Shane’s cottage and apartment he didn’t either. That was a good thing, Ilya decided. No reason for this place to feel like home.

When he got the address he sent it to Marlow as an unspoken indication of the neighborhood he should shop in; Marlow was staying in a hotel while he looked for permanent accommodation. They’d lived close to each other in Boston and it had worked well. His contact with Marlow since the trade had been brief and intermittent, and he felt like shit about that too. At least it hadn’t been one of his teammates with a family to uproot, and he was pretty sure Marlow liked LA. Almost everyone liked LA.

Shane texted as Ilya settled into the black sheets of his new bed. It was only 5pm, but it wasn’t like he wanted to go out.

Jane: How are you?

Lily: Horny.

Jane: Unbelievable. Can you take a call?

Ilya obliged. “Are you actually horny?” Shane asked, conversationally.

Ilya smiled. “Always a little bit.”

“Wow,” Shane said. “What’s your new place like?”

“Ugly,” Ilya said. “But you would probably call it good investment.”

“Not like you bought it,” Shane said. “Right? It’s a rental?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, surprised Shane felt the need to clarify that. “How was media day?”

Shane made a noise that conveyed nothing, which Ilya understood. There was nothing really to be said about any media day, which served to set the bland tone for player-reporter interactions that would dominate the season. Shane had answered at least one question honestly, but Ilya was fine with leaving that unaddressed.

“Nice seeing team again?” Ilya asked.

“Sure,” Shane said. “They mostly seem in good shape, which is good. I would’ve been pissed if they didn’t take this off-season seriously.”

“Baby wanted his threepeat,” Ilya said.

“Obviously,” Shane said. “I like our chances this year, anyway, and nobody’s injured, either. It was good catching up with JJ.”

“Good,” Ilya said, because the social aspect was more what he’d meant, anyway. For as hockey focused as Shane was, he’d always seemed to get on well with his teammates, and they all seemed pretty loyal to him. Ilya had long been curious about how it actually worked, and he would get real insight into it this season.

“Have you seen Marlow, do you have plans to see him?”

“No,” Ilya said. “Our media day is in a few days anyway. Fuck, I told him where I live, so he might just show up.”

“Why’d you tell him where you live if you didn’t want him coming over?”

“So he could find place near me.”

“Adorable,” Shane said. “I’m glad you’re not totally alone. I’m glad Svetlana spends time there too. I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

Ilya hummed. Svetlana had offered to travel with him, to help him move, help him settle, but Ilya had said no. She was already scheduled to be in LA in a month, and he’d see her then. He didn’t want to be insulated from his misery or longing. He couldn’t get distracted from how much he missed Shane; Shane deserved better.

“Your mom texted me,” he said, and Shane laughed.

“Sorry,” Shane said. “That just sounds like such a set up to Ilya Rozanov trash talk.”

Ilya smiled. “She was checking in,” he said. “Did she check in with you?”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“What about Hayden?” Ilya asked. He hadn’t been able to get a read on what Shane’s friend thought of the trade. It was pretty clear that Hayden resented both Ilya and the relationship, so it’d make sense if he secretly thought the trade was a good thing, but Ilya hoped he was at least pretending to be sympathetic to Shane.

“You worried about me or something, Rozanov?”

Ilya frowned. Was he? Was there something itching at him, something in Shane’s voice? “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ll survive without me.”

“You’ll be way more miserable than me,” Shane said, and Ilya grinned. Shane Hollander, competitive about heartbreak.

“Just look after yourself,” Ilya said.

“You’re saying that to me?” Shane asked. “What are you having for dinner tonight and is it healthier than black rice salad?”

“Not what I mean,” Ilya said.

Shane’s voice softened. “I’ll look after myself, you don’t have to worry,” he said. “And you – you can still look after me too, even if you’re further away than we planned. You’re looking after me right now.”

“Trying to,” Ilya said. “You will tell me, then, if anything is wrong?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and Ilya spent the rest of the evening trying to believe him.

Ilya had a meeting with the GM the next day. His phone call with Arcott had covered preliminary logistics, his arrival in LA and the house and his comfort level with media appearances. This meeting would cover actual hockey, and Ilya tried to get in the right frame of mind for it. It was hard to stop feeling like a rebellious kid, ready to fight everyone and everything, but he was also still an attention-seeking, competitive kid, who needed to be the best player on his team and for his team to win. Begrudgingly, he had to start taking his tenure in LA seriously.

His cars had beat him to the city, landing in the large garage that was his current residence’s sole redeeming feature. He drove to the Brakemen’s facility and was late, not properly accounting for traffic. It was the one impulse of rebellion he would allow himself.

Boston’s GM had been a retired player, imposing and no-nonsense and fond of Ilya in a way that Ilya believed. LA’s GM was suited to the city, a neat, expensive shirt with artfully rolled up sleeves, a face it was impossible to tell the age of, and a wide smile with fake white teeth Ilya doubted had been earned the same way he’d earned his own. Ilya felt himself go wide-eyed being led through the offices, not in awe but caution, the way he got in new environments. He sat on the edge of the chair indicated for him and waited for Arcott to speak first.

“Well, I want to start by saying we’re absolutely thrilled to have you here, Ilya,” Arcott said. He’d asked if he could call him Ilya on their phone call and hadn’t waited for an answer. “I know you love the city, so you’ve always been on my dream board, but I thought I’d have to wait to free agency to court you.”

“What is dream board,” Ilya said, to be a dick. One of the few benefits of living in America with English as a second language was forcing Americans to explain some of the dumb shit they said.

Arcott took it in stride, laughing and leaning back in his chair. “Some woo-woo west coast nonsense, I’m sure you think, but we’ll win you over,” he said. “What I’m trying to say is, I couldn’t believe it when Boston put you on the trading block. We absolutely pounced on the opportunity—”

“They put me on trading block because I asked,” Ilya said.

“Right,” Arcott said. “Things had run their course there, and it’s time for a new chapter. I’m so excited to be part of that for such a legendary player.”

“I asked to be traded to Ottawa,” Ilya said. “I wanted to go to Ottawa.”

“I know,” Arcott said. “And I’m sorry that didn’t work out for you, this can be a tough league. But I’m convinced we can make you happy. We’re invested, Ilya.”

“This is what I want to say,” Ilya said. “I will not say this to coach, to team, I know it is bad for morale, but I will say this to you. I will not re-sign here. I will play for two years, and I will play very hard, but then I will go to Ottawa. I will not change my mind. Nothing you can give me will make me change my mind.” The panic on his skin settled and he sat back in his chair. Actually giving it voice made him feel more in control. Manifestation, woo-woo west coast nonsense.

Arcott nodded. “I hope you don’t mind if I consider that our starting point,” he said. “Two years is a long time. And this is why I’m telling you we’re invested. Joshua is a great player, and we’re proud of him and committed to him, but we have room for you too. I need you to know we don’t see you as a rental. You’re our future, as much as Joshua is. We want to make you happy, and we think we can. We’re a good team who play good, winning hockey. You’ll enjoy wearing the Brakemen jersey, I’m sure of it.”

He still sounded pretty confident about winning Ilya over. Ilya had done his due diligence, he’d flatly told him his position, but at the end of that there was still a powerful man who wanted to make him happy, and Ilya wasn’t going to squander it. “I will not enjoy playing for a team where I am not captain,” he said.

Arcott smiled. “Well, Ilya, that’s really the coach’s call. But our coach sees sense.”

Ilya met the coach, too, Pete Willis. He wasn’t all that different from Ilya’s Boston coach, or from the coaches back in Russia, which was to say he was old and old-school. That was sort of how Ilya liked it, clearly demarcated hierarchies and expectations, none of the looser modern methods that had been cropping up across the league in recent years. He posed for a photo with Willis and Arcott and his new jersey, holding it instead of wearing it, and even smiled. They took that picture in the main training facility, which was state of the art. When he left he didn’t go home.

It was amazing LA could be all it was and not feel claustrophobic, but it was sprawling, too, with roads leaking out of it in every direction. Ilya could drive to the desert, to the mountains, to the sea. He could drive to another country that spoke another language. There were many ways out; just no way to Shane.

After a few hours Ilya pulled over on a dusty cliff side, overlooking a blue sky and an inlet of choppy water. He stayed in his car and called Shane, closing his eyes because imagining his boyfriend beat the view.

“How was first day of camp?” he asked, when Shane picked up.

“Promising,” Shane said. “I’m happy we were able to keep most of the team the same season on season. It’s easy to get back in rhythm with each other. Not to rub it in your face.”

Ilya laughed. “I do not know there will be any rhythm here,” he said. “I asked to be made Captain.”

“Well, you should be,” Shane said. “You think Moran won’t understand?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know him,” Ilya said. “It could cause waves.”

“Ilya Rozanov, causing waves,” Shane said. “Who would have guessed.”

Ilya smiled. “It is weird,” he said. “Hating to be here but still wanting my team to be good.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “But I’m glad that’s how you feel. I’m glad it’s not messing with the hockey.”

Ilya hummed his agreement. “Where are you right now?”

“In my kitchen, preparing dinner,” Shane said.

“Burger and fries?”

Shane laughed. “Yeah.”

“What will you do after?”

“Nothing, really,” Shane said. “Quiet evening. Check my emails, check in on the rookies, shower, read, go to bed.”

Ilya had to blink away tears. He wanted to be there so fucking bad. “This is beautiful.”

“No, it’s boring,” Shane said, warning. “Don’t get mushy, Ilya, that’s not why I love you.”

“Too bad,” Ilya said. “I want to watch you check your emails.”

“Lame phone sex,” Shane said.

Ilya laughed, and quiet fell. He opened his eyes and looked at the water. After a few of Shane’s measured breaths, Ilya said, “I fucking hate LA.”

“You don’t,” Shane said, amused, not the sympathy Ilya was expecting.

“I do,” Ilya said. “Fucking miserable place full of miserable people.”

“Ilya, it’s like your favorite city,” Shane said, flat.

Suddenly this was two different conversations, above and below the surface. Ilya was good at that. “To visit,” he said. “Living here is different. It is awful.”

Shane huffed out a little laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And this is why you love me,” Ilya said. “Tell me what you think of my team.”

“What?”

“You have scouting report on every team in league, I know this. Tell me what you think of LA.”

“That kind of feels like giving away my secrets.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, covetous. “Give me your secrets.”

He could hear Shane’s smile when he dutifully started breaking down Ilya’s new team, starting with Moran and ending with a defenseman Ilya hadn’t even realized had signed with LA that summer, before moving on to the coaching staff. With Ilya’s own interjections, it ate up nearly two hours. Shane mightn’t have time to read a book.

“Thank you,” Ilya said.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “God, fuck, this is really real, isn’t it? You’re going to play for LA.”

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya said, closing his eyes.

“It hasn’t started feeling real,” Shane said. “Maybe I need to actually see it. It still feels like a nightmare. Fuck, I can’t believe this is where we are, after all those plans.”

“Now who’s dramatic,” Ilya said. He couldn’t tell Shane that their plan had never felt all that real to him, that this trade, as much as it broke his heart, hadn’t come entirely as a surprise. The specifics of it, yes, but not the sense of implosion. It was a lot easier to comprehend playing for LA than imagine running a charitable foundation with Shane Hollander.

Training camp passed quickly, and pre-season, and then Ilya had played his first official game as an LA Brakeman. Won his first official game as an LA Brakeman.

Fitting in had been easy. Ilya was good in locker rooms, and it had come as a great relief to learn that Joshua Moran wasn’t an asshole. Or if he was, he was the kind who was an asshole to players who were worse than him, so Ilya was still in his good graces. Having Marly around was nice, but Ilya could have survived anyway. If they won as many games as pundits predicted they would, the camaraderie would stick.

The atmosphere in the arena wasn’t as good as Ilya would associate with a team that won so much, either because LA didn’t have many hardcore fans or because they’d been priced out of the good seats. There were definitely more celebrities in attendance than Ilya had ever seen in Boston. Half of Ilya felt duty bound to create some positive spin on this, the way he had for all of Boston’s flaws, and half of him wanted to latch on to proof that this wasn’t the right place for him. He got a lot of motivation from fans, his or otherwise. Playing to apathy made for the toughest game conditions he ever faced.

Montreal won their opener too, and then their next three. LA matched them. It was hard to find a rhythm with Shane because their schedules were always changing, so they couldn’t exactly have a set time for a call. They’d still managed at least one each day since Ilya’s arrival, the shortest standing at fifteen minutes, which he took as a win. They texted a lot too. Ilya could handle it. Getting less of Shane than he wanted was his baseline, a lack he was built around.

It was harder than being in Boston for more reasons than just their seeing less of each other. Most days Shane got up at 6am and Ilya got up at 8am and now with the time difference that was five hours apart instead of two. Ilya didn’t have a set bedtime, but sometimes he was awake for six or seven hours after Shane texted him good night. Ilya’s games started after Shane’s, so on the nights they both played they couldn’t talk unless Shane was willing to fuck up his sleep schedule. Most days were emotional whiplash, resentful of the state of his relationship while playing on the best team he’d ever been part of.

The LA schedule had been easy to start. It would be some version of easy the whole way through the season; the competition out west was weak. Ilya had been fined two years ago for audibly calling it the pussy conference while a teammate got interviewed in the locker room after Boston trounced Seattle. He had to imagine that clip had resurfaced in recent weeks, although he was still off social media. He was comfortably the conference’s best player, and his right wing had a good shot at second place. The east had been dominating the league since he and Shane had been drafted into it, and that was still the case even if Boston had dropped down from the elite tier this season.

LA’s first game against an east team, and a good team, was New York at home. There was fervor in the locker room for a week leading up to it, most of the players having lost to them in the finals only a few months prior. Ilya was feeling his own kind of anticipation, curious to see up close and personal how players treated Hunter on the ice after his coming out.

Not well, that game, although it was hard for Ilya to distinguish any particularly vicious homophobia from the more general, hard-won hatred suited to a grudge match. Not too much filth was given voice, and not too much blood was spilled, and LA won, 2-0.

If not in the stands, the atmosphere in the locker room was insane, and Ilya gave into it like he had any kind of personal vendetta against New York himself. It was the first win he felt really proud of, shutting out the reigning champs who’d come out fighting just as hard. It made their winning streak real, made them a threat. I think everyone knows, now, Ilya told a reporter after the game, breathing heavily. The west goes through LA.

That was one of the nights Shane was willing to fuck up his sleep schedule, and he picked up Ilya’s call when Ilya was stumbling through his door after getting home from celebrating with the team. “That was so good,” Shane said. “I’m sort of in awe. Just really good hockey.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Best team in hockey, I think.”

“Fuck you, we’re undefeated too,” Shane said.
“We should place bet,” Ilya said. “Put stakes on which team loses first.”

“If LA loses first you have to get up an hour earlier every day for a month,” Shane said.

“If Montreal loses you have to send me video of you fucking yourself,” Ilya said, but only because he thought it would be funny to respond to Shane’s very sweet stakes with something dirty.

“Fuck off,” Shane said, lightly.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya said. “You have to lie in for an hour every day for month.”

“My body clock isn’t as adaptable as yours,” Shane said.

“This seems like you are saying I am better than you,” Ilya said. “I have more adaptable body?”

“Adapted to getting your ass kicked,” Shane said.

Ilya laughed, probably harder than it warranted. Everything had been funny and beautiful since that evening’s win.

Shane sighed, and sounded affectionate and something else when he said, “You sound happy.”

Ilya’s mood immediately plummeted, elation replaced by guilt. “Is just hockey,” he said. “I just like hockey.”

“I know,” Shane said. “I know, sorry, I didn’t mean—shit, don’t let me ruin the mood. I feel like I make everything about me when we talk.”

“I have to force you to talk about yourself,” Ilya said. “Reminds me. How was your day?”

“Good,” Shane said, cautious and thoughtful like he had something to say. Ilya stayed quiet, and after taking a breath, Shane continued. “I’m thinking of coming out to my team.”

Ilya sat down on one of his house’s many uncomfortable couches. “Like,” he said, slowly. “Telling them about us?”

“No! No,” Shane said. “Sorry, not that. Just that I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Ilya said. It was sort of shocking to him, and terrifying, so he wasn’t sure why Shane didn’t sound terrified. “You think it will be okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I mean, we’re playing so well. It’s hard to fuck up a locker room when you’re winning, you know. And most of these guys were here for at least one of the cups, so I think they appreciate getting to play with me. It’s not like I’m gonna be talking about it all the time. Or at all, really. It’s just so they stop trying to make me pick up women, and so I stop stressing about the idea of them somehow figuring it out. Like if they know I’m not gonna make it a big deal I don’t see why they would.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said.

“What are you thinking?”

He sounded nervous, like Ilya’s opinion on this carried weight. Ilya didn’t really know what to say. If this went wrong, if anyone gave Shane a hard time, it could be a huge set back, and Ilya wouldn’t be there to comfort him or support him. But it wouldn’t be exactly supportive to try to talk Shane out of it, either. Carefully, he said, “I just want them to be nice to you.”

Shane laughed. “You sound like you’re talking about children. I’m sure there’ll be some dumb comments, and maybe some guys will get more stand offish, but I don’t really care as long as it doesn’t impact our play. I mean Hayden’s obviously cool about it, and I’m sure JJ will be too. Beyond that as long as no one is like, actively sabotaging the team, I’m cool with it.”

“That makes sense,” Ilya said. His concern was that he wasn’t sure if Shane would notice anything less than an attempt to actively sabotage the team. These things could simmer for a long time before they reached a boil. “You have not played New York yet.”

“No, in a couple weeks,” Shane said. “Why?”

“It would be good to see how your team treats Hunter.” Shane might miss subtle jabs or coldness off the ice, but if anyone went harder than usual during the game he’d notice. It wasn’t like Shane was unobservant; it was just that a lot of things, and frankly people, were beneath his attention. Those that earned it couldn’t escape it.

Shane paused. “I saw what they said in the group chat when he came out.”

Ilya winced. His own team chat had been so vile that night it had made the leaving easier. He hadn’t asked any questions that would give him an answer, but he assumed his current teammates had been worse than anyone, Hunter’s coming out coinciding with their defeat. “It wasn’t so bad?” he still asked, even though he couldn’t believe it.

“No, it was fucking gross, but this is different,” Shane said. “I know it’s not the most enlightened group of guys, but I’m their captain, I’m gonna get them another cup, and I’m not gonna kiss some random guy in public.”

“I hope you do not kiss some random guy,” Ilya said.
“Stop, you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “It is not just your team you have to worry about, you know. You are their captain, you will get them a cup, but there are lots of players in the league this is not true for. And they will hear about it. Especially when trades start happening. They will not be easy on you.”

Ilya initially thought Shane’s silence meant he was considering Ilya’s concerns. Then Shane said, “Do you not want me to come out?”

Ilya stood up, instantly agitated. If he was in the same room as Shane he’d have been able to tell he was pushing too hard. “No, fuck, it’s not that,” he said. “I want you to do what you want, that’s all I ever want for you. You should if you want to. I just – I am talking it through. It is scary, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’m happy to talk it through, because I’ve already thought it through. You get that right? Like, this isn’t something I just came up with.”

“Are you still picking out a flask?” Ilya asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Then yes I believe you have put thought into coming out to your team.”

Shane laughed. “What about you? Would you consider coming out to your team?”

“In LA?” Ilya asked. “Ah, no. I am not trying to get close to people, here.”

“You can make friends,” Shane said. “I want you to make friends.”
“I do not really tell my friends things like this,” Ilya said. It wasn’t even because of the risk of it getting back to Russia, and it wasn’t shame or fear, either. It was something simpler, cleaner. Instinct. He didn’t tell people he was bi for the same reason he didn’t tell them about his mother or his father or his hatred of the sound of cracking knuckles. There was a lot more to lose than to gain from sharing. He had Shane to talk to now, anyway.

“What about Marlow?” Shane asked. Ilya wondered if he wanted him to come out to someone.

“Maybe, if it comes up.” Ilya realized something then. He had no interest in telling anyone he was into men if he didn’t get to also tell them about Shane. “When are you going to tell your team? You have whole plan, yes?”

Shane laughed and told Ilya about the first practice back after a few days off in two weeks, after hopefully extending their win streak to a franchise record for the start of a season, where Shane would say two sentences under the AOB of his routine locker room speech. It sounded very neat and low key. Ilya hoped it would stay that way. By the time Shane got to the end of it, he was yawning.

Ilya smiled. “You should go to bed,” he said. “You are not sleeping for extra hour just yet.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shane said. “You too, will you go to bed now too?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, because Shane seemed to like that, when their schedules aligned in any way.

“Love you,” Shane said, with a tone like a question or a prompt, like he was just saying it so he could hear Ilya say it back.

“Love you,” Ilya said, trying to not end such a good night with sadness.

The next morning Ilya braved social media for the first time since the trade. It was a habit from Boston – after a night where he or the team as a whole played especially well, he’d check in on the fans. It was invigorating, seeing their excitement.

Of course it didn’t quite work like that this time, because he mostly followed Boston people, and the top three posts were worrying expressions of despair regarding the trade. The anger seemed to be more directed toward the Boston front office than Ilya, which he found he felt bad about. He should hate the front office for sending him here, but he’d put them in a difficult position. The fans either didn’t know or were in denial about his trade request.

Eventually he found the non-Boston tweets and his mood rose again. This team might be unstoppable I’m scared, and, Rozanov and Moran are easily the best star duo in the league. One Boston fan magnanimously said, It’s nice seeing Rozanov not have to carry his team every single fucking night. He scrolled as he drank his coffee and ate his breakfast, and in the shower afterwards the good mood vanished.

Not a single one of the tweets had been through the lens of the Rozanov-Hollander rivalry. Nobody had argued LA’s performance was proof Ilya was better, which had been guaranteed to happen after any Boston win streak. LA’s media day had been the first of his career where he hadn’t been asked a single question about Shane or Montreal, and at the time he’d just been relieved to not have to put on the old mask of hostile competition while talking about the love of his life. He’d gotten the impression his new team were not interested in furthering that narrative, presumably as a concession to Moran. LA didn’t want to make themselves into the Ilya show the way Boston had been, not when they had their own homegrown hero who’d gotten them through a five year rebuild. Ilya personally thought it was pretty clear that he was a better player than Moran, but he was no longer on a team that would single him out as their one true savior. His ego could just about hack it.

The fans moving on from the narrative was a lot more concerning. It wasn’t like it was impossible to have an inter-conference rivalry. Had it just run its course? Had Shane been too kind in his comments after the trade? Was it too much to ask people to care if Shane and Ilya only played each other twice a year? Part of the now abandoned plan for Ilya’s move to Ottawa had been putting the rivalry to bed, but Ilya had only been in favor of that because they were going to make the world think they were friends instead. They couldn’t be friends now, it wouldn’t make sense to people, and he’d much prefer to be Shane’s rival than nothing to him at all.

He opened twitter again and tweeted @ShaneHollander fuck you. Texted Shane, Sorry but people are not talking about us enough.

Shane came out to his team. He hadn’t said anything more about it since he’d first told Ilya, and he didn’t say anything about it on the day, either, but Ilya had marked the date in his mind. He called Shane that afternoon, after a couple text exchanges that were either reassuringly or worryingly normal. It would be worrying if he couldn’t sense Shane’s distress over text.

“Hello,” he said. “Did you do anything special today?”

“I wondered if you’d remember,” Shane said, sounding happy. Ilya relaxed a fraction.

“This is day you get new protein powder, yes?”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, laughing.

“How did it go?” Ilya asked.

“Like, as well as I could have hoped,” Shane said. “Nobody really said anything, and practice after was totally fine. I’m sure they were saying things among themselves, but if it doesn’t get back to me I don’t really care.”

Ilya hummed. “What about JJ? Did he not say anything?”

“No, he did. He was sweet, really. Kept telling me about his gay cousin who he’s never mentioned before, but other than that…”

Ilya smiled. “In his defense I think you would not remember a teammate telling you about their cousin.”

Shane laughed. “True,” he said. “Man, it just feels so good. I’m so relieved.”

Ilya slipped down in the couch. Probably because of how practically Shane had framed the decision, Ilya hadn’t expected its impact to be so emotional. It had sounded like an item on a checklist. “Why did you want to do this so bad?”

“I guess…” Shane huffed, which meant Ilya was going to get the real answer. “Just, after this summer, with you, it was killing me how everything felt exactly the same, like nothing had changed. The ice, the locker room, it might as well have been last year. I just needed something to change, and something I was in control of. This is what came to mind.”

Ilya worried his lip with his thumb. “And you feel more in control now?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and Ilya could hear the smile. Shane did dangerous things sometimes, but Ilya would never call him reckless. All of his risks were so calculated the math would take up at least two chalkboards. For some reason Ilya couldn’t convince himself that this move had been quite so measured. Ilya hated having been traded to LA because it meant he was far away from Shane. Shane hated it because of that but also, Ilya was beginning to suspect, because it had shown he could not bend hockey to his whim, that it would not always give him everything he wanted. Ilya wasn’t sure how well he could expect Shane to handle that.

He locked the worry up, because he could hear Shane’s smile and he didn’t want to cause trouble. “I am so happy for you,” he said, and he could focus on the part of himself that straightforwardly was. It was so brave, and it would have been unthinkable only six months earlier.

“Thanks, Ilya,” Shane said, and laughed, giddily. Shane hadn’t ever called him a pet name and Ilya didn’t expect him to for at least another three years, but sometimes he said Ilya as though it was one. He said it often, he said it the way Ilya said I love you, like he couldn’t believe he got to. Everything they had they had fought for.

When Shane hung up, Ilya’s worry ballooned. He’d kept his schedule clear for the day in case things went wrong for Shane, and things hadn’t gone wrong for Shane, but he still felt a little sick. He grabbed his phone from where he’d discarded it on the couch to briefly stare at the ceiling and scrolled back to a sparsely populated group chat from over the summer, opened one of the two unsaved contacts in it, and sent a text. Hayden Pike this is Shane’s boyfriend. He could say that, at least, now that Shane was out to his team.

The reply was close to instantaneous. Yes I know I have your number.

Ilya frowned. Really? You save number of everyone you are ever in a group chat with?

+1-555-673-5981: If they’re my best friend’s boyfriend yes. What do you want?

Ilya: How did today go?

+1-555-673-5981: Can’t you ask Shane?

Ilya: I have already talked with Shane he said there were no issues. This is hard for me to believe. I wonder if you noticed anything.

Ilya wasn’t sure how observant Hayden was, considering he couldn’t tell when someone he was on a call with was getting head, but he also seemed very protective of Shane, so presumably he’d be on alert.

+1-555-673-5981: It wasn’t a disaster, could’ve been a lot worse.

Ilya: But?

+1-555-673-5981: Some guys are mad he came out. That’s how they’re framing it. They think he should have kept it to himself.

Ilya: Some guys? How many? Which guys?

+1-555-673-5981: What are you gonna do?

Ilya: Not murder them. Which guys?
+1-555-673-5981: Drapeau and Gil are the most worrying to me because they’re important to the team and have some clout. Other guys I’ve heard are fringier.

+1-555-673-5981: Everyone knows I’m on his side. There could be worse stuff I’m not hearing.

It was unfair of Ilya to get pissed off at the ‘everyone knows’. It would be unfair to interpret it as Hayden gloating.

Ilya: JJ was really good with it?

+1-555-673-5981: Yeah JJ loves Shane and he has a gay cousin.

Ilya: Okay. If you hear anything else or if it gets worse tell me.

+1-555-673-5981: Bro don’t tell me what to do. Phrase it as a request!!

+1-555-673-5981: But okay.

Ilya: Don’t tell Shane either that I texted you.

+1-555-673-5981: Is this a language thing? Does Russian not have questions?

Ilya: Yes in Russia we have not invented questions yet. Jesus.

Ilya: Scary you have no education because I do not think this hockey dream will work out for you.

+1-555-673-5981: What’s crazy is I know Shane has told you to be nicer to me.

Ilya: I said okay as long as he is not saying the dumbest shit I have ever heard in my life. Hayden will you please not tell Shane that I texted you about this

Ilya: ????????????????????

+1-555-673-5981: I won’t. I know he hates people worrying lol

+1-555-673-5981: But I am worried

Ilya stared at the screen. He was worried too, more so now than when he’d first reached out to Hayden, but if he ever said that to anyone it’d be to Shane. He locked his phone and got back to staring at the ceiling.

LA’s winning streak outlasted Montreal’s and Ilya only gloated a little, because Shane had too much pride to point out that LA had just played a slew of bottom feeders. Regardless Shane committed hard, adjusting his sleep schedule so their mornings were now only four hours apart, and sending his good night texts an hour later too, so that Ilya stopped getting them when he was out at dinner and feeling like a ghost for the rest of the evening.

Svetlana’s plan for visiting never got more specific than some time in November even when they were halfway through the month, and then she texted him, Landing tomorrow morning! Tell your stupidest teammates to buy cars from me.

He picked her up from the airport, and the traffic was so bad they did most of their catching up on the way to his house. Naturally, this largely involved talking about hockey.

“You’re getting cocky,” Svetlana said.

Ilya grinned at the windscreen. “There was a time I wasn’t?”

“There was a time you could deliver,” Svetlana said. “This team of yours isn’t a championship team, not yet. Probably not even a finals team this year.”

The car was stock still, so Ilya could take his time giving her an incredulous look. They were the third favorite in Vegas for the Cup, and favorites to win the conference finals by a margin rarely seen in betting markets.

“People are so intoxicated by how decisively you’re winning, but you’re a new team and it’s the regular season,” Svetlana said. “We’ve seen it before. The other teams just haven’t taken the time to figure you out yet. And they won’t, until the play offs. Suddenly you’ll be up against opponents who know how to take away the plays that have become automatic across this season, and you’ll have to adapt, and I don’t think you’ll be able to in time, not in the course of the playoffs. Maybe not even by next season.”

Svetlana didn’t have the sense of romance it took to be an athlete. She had the mind of a critic or a coach. Everything she just said might have been true, but it was impossible for Ilya to believe. He’d never gone into a season not expecting to win the Cup, and he wouldn’t want anyone on his team who had. There was no point voicing that to Svetlana, though. “Well then LA are fucked,” he said, cheerfully. “It’s this season or next season or nothing.”

Svetlana made a disgruntled noise. “You really wouldn’t consider staying?” she asked. “It’s the best team I could ever have imagined for you.”

Ilya laughed. “You just said we weren’t going to win.”

“Not straight away,” she said. “If you’re patient you could. LA would be good for you.”

Ilya shook his head. Svetlana had seemed on board with his Ottawa plan, but maybe also like she didn’t take it all that seriously. Like she was tolerating the babbling of a child. “I couldn’t be happy here,” he said plainly.

“And you’d be happy in fucking Ottawa?”

He tried to not get annoyed. “I would be happy with Shane.”

Svetlana moved on. “Well, anyway. I acknowledge there is a downside to you being here instead of Canada.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said. His citizenship. “I haven’t really thought about it. I think it’s okay, not too risky, to push it down the line for another two years. I think I’ll survive that. There’s nothing else I can do.”

Svetlana was quiet for a few moments, and then said, “There’s what we’ve talked about.”

The possibility of marrying Svetlana for US citizenship had first arisen when they were thirteen, when Svetlana was being sent to America for boarding school and they were working out how Ilya could eventually join her. It had never been discussed with total sincerity, but it had come up often enough to be more than just a joke. Still. Ilya had assumed it was a relic of the past, now.

“Ah, Shane wouldn’t really like this,” he said, laughing a little.

Svetlana shrugged. “I’m just saying. It’s still an option.”

Ilya swallowed his discomfort. He and Svetlana had never treated any romantic relationship with all that much respect; there was no reason that would change just because this time it was Ilya’s.

“Everything will be okay,” he said. “I will win back to back cups in LA and then move to Ottawa and become a Canadian citizen. You worry too much, you always have.”

Instead of the obvious reply, Svetlana said nothing. Ilya heard it anyway: You don’t worry enough.

“How’s having Svetlana there?” Shane asked.

Ilya, lying on his bed, took his time responding. He was enjoying it. Svetlana was fun and exciting and put him at ease. There had been no awkwardness or tension since the conversation coming back from the airport, but, at least for him, the conversation had left an aftertaste. He wished they hadn’t had it until she was leaving, because it cast a shadow over the whole visit. He didn’t want to tell Shane what she had said, though. It wouldn’t exactly endear her to him. Ilya said, carefully, “Good. She is out doing her own thing a lot. She has business here, and other friends.”

“Oh? But you’re getting to spend time with her, right?”

Shane sounded genuinely concerned. “Yes,” Ilya said. “It is nice, catching up with her.”

“Good,” Shane said. Either Shane’s jealousy was a thing of the past, or he’d gotten a lot better at rising above it.

“Yes?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s good you’re not alone.”

He’d said some version of that before, about Marly having been traded too. Ilya had never thought about Shane as alone before, nor lonely. He was so beloved it was an almost impossible concept. But Ilya could recite Hayden’s texts word for word, and he wondered how many people there were left out east who actually understood him.

“You’re why I’m not alone,” Ilya said, and then they changed the subject, like neither of them really believed it.

Chapter End Notes

apparently rachel reid wrote all those books and only ever named 5 hockey teams which is so impressive to me truly writer goals but unfortunately the LA team has never been named in the HRverse and I hate when I have to name things. LA Brakemen happened because brakemen are mentioned in the song the title comes from which I was listening to as I wrote this and I was reading the wikipedia page about them and it was really cool if also tragic. sometimes they'd have to stand literally on top of the train while it was moving like they're tom cruise or something. So.

thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoyed :)

Chapter 2: winter (1)

Chapter Notes

Lost faith that this would be shorter than the first chapter when I was 4k in and Shane was still in LA, a section of the chapter I had noted in my outline as just ‘Shane visits’. Lucy with the footballing myself but I do genuinely think they will start getting shorter going forward.

Winter was only a technicality, the lack of seasons making it feel like time wasn’t moving. Every day felt like a repeat of the last until the day that Shane showed up on his doorstep. Ilya enjoyed the fantasy of picking Shane up at the airport but there was something better about this, more surreal, like Christmas morning to a kid. The house had been empty and lifeless for months, and suddenly there was Shane.

“Hi,” Ilya said, crowding his body against Shane’s as he reached behind him to close the door, and instead of responding Shane bit his jaw. Ilya laughed and turned it into a kiss, and he was glad he’d gotten that one word out, because all language left him immediately. They listed into the corner of the entryway, both of them pressed together by the walls, and their hands were moving too fast for it to feel good, for it to be in any way for the benefit of the other person. They were running an inventory, ribs, elbows, throats, armpits, spines. Their legs wove together, ankle checking on ankle. Then Ilya’s hand slid down the front of Shane’s khakis and finally came to a halt. Shane’s head clunked back against the wall, and his own hand found its way to Ilya’s dick by feel alone. Ilya kept a regrettable inch between their faces so he could just about see Shane, his twitching eyelids and slight smile. Shane didn’t like looking so much during sex, and Ilya couldn’t tell if his habit of closing his eyes was to make the sensation more manageable or more intense. For Ilya, looking was half the joy. It was rough and artless and over in less time than it took for a cup of coffee to cool.

“Hi,” Shane said, once they’d caught their breath, and Ilya laughed. Shane laughed too, which delayed him from wrinkling his nose at the mess they’d made. Ilya herded him to the nearest bathroom before Shane could complain. He cleaned them up while Shane leaned against the sink and scanned his surroundings, which also earned a wrinkled nose. “Dark tile always makes me think people just don’t clean,” Shane said.

“I am cleaning right now,” Ilya said, and licked some come off his pinkie to demonstrate. Shane smiled at him more fondly than the gesture warranted.

“Can I borrow some pants?”

“No,” Ilya said, and smacked lightly at Shane’s bared hip. “Want to keep you naked.”

“It’s December,” Shane said.

“It’s LA,” Ilya said. Shane’s face did something complicated, and Ilya distracted him from those thoughts by getting naked himself. It worked, although not how he expected. Shane’s gaze drifted to the pile of clothes.

“Where’s your hamper?” he asked.

“No, this cannot be first thing you ask me after not seeing me in months,” Ilya said, putting his forehead on Shane’s shoulder.

“First thing I asked was for pants,” Shane said, and wrapped his arms around Ilya. “Sorry. I don’t really know how to…”

“I know,” Ilya said. He was in the same predicament. The time apart, the fact that they would only have this for the next three days, was beyond articulation. There wasn’t really any point in trying. He pressed a kiss into Shane’s shoulder, and then his jaw, and then found his lips. Ilya hadn’t known it was possible for someone to kiss earnestly before Shane, but that was always what he was struck by, how fully Shane committed to it, how obvious he let his want be. Ilya loved him so much it felt dangerous, like he could die from it, like the plants outside his house might wilt from it, him and Shane sucking up too much energy. The rushed handjobs had taken the edge off, but this settled something else in him. His hands swooped up and down Shane’s arms, a move that always ended with Shane shivering. Ilya loved how many things he could make Shane’s body do. He’d missed his body so much.

Eventually they left the bathroom, Shane holding their clothes in a pile for the hamper even though Ilya was refusing to tell him where it was, and Ilya drew to a stop in the entry way, squinting at the luggage Shane had left by the door. A backpack and a large duffel bag, which arriving a day earlier than his team for the game tomorrow did not justify. Ilya knew the explanation instantly.

“What did you bring me?” he asked.

“Oh,” Shane said, and placed their clothes on a nearby table. “Air purifiers.”

Ilya laughed, mostly at the plural, and Shane glared up at him as he knelt to unzip the duffel bags. “The air pollution here is terrifying.”

“Shane, I smoke,” Ilya said.

Another glare. “Yeah, but you’re quitting. And moving to LA is the equivalent of like, doubling your intake.”

Ilya hummed his acquiescence, even as he wondered how scientific that claim was. “Thank you, baby,” he said.

“Well,” Shane said, removing two identical cardboard boxes. “I knew if I just ordered them to your place you wouldn’t do anything with them. I can set them up.”

It sounded like he meant right then. “Not yet,” Ilya said. “I will breathe scary LA air for another hour if it means getting to fuck you.”

Shane stood up. Ilya thought he could get off just watching Shane move. “You can’t get hard again yet.”

“Lie under me in bed until I get hard,” he said, and Shane nodded. Left the clothes and the air purifiers in the hallway, followed Ilya to his room.

Shane set the air purifiers up at 3am, one in Ilya’s bedroom and one in the living room. Ilya felt only slightly guilty for fucking up his sleep routine so bad on the night before a game.

“Sorry about the noise,” Shane said, frowning at the machine tucked away in the corner, which was emitting a low hum. “It said online this model is quiet, but I guess quiet is different to silent.”

Ilya shook his head. Recently he’d been playing music constantly because the house was too quiet, and this was a sound with a direct link back to Shane. He loved it. “I will pretend it is your white noise machine,” he said.

“You hate my white noise machine,” Shane said, but he was smiling.

“I make fun of your white noise machine,” Ilya said. “You should know this is not hate.”

Shane’s smile got bigger.

Ilya could admit to slacking, a little. His team didn’t need everything from him to win, so he’d stopped giving everything on the ice. He was averaging the fewest minutes of his career since his rookie season, and when he tweaked his wrist last week he let the team rest him for a game that they had then won without him.

It was different tonight, playing Shane. He felt wired in the locker room in a way he hadn’t since the play offs. He needed to win, and as much as he was enjoying playing for LA this was the first time he’d felt this life-giving desperation in a Brakemen uniform. He came in from pre-game media and immediately pulled out his phone to check for clips of Shane’s pre-game media, just like every match up with Montreal before. Found one, and was gratified when Shane was pretty swiftly asked about him by an LA reporter Ilya knew was called Jenny. He decided he liked her. “...You guys have always been electric to watch, completely different play styles, completely different people, really—”

And Shane interrupted her. Ilya wasn’t sure he’d heard Shane interrupt someone before, always so measured and restrained. “We’re not that different,” Shane said. “We’re two hockey players at the top of our game, maybe the best two in the world. There’s only so different we can be. There aren’t many people I have more in common with than Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya wondered if that was Shane’s debut on the record use of his first name. It shocked him anyway, it all shocked him. It was the kind of thing Shane would have said if they’d gone ahead with trying to change the narrative, convince people they were friends, which no longer made sense to do. But Shane wasn’t good at letting things go. Thank fucking God.

“And, Shane,” started another reporter. “There are pictures from this afternoon of you—”

Ilya muted it before his mood could turn and put his phone back in his locker. Montreal had only flown in that morning and didn’t have a pre-game skate, so when Ilya had left for LA’s Shane had left for breakfast with Rose. Ilya had forgotten that one of the smaller plans they’d made over the summer had already involved LA – Shane wanted to tell Rose about them, but he wanted to tell her in person. Ilya was always happy for anyone in Shane’s life to learn about their relationship, so he’d been chipper sending Shane off that morning even though he’d known it would mean dredging up old rumors. Ilya enjoyed that part of the plan considerably less. He pulled at his chain, let the links dig into the back of his neck, and focused back on the game ahead.

In the first period, when Moran had the puck and Ilya was putting himself in position to receive a pass, Shane shoved him bodily from behind hard enough that Ilya went down. It was blatant and stupid and the refs obviously called it, and Ilya felt like he was on drugs. Shane pulled him back up, too, the both of them secretly laughing. People would likely assume Ilya had said something egregious, because that was easier to understand than Shane acting like a rambunctious dog barreling into another, unable to control his excitement. Ilya spent most of the game hard.

LA won in overtime, 3-2, and Ilya’s and Shane’s stats were identical. There was a twitter account that tracked that, would tweet STAT MATCH! with a bunch of confetti emojis whenever Shane and Ilya had the same lines on the same night. It had happened eerily often. In the post game presser Ilya got asked about it, and it was framed with reference to Shane’s earlier comments.

“People talk about you and Hollander being quite different players, but your contributions on the ice tonight were one for one, and Shane had some interesting things to say about you pregame, I don’t know if you heard—”

“I heard,” Ilya said, because he interrupted people flagrantly.

“So what did you think? Did it surprise you, do you agree, disagree?”

Ilya smiled. “I disagree. He says we are maybe two best players in the world. No maybe. We are the two best players in the world.”

The reporters laughed, and Ilya made his exit, ending on a high. His buoyant mood was jeopardized in the locker room again, this time by a text from Hayden. Heads up guys were weird about him being seen with Rose. Like talking about how maybe he was over the gay thing, or like she’d get him over it.

Ilya left him on read, something twinging in his stomach other than protectiveness over Shane. He could justify getting updates from Hayden when Shane was on the other side of the continent, but it didn’t feel as clean when they were in the same city. If Shane came out of that locker room feeling off, needing anything from Ilya, Ilya would be able to tell without Hayden’s insight.

What Shane seemed to need from Ilya, once they were both back at Ilya’s place, was to get fucked, and Ilya could oblige. They’d had sex that morning and Shane had blown him before the game and they’d gotten off three or four times the day before, and if anything Ilya still felt like they were slacking. They ended in a corner of Ilya’s living room because he’d wanted to fuck Shane on the floor and Shane would only permit that on wood, not carpet. Ilya loved that part of him so much it made him feel crazy, how Shane was simultaneously so easy for him and also one of the fussiest lays he’d ever had. He’d let Ilya say anything to him but he wouldn’t let Ilya substitute lube with lotion when he was jerking him off – shit, he used to show up to the Boston hotel rooms with his own lube, until Ilya caught on and upped the quality of his supply. Shane had never responded satisfactorily to Ilya’s questions about what process he’d undertaken to decide on his preferred brand, but he’d stayed loyal ever since. Fussy.

Coming down from it, Ilya crushed Shane against his chest, making Shane groan and creak, the game still under his skin. Ilya was soft but his blood was thrumming, like the burning need had been something other than arousal all along. He didn’t know how to try to sate it except through sex.

Shane squinted down at him and smiled, ran a thumb lightly along the curve of the bone beneath Ilya's right eye. “You’re so handsome,” he said, quietly. “I got so lucky.”

Ilya tightened his grip. They were so lucky, unbelievable lucky. If he only got to see Shane once a year he’d feel lucky.

Shane pulled free, sitting up and straddling Ilya’s waist, resting his hands on Ilya’s chest and looking down at him. “So,” he said. “All the bullshit about Rose today made me think some things.”

Ilya didn’t want to talk about this at all. His gaze dropped to Shane’s stomach, bruised and shaking.

“Rose texted me that we could shut it down, you know,” Shane said. “But I was thinking if people think I’m with Rose it’d make things easier. I mean, I could visit LA sometimes. I could spend Christmas here, New Years. Valentine’s day, maybe. Weeks, in the off season.” He was excited and embarrassed – planning again, the vulnerable enthusiasm that propelled his ideas recognizable from the summer.

“Rose would be okay with it?” Ilya asked, buying time. He didn’t want to give in straight away to the allure of more time with Shane. He had to scout out pitfalls first; had the comments Hayden had texted him about been made within earshot of Shane? Did he know what his team would make of it if he kept coming back to LA?

“I don’t know, I’d ask,” Shane said, and frowned down at him. “Obviously I’m not talking about, like – being her date at events, or talking about her in interviews, or anything like that. But if us getting coffee together is enough to make people think we’re in a relationship, then we might as well take advantage of it, you know.”

Ilya felt a stab of jealousy. He wasn’t sure what people would read into him getting coffee with Shane, but it certainly wouldn’t be love. Ilya didn’t give into his emotions the way he used to, though, didn’t let them spool out of him thoughtlessly. He reeled the jealousy back in carefully, neatly, ensuring it didn’t touch Shane. “Yes,” he said. “This makes sense.” It did, and if it could get him more time with Shane, why would he care about the price?

“Yeah?” Shane said, giddily, his hands cupping Ilya’s jaw. “So I could come here for Christmas?”

Ilya had never liked western Christmas, had always resented the mandated stoppage of hockey, and he’d never before given thought to how that would change now that he was dating Shane. “Your family, you take Christmas seriously?” he asked. He remembered pictures on Yuna and David’s walls, torn apart wrapping paper and glittering trees.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s always a good time. It’s a different date in Russia, right?”

Ilya nodded. For as desperate as he was for time with Shane, he wasn’t sure he could justify having him stay for Christmas. Taking him from his parents. Ilya would happily go to Ottawa, but Ottawa didn’t have a movie star the world thought he was in love with. “Your parents, they won’t mind—”

“Oh,” Shane said, frowning, like he’d forgotten about them. “Well, um. Maybe they could come too?”

Ilya’s eyes went wide enough that Shane laughed at him. Ilya did not want to host Shane’s parents, not here. He had two hot tubs. He doubted that was a trait parents looked for in the partners of their children. But he said, “Yes, okay. I have guest rooms.” And he could get them re-decorated swiftly, he was sure.

Shane smiled so wide Ilya could fit his thumbs between the corners of his mouth and his teeth, and did so.

Eventually they made their way to Ilya’s bed, and eventually they slept, but not for long. Ilya woke in the middle of the night to Shane’s hand curling into his hair, exerting a little more force than was needed for idle cuddling. Ilya grunted out a question, slid his hand from where it rested on Shane’s stomach to his waist, squeezed. Shane grabbed it and redirected it, brought it down to his crotch, where he was hard. “Will you blow me?” Shane asked, voice quiet and thick. Ilya kissed his shoulder instead of answering, wanting to hear a little more. “You were touching my stomach and I need it. I’ll give you a handjob, just blow me, please.”

Ilya let Shane guide him down his body, lying sideways in Shane’s lap and angling his hips up so Shane could deliver on his part of the deal. Shane was still bare from earlier so Ilya didn’t have to involve his hands, just got his mouth around Shane and sucked. He was filled with a hysterical swell of affection, less for Shane than for his dick. He’d called it cute, once, and Shane had at least pretended to find this offensive, and it probably had been a poorly chosen word. Ilya couldn’t explain it. He’d never had an emotional attachment to someone else’s genitalia before. Shane’s hips twitched and Ilya took him further inside his mouth. He only managed to hold him there for a few moments before he had to pull off and work up some saliva, his mouth still dry from sleep. Randomly, weirdly, that made his own dick kick. It felt half like he was still dreaming, and once he’d realized the room was pitch black he’d let his bleary eyes fall closed again. Half-asleep he could still make Shane come.

He was barely aware of the handjob, which was not at all a slight on Shane’s technique. Ilya loved getting off, obviously, but secretly more than that he loved getting other people off. Ilya was easy, but often other people weren’t. It was more of an accomplishment, making someone else come. Shane was so fucking fussy, but look at what Ilya could do to him, with just his mouth, in the dark, barely aware. Listen to the sounds Ilya could pull out of him, throatier than usual because he must have been sleeping too, plaintive, pained, like everything that was happening wasn’t because he wanted it.

Ilya didn’t have the wherewithal to hold off and came before Shane did, Shane wiping his hand on Ilya’s hip because Ilya didn’t mind that. Ilya rubbed his finger where his spit was dripping down onto hair and thin skin, and Shane bucked and pulled at Ilya’s scalp and came. Ilya held him in his mouth until Shane nudged him off. Ilya rolled away and grabbed a now dried cloth to wipe himself up, not especially thoroughly, but at this time of night he didn’t care. When he returned to lying down, Shane’s breaths had evened out to sleep again. Ilya curled around him, brimming with a satisfaction as potent as a deep tissue massage.

He woke up with remnants of the feeling still inside, his nose pressed to the back of Shane’s neck. While nominally a lazy blowjob, he knew it was the fuck from Shane’s visit that would stay under his skin the longest. Ilya remembered it from when he used to sleep around, the women who would approach him so confidently, like he was a sure thing, like they could just assume by the end of the night he’d be inside them. A manwhore, no standards, never didn’t want it, fuck anything that moved. It should have maybe been off-putting, and it had been once he stopped wanting to fuck anyone who wasn’t Shane, but before that he’d found it unreasonably hot. And this had been unreasonably hot, Shane waking him up for head with no attempt at flattery or seduction, as though it was his due.

Ilya pressed himself tighter against Shane’s body. The noise it elicited was not one he expected. Shane sounded annoyed, and Ilya leveraged himself up on an elbow to find Shane looking at his phone. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“The plan with Rose won’t work,” Shane said, and Ilya dropped back down to the bed.

“Oh,” he said.

“She spends Christmas in fucking Michigan,” Shane said. “Which is obvious, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. But it means I have no cover for coming to LA for Christmas.”

“Oh,” Ilya said again. “But she is okay with you pretending – you could still come other times, like the off-season?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “But, Ilya – we’d only have to go a few weeks without seeing each other if I got to come at Christmas.”

Ilya hummed out a commiserating sound and kissed Shane’s neck, then pulled away. It sucked to lose a chance at seeing Shane, but he was a little relieved to remove upsetting Hollander family Christmas traditions from his list of transgressions. “You will have snow for Christmas now,” he said. “Christmas in LA is wrong.”

Shane was looking at him, and Ilya got the feeling that wasn’t what he should have said. Shane said, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll check our schedules, anyway. If I’ve a couple days off and you’re in LA I’ll see if I can make it down. I’m mad this didn’t occur to me before, that we had this cover.”

"Yes, very stupid of you," Ilya said, and dodged Shane's slap by getting up to get them breakfast.

Shane was easy enough to cater to in LA, where health food was plentiful if overpriced. Ilya lived a five minute walk from a smoothie bar where the acai bowls cost double figures and boasted ingredients for which there were no words in Russian. His favorite employee was working that morning, a woman called Shellie who usually let him away with paying for a regular while making him a large, giving him a thrill that belied his nine figure contract. This morning she outdid herself, making him the two acai bowls for himself and Shane and a new limited edition bran smoothie for free. Ilya had a rule against refusing free things, but carrying three cups home was slightly trickier and he had to get Shane to open the door to him. “Why three?” Shane asked, as he followed Ilya into the kitchen.

“This is new limited edition bran smoothie,” he said, and Shane stared at him blankly. “I got it for free. The girl there likes me.”

“That’s nice,” Shane said. He took his order and removed the lid.

“You are not jealous?” Ilya asked, not hiding his disappointment, as he watched Shane take a bowl from a cabinet and transfer his breakfast into it, apparently unwilling to eat from plastic.

“No, I’m feeling magnanimous.” Shane was facing away, so Ilya had to make a noise rather than raise his eyebrows. “Like, generous. I’m willing to let her enjoy you. I think it must be really nice.”

Ilya knew all those words but was still confused.

“Like,” Shane said. “If you and I didn’t know each other, and didn’t have any real reason to see each other—”

“I do not like this,” Ilya said.

“Shut up, listen. If we’d never met and had no reason to ever know each other and there was one day in our whole lives we were in the same place at the same time. And you smiled at me or asked me something or just looked at me. It’d probably make my whole week, you know. It’s sort of nice to think about people who don’t get all of you but do get, like, glimpses of you.”

“This is very sweet, Hollander,” Ilya said, forcing his voice steady. Shane shrugged. He never really tried to be all that romantic, and any gesture he had made Ilya in their time together thus far had been overwhelmingly practical, see: air purifiers. But that was why it hit so hard; anything Shane said was just his truth. He wasn’t getting carried away and he wasn’t trying to make Ilya feel anything in particular.

Ilya held this feeling, this glorious golden disbelief at anyone thinking as highly of him as Shane seemed to, in contrast with last night’s feeling, the jagged pride at the idea of Shane viewing him as perpetually sexually available. He couldn’t really reconcile them, so he moved on. “Did you look at our schedules?” he asked. “Can you come to LA ever?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I found two days anyway, in early April. There’s a chance I’m missing others, so I’m going to go over it again later.”

Ilya frowned. “You would want to then? So close to play offs.”

Shane looked at him, eyes wide and cautious. “Not if you don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, flat.

Ilya almost laughed. “Shane, fuck. Of course I do, but don’t trust me to tell a good idea and bad idea apart. I’m just surprised you would be okay with this.”

“Well,” Shane said, like he was trying to figure out how to defend himself. “I don’t know. I just want to.”

Ilya leaned in and kissed him. “I love when you do what you want,” he said, which got Shane to smile.

When Shane’s car arrived to bring him to the airport the next day, Ilya hadn’t worn more than briefs in 36 hours. He felt bone deep satisfaction that washed off in the shower, where he began to suspect that that was not how people in serious relationships were supposed to conduct themselves. They’d done nothing with their time together but play a hockey game and have sex. They hadn’t had a single in depth conversation save for regarding Rose, which hadn’t exactly been pleasant. He could try to excuse that by saying that he and Shane talked plenty already, that it wasn’t like there was anything they’d been waiting to tell each other, but Ilya had been hoarding moments in their phone calls when he’d wished he’d been able to see Shane’s face, his hands, and he should have tried to bring up some of those topics in person.

And they should have done something other than fuck. They should have gone for a hike or a drive or anything, they should have played video games if Ilya couldn’t convince Shane to leave the house, even though there was basically no chance they’d be recognized in LA, at least not as hockey players. On the few occasions someone had purported to know who Ilya was they invariably thought it was from TV. Ilya had come to enjoy telling people he played villains on cop shows, and maybe Shane could have said he was the detective. That was sort of hot. And it would have been a memory, it would have been something other than sex as though they had no other option, as though it was still the only thing they knew to do with each other. It felt like regression, considering all the ways they’d spent time together in the off-season, cooking and gossiping and doing fucking puzzles. As though some part of them had been triggered to treat three days in Ilya’s house like two hours in a hotel room.

He got out of the shower to a miss you already text from Shane and hated that he hadn’t responded immediately. He sent back, When you come in April we will go swimming.

Most of the times Ilya had been mistaken for someone from TV it had happened on nights out, because that was mostly when he interacted with strangers. He’d get the good night text from Shane, wait around twenty minutes for the building restlessness to become unbearable, and grab his keys and leave. Sometimes he was performing his captainly duties in the name of team morale, but honestly not that often. There weren’t any real partiers on the team, for which Ilya was grateful – few people wore it as well as him on the ice. Marlow was getting older too, tapping out earlier and earlier. Ilya found other people to pass the time with, all of Svetlana’s friends in the city, for a start, and then the hangers on who inevitably cropped up in the vicinity of someone with money to burn. They kept him company through Christmas, while Shane sent him photos of snow and frozen lakes.

Four months in and he still felt no real claim to the city. Every night out was always something different, even if the feeling stayed the same. After parties and launches, houses that didn’t look like anyone real lived in them, VIP guest lists, constant stupid gimmicks as though people had grown tired of music and alcohol. He wanted somewhere he could go every night, the same place with the same crowd, where he could feel a sense of ownership. But that didn’t seem to be how it worked in LA, at least not in his new circles.

His new circles also did not believe in privating social media accounts, so he was pretty sure Shane knew how he was passing the time, if the late night drunken texts weren’t enough of an indication – can you do another horny photoshoot there should be more pictures of you in LA I don’t care about these models and where are my keys. But it wasn’t until the first of January that Shane brought it up, an apparent reluctance that Ilya didn’t entirely understand. They were talking about their respective New Year’s Eves, Shane having made a bunch of resolutions around his diet and Ilya having been lectured by three different people about why fireworks were an extra bad idea in LA, and Shane said, “You seem to be going out a lot. More than you did in Boston.”

“Not more,” Ilya said. “Just more visible. There are cameras fucking everywhere here.”

“So this is normal for you?”

He wasn't sure he had a normal anymore. What was normal for an Ilya who had a boyfriend and no father, who lived somewhere that never got cold? “I don’t know,” he said. “I am just passing time. That’s what LA is.”

“Right,” Shane said. It had taken them an embarrassingly long time to realize they could turn on video for regular calls too, not just phone sex, and while Ilya appreciated the development for letting him monitor Shane a little closer, sometimes he had to stop himself from flinching away from Shane’s gaze.

“You don’t have to worry,” Ilya said.

“I’m not worried,” Shane said hurriedly. “If you’re taking care of yourself, and enjoying yourself, then I’m not worried.”

Ilya wasn’t sure he was doing either. He felt like he was observing himself from a distance, and nothing looked out of place, but that was what disturbed him. It was like a fairytale his mom would have told him as a kid, some guy getting to watch his miserable future play out so he’d realize he was fucking doomed if he didn’t course correct soon. This was what his life would look like without Shane Hollander. It wasn’t a lesson he’d needed teaching.

But he didn’t think he was lying when he said Shane shouldn’t worry; he felt at a remove from what he was doing but not at risk. He was insulated from everything around him, perhaps more so because he wasn’t picking up, a marked change from nights out of the past. In a way Ilya thought it was worse for him, though obviously he wouldn’t say as much to Shane – it was just that if he was going out looking for sex it would limit how wasted he’d get and give him something, someone, to focus on. Without that the nights could just be aimless hazes, where he didn’t mind his vision blurring and he felt entirely disconnected from the world around him. Still, it beat lying in a bed without Shane.

They broke their streak of calling every day, and at first Ilya couldn’t tell if Shane was aware. He didn’t say anything when it happened, but, then, neither did Ilya. It had lapsed on the last day of rehabbing a twisted ankle Ilya was playing through, with Shane arriving back from a brutal road trip, and both of them had been too busy and fed up to do more than send I love you texts.

Soon after Shane had a rest day, and when Ilya called him Shane said, without preamble, “I looked it up, for long distance relationships the standard is just some form of contact at least once a day, and we texted that day, so it’s all good.”

Ilya, obviously, made fun of him, but he became more obsessive about the rule than Shane. Whenever they had their first interaction of the day it would flood him with relief. They were still all good.

It wasn’t rare for Ilya to wake up to a text from Shane, the daily contact immediately taken care of, but on one such morning the relief it brought with it was short-lived. Shane had sent a link to a twitter post, sans commentary. Ilya opened it, pressed play on the embedded video, and between the hangover making him squint and the shaky footage, it took him too long to figure out what he was looking at.

He was looking at himself, along with his teammates, in a private room at a strip club. Last night had been their goalie’s birthday; Ilya had enjoyed himself. The footage was focused on the women – or rather the bodies of the women, with few of their faces identifiable, thank God – and Ilya only showed up in the background every now and then, never doing anything incriminating. It was a minute and six seconds long, and in the clearest shot of Ilya he was leaning over to say something to the second line center, his neck straining as he tried to ensure he was heard above the music. Ilya’s memory of the night wasn’t clear enough to work out from the angle which player must have taken it. Presumably a dumb fuck horned up rookie who hadn’t been properly taught how these things worked. Ilya’s first real failure as a captain, by his count. He opened the team group chat and sent, Stupidest fucking rookies I have ever had to play with. I will make this year hell. The chat was already active as people awoke to the video, a stream of invective as they eliminated suspects, and Ilya opened the first link that had been sent that morning, the same video as what Shane had sent him but from another twitter account, captioned, who let a bunch of hockey players bring their phones to the back room LMFAO. It had far more likes than the one Shane had sent, fifteen thousand compared to two thousand. He navigated back to Shane’s link, trying to work out why he’d chosen this post to share, and registered the caption for the first time: I think we know why Roz went to LA now lol. As though they didn’t have strippers in Boston, although Ilya doubted Shane would appreciate that line of argument.

He pulled himself up to sit against the headboard, took a long and desperate gulp from the gatorade on his nightstand, and called Shane.

“I’m not even sure if I should talk to you right now,” Shane said, and Ilya blinked. He’d expected distress rather than anger, and for Shane to initially put up a front.

“I know, this is bad,” Ilya said. “There should not ever be footage.”

“What, so you could keep it from me?”

It was more so they wouldn’t get blacklisted from every decent strip club in the city, but that presumably was not Shane’s concern. “Yes,” Ilya said, because it definitely wasn’t something he loved Shane seeing. “And your parents.”

“Fuck,” Shane said, the anger dialed up further. Ilya doubted his own ability to navigate this wisely. “My mom is definitely going to see this, what the fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya winced. “Your mom has been following hockey her whole life. She has to know—”

“That hockey players fuck anything that moves? Yeah.”

Automatically Ilya said, “Very rarely anyone fucks one of the strippers.”

“Oh my God,” Shane said. “Jesus Christ. How common is this for you?”

Ilya tried to be more strategic in his answers. “Is team bonding.”

Shane scoffed. “My team has never partied with strippers.”

Ilya thought that there was a decent chance they had, just not with Shane present. “No, it would not be good for Hayden’s heart.”

“Fuck you, don’t joke.”

Ilya wasn’t confident he could name why Shane was mad. He could have guessed that Shane had a distaste for this kind of thing, but he was usually pretty tolerant of the parts of Ilya’s life that were alien to him, so long as they didn’t massively jeopardize Ilya’s health or hockey. “What is the problem?” he asked.

“Seriously?” Shane asked. “I woke up to the whole world watching footage of my boyfriend at a strip club, when I didn’t know he even ever went to strip clubs, which is probably stupid of me.”

“Not stupid,” Ilya said. It wasn’t like he’d ever been a regular; he went when it was what the team wanted, and he enjoyed it for what it was. “And they are not watching me, you found, like, the one post that focused on me, I am barely in it – you can see I am doing nothing.”

“For the five seconds there’s footage of you, yeah,” Shane said.

“I was doing nothing the whole time we were there,” Ilya said, hating how defensive he sounded. “It’s just dumb fun, it doesn’t mean anything. Half the guys in the video are married.”

“And they treat their wives like shit,” Shane said. “You’re not gonna handle me like some fucking wag, Ilya, I swear to God.”

Ilya squinted. The idea of treating Shane like a wag was laughable, and he couldn’t connect it to the video. “Do you think I cheated, do you think I fucked one of them?”

“No, of course not,” Shane said, sounding momentarily on the back foot.

“Then what’s the problem?” Ilya asked. “That I was in the same room as these women?”

“Yes,” Shane said. Shouted, almost. It sort of felt like they were talking about two different things; Ilya had no idea what Shane thought of when he thought of strippers, what they represented in his head.

“Shane,” he said. “These women—”

“Don’t try to make me fucking worldly right now,” Shane said.

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Okay. Shane, I love you and don’t want to hurt you. I know I am probably bad at being a boyfriend, that I don’t know how it works all the time. Just please tell me what is the problem. You don’t want me looking at other people?”

“Every time you do something like this, the idea of you and me becomes less believable.”

Ilya was pretty sure his heart stopped. He didn’t know what to say, if he was understanding Shane right. Did Shane not believe in them, did he find them unbelievable?

Shane kept talking. “This is another thing, now, for people to bring up. When we come out. Not just the general public, but like, JJ, if I ever tell him. Everyone’s going to see this, Ilya, and it just makes it—people think we’re a bad idea. People don’t understand us being together. You get that, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, slightly hopeful that Shane was only concerned with how they would be perceived, not his own perception of them. “But I do not care what people think.” That wasn’t quite right, but the way he cared was that it made him angry, made him relish proving them wrong. He wouldn’t cater to them.

“I do,” Shane said. Ilya didn’t know what to say. Shane took a couple breaths and asked, “If we were in the same city, would you have still been there last night?”

“Probably,” Ilya said. This could have easily happened if he’d been in Boston or Ottawa. He thought the difference was that it wouldn’t have upset Shane so much. Shane had been so fucking sure of him all summer, texting him in the middle of the night about what kind of shower he should look for when he moved and telling him the kind of presents Yuna appreciated. These doubts hurt. “What do you want, you want me to not go to these places?” The only other asks Shane had ever made of him were to quit cigarettes and not get a motorbike. The difference was going to the occasional strip club didn’t have the power to kill him.

“I want…” Shane huffed out a quiet laugh that made Ilya wince. “I guess I just want to be there. You know, if I was there, I’d compete, and I’d win, but I’m not there, so.”

“Compete with what?” Ilya asked.

Shane sounded like he resented explaining himself. “I know you find that kind of thing hot, I know it would have—”

“Shane,” Ilya said, a little terrified. “It was not – it was with my team. My whole fucking team was there.”

“I guess that’s the problem too,” Shane said. “They don’t know you, do they? If they don’t know about me they can’t know you. And they’ll just think they know you, based on things like this. I just want…”

“What?”

“To change you,” Shane said. “Not – that sounds wrong. I want us to be changed. Because we’re together. I don’t want everything to just be the same, like nothing happened.”

The last time Shane had talked about feeling that way, he’d told his homophobic teammates he was gay. “I’m changed,” Ilya said. “Something happened.”

When they hung up, the video Shane had sent was still open on his phone. The top reply, which must have been posted while Ilya was talking to Shane, was from a Raiders fan, and it said, they have strippers in boston u fucking imbecile. Ilya tapped like.

What Ilya could not tell Shane: when he’d gotten home last night he’d started jerking off before the latch of the door had clicked into place. It had just been the first time in a long while that he’d been up against that much flesh, the potent suggestion of sex, other people’s desire.

He wanted so badly to fuck someone. It wasn’t that he’d encountered anyone in LA he found irresistibly hot and it wasn’t that he was thinking of Shane any less. His body just needed to fuck. He wouldn’t, obviously, but it wasn’t the same as it had been before the cottage, when the desire to fuck anyone but Shane collapsed in on itself. Now it was a question of will power. He was exercising restraint.

Ilya had always gotten hard easy. He could last, thank God, but in terms of getting turned on in the first place he was no better than he had been when he’d first discovered his dick. Anything could make him hard. Sitting still with nothing to do made him hard, because if his mind wandered it usually wandered to sex. He’d never ended a flight longer than three hours not wanting to fuck someone, except for the couple times he’d fucked one of the flight attendants. He needed to come at least once a day, sometimes twice, if he wanted to get decent sleep – he could maybe go without if he also won a hockey game, but sometimes that just made him want to fuck more. And he’d been more than happy to go from sex with many to sex with one, but sex almost never was something else again. It was fine, entirely manageable, not all that serious in the grand scheme of things.

Never mind the cigarettes or air pollution, death by a thousand paper cuts was looking likely.

That night Montreal played Vancouver and Shane had one of the best games of his career. Ilya almost cried watching it, felt hollowed out and weightless. It felt impossible he had any claim to Shane when he was flying like this. It seemed more than human, and then the camera would get close on Shane’s smile and it would be human again, too human. Ilya was so scared, suddenly, of doing anything to jeopardize that. If things got hard, if things kept getting harder, would it steal a game like this from Shane? He didn’t go out that night, and he didn’t drink. An hour before Shane’s morning alarm was set to go off, Ilya texted him, You don’t have to do this. If it is too hard I understand.

Shane didn’t reply, and he didn’t acknowledge the text in their next phone call, nor in the one after. The rookie responsible for the video was apprehended and duly punished, and the next week the team went out again. Ilya wasn’t in good form. He’d been feeling weird around his team since the video, since if they don’t know about me they can’t know you. It shouldn’t have gotten so deep under his skin, not when he’d never really cared about a team of his knowing him. Trusting him, loving him, fearing him, sure, but not knowing him.

Maybe the difference was that before there hadn’t really been anything to know. That was how he’d felt in Boston; he’d known he wore a mask, and he’d been okay with it, because there wasn’t much behind it. Nobody on either side was missing out. Now there was something precious and rare, something he was proud of. He wasn’t sure anyone really deserved to know about it, but he was still more aware of their not knowing.

Moran made it worse that night, because he was drunk and they were building up another win streak, and he kept grabbing Ilya’s shoulder and saying shit like, “You and me, man,” like they had some special bond. Ilya didn’t feel like he knew Moran any better as a person than he had after training camp. He was hard working and showed up and hated the non-hockey aspects of being a hockey player, got defensive with the media and impatient with the less talented players, which made him appreciate Ilya more, because Ilya could usually step in. Ilya was aware he was the best player Moran had ever played with, and he’d also learned that when LA had started vying for Ilya in the summer, Moran had made his own position clear: if they couldn’t pull it off then they weren’t a serious team, and he’d have to start reconsidering his future. Ilya was significant to him, filling some gap that had been causing pain. For Ilya, Moran barely existed off the ice, or at least outside of the locker room.

For a long time that had been as good as love – he loved playing with Moran, loved that he was a talented player who made winning easy and didn’t chafe at Ilya’s talent. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt complicated about it. When he got home he pulled out his phone and texted Shane. Can I tell Marly please.

Shane had already responded when Ilya woke up, but Ilya was hungover and had forgotten asking so he didn’t see it until after his shower. Of course! I’ve thought you should come out to him!

Ilya pulled at his lip. Not that I am bi, that I am with you.

Shane’s call came swiftly, but when Ilya answered neither of them spoke for a few moments. Eventually Shane said, “I didn’t know you told him things like that.”

If Shane ended up deciding this wasn’t a good idea, Ilya wouldn’t blame him. “I don’t,” he said. He’d never told Marlow anything like this; they weren’t actually all that close. A couple of years ago the Boston social media team had wanted to get them to play a game where the two of them answered questions about each other, and Ilya had shut it down hard. He knew the questions wouldn’t be, like, has Ilya’s dad ever told him he’s proud of him, but even if they were incredibly basic, like what team Ilya had played for in Moscow or who his favorite player was, Marly would have known virtually none of the answers, and Ilya had felt weirdly embarrassed about that. He had only found out that Cliff was short for Clifford last year, and while he’d changed the name in his phone accordingly to make up for lost time, it did seem a little weird that it hadn’t come up before. Boston fans had really liked their friendship, seemingly perceiving a depth greater than shared celebrations and drinking habits.

That was a little unfair, Ilya knew. A degree of closeness was inevitable from the sheer hours they’d spent with each other, trust and understanding that had been earned from exposure rather than communication. It suited them both. But this, he thought bitterly, was a year for new things.

“But you want to try?” Shane asked.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I want to try.”

Shane sighed. “Okay.”

Ilya asked Marlow to come to his that Saturday afternoon and Marlow texted back, Man you sound like you have cancer, which made Ilya newly aware of how surreal and probably stupid this was. Telling Marlow hadn’t occurred to him once over the summer, and if they had stayed in Boston he was pretty sure it still wouldn’t have crossed his mind.

There was a world where Marly reacted poorly, but the possibility didn’t deter Ilya. For a sick part of him it was the appeal. He wanted a villain, something to hate other than distance and his own bad decisions, and in his worst moments he was willing to sacrifice one of his oldest friends at the altar. At least if Marlow freaked out and tried to tell anyone, nobody would believe him.

To seem less like he was breaking news of a terminal illness, Ilya had the TV on in the background when Marlow came by. Marlow still eyed him warily as he sat down on the couch. It wasn’t like spending an afternoon at each other’s houses was weird, but Ilya had arranged it three days in advance, and that was weird. “I have something I want to tell you,” Ilya said. “And it will seem crazy, and you will probably not like it, but.” He shrugged.

Marlow rolled his shoulders like he was bracing for a physical blow and nodded.

“I fuck men,” Ilya said. “Since I was young. Boys then, I guess.”

Marlow’s eyebrows went up, and nothing else changed. Ilya watched closely. The value of zero did not exist on the scale of hockey player homophobia, but Marlow had always seemed more inclined toward low-hanging jokes than genuine disgust. It being Ilya could make it better or worse – better because he cared about him, worse because he’d already given Ilya access to his life and body.

“No way you’re gay,” Marlow said, slowly.

“No,” Ilya said. Cringed at himself, still finding having a word for it a little weird: “Bi.”

“Christ,” Marlow said. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because there is someone,” Ilya said. “A guy.”

“Fucking Christ,” Marlow said, more emphatically. “Seriously? Straight up pulling a Scott Hunter.”

“Living room is better than national TV, though,” Ilya said, and Marlow laughed. More shocked than warm, but it was something.

“I’ve heard there are a lot of gay guys in LA,” Marlow said, which baffled Ilya but was nevertheless a useful segue.

“He is not in LA,” Ilya said, and inhaled steadily. “It is Shane Hollander.”

Marlow stared at him blank faced then leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes. “You fucking asshole. You piece of shit, oh my God.”

Ilya grimaced. “I know it is—”

“Why the fuck did you plan this?” Marlow interrupted him. “You were planning this for three days? The joke’s not even that funny, you’re so fucking weird.”

“Not a joke,” Ilya said.

“You made me come over for this shit. I do not understand you.”

“Marlow,” Ilya said. “Jane in Montreal. Shane.”

Marlow shook his head.

“Yes,” Ilya said, and then got impatient with holding Marlow’s hand. Svetlana hadn’t been nearly this slow. He pulled out his phone, angled it so Marlow could see, pulled up his recent contacts and called Jane.

Ilya wasn’t able to guarantee Shane’s availability this time of day – ever, really – and he was tense waiting for an answer. Thankfully, Shane picked up on the third ring, and Ilya put it on speaker.

“Hey, baby,” he said, pointed.

“Hey,” Shane said, and Ilya doubted Marlow could identify his voice over the phone but he at least knew Ilya hadn’t been lying about being with men. “You tell Marlow, how did it go?”

“It is going,” Ilya said. “He is still here, you are on speaker.”

A beat of silence. “Ilya.”

“He did not believe me,” Ilya said. “It was annoying me. Tell him your name, please.”

“Um,” Shane said, and Ilya smiled. “Hi, Marlow. This is Shane. Hollander.”

Marlow stared at the phone and then said, “Video call.”

“Really?” Shane said, and Ilya couldn’t believe anyone who’d ever met Shane couldn’t identify him from that word alone.

“I am so good at fucking with Marlow I have made him scared,” Ilya said. Shane accepted the video request after a beat, frowning at his phone and holding it close like he didn’t want Marlow to see his surroundings, which were undoubtedly innocuous.

“There,” Ilya said, triumphant.

“Why did Rozanov call you baby?” Marlow asked Shane, and Shane flushed.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Shane said, flatly.

“Now ask him what my dick looks like,” Ilya said to Marlow.

“Ilya, shut the fuck up,” Shane said, which Ilya thought was also pretty convincing.

Marlow didn’t say anything, and the expression on his face made Ilya suspect he was starting to believe it.

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Thank you, Shane, I will call you later.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Uh, bye, Marlow. Nice to… meet you. Kind of. Kind of meet you, not that it was only kind of nice. Although, you know.”

Marlow seemed to snap out of his shock then. He straightened and frowned down at the phone. “Yeah, you too. Look, I’m—” he broke off, glanced at Ilya, rubbed a hand through his hair. “We’re taking good care of him, okay? They love him here.”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “They’d love him anywhere.”

Ilya couldn’t hold in his smile, which he suspected was more telling than anything else thus far. When he hung up, Marlow seemed to have reverted to shock. Ilya gave him some time by going to the kitchen for a couple of beers. When Ilya was back on the couch, and their bottles were half empty, Marlow said, “Hollander of all people, though?”

Ilya smiled. “I know.”

“He fucking hates me.”

It was a new reason for thinking Ilya’s choice was ill advised. “No he doesn’t,” he said, amused. “Why would you think that?”

“I concussed him,” Marlow said. “Jesus, I gave your boyfriend a concussion.”

Ilya shook his head. “He was not my boyfriend then.”

“Thank God,” Marlow said, and took another swig. Ilya leaned over and punched him in the arm, hard.

Marlow shoved him, but it seemed perfunctory. “What was that for?”

“Giving him a concussion,” Ilya said, shaking out his fist. “And fracturing his collarbone. He was not my boyfriend so I had to pretend I was not so angry with you.”

“Fuck,” Marlow said. “I mean, Jane – that’s a long time.”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“And now you’re in LA,” Marlow said. “And you guys are still trying to hack it?”

“Not trying,” Ilya said. “We are.”

Marlow held up his free hand in a gesture of surrender.

Ilya cleared his throat. “Is why we’re in LA,” he said. “Because of me and Shane. I wanted out of Boston, but I wanted to go to Canada.”

“To Montreal?” Marlow asked, sounding outraged, the rivalry apparently not dead in him yet.

“No, Ottawa,” Ilya said. “But it is close, and his parents are there.”

“This keeps getting weirder,” Marlow said. “You know his parents?”

“Not really,” Ilya said. “But I would like to. If I was in Ottawa I would get to. I—it was not just for Shane. I do not want to be in US for long. I want to get citizenship out of Russia, and Canada is my best option, so.” That was basically as big a revelation as his sexuality and relationship, but Marlow took it in stride. Or at least was too focused on something else.

“Wait,” he said. “Ottawa, man? You were going to leave us for Ottawa? They’re fucking tragic.”

Ilya shrugged.

“Fuck you,” Marlow said. “They might have sent me there too, I’d have fucking killed you if you got me traded to Ottawa.”

Ilya couldn’t help laughing. “But I got you to LA instead,” he said. “You get to live here because me and Shane are in love. You should thank us.”

Marlow shook his head. “Too far,” he said. They lapsed into silence as they finished their beers, and then Marlow said, his voice sort of stiff, “This must be tough.”

Ilya got stiff too. “It is worth it,” he said.

“Right,” Marlow said. “But still. I’m sorry, man. That things haven’t gone your way.”

Svetlana, Hayden, and Shane’s parents had all expressed some form of sympathy when they first found out too. Even before the LA trade people had felt bad for them. Ilya hated it, hated people thinking he and Shane were a tragedy rather than a miracle. Marly didn’t have a thing in his life that came close, and Ilya felt like a dick for thinking it but it was nevertheless true.

When Marlow was on his way out, not long after, he looked back at Ilya and said, “I guess this means you’re not planning on staying in LA.”

“No,” Ilya said. “Just here for the end of my contract.” He was surprised at how much of a relief it was to tell Marly that, almost equal to telling him about Shane.

“That sucks,” Marlow said. “But thanks for telling me.”

Ilya returned to the couch and stared at his phone, the text chain that apparently served as his only proof of what he had with Shane. It occurred to him then that they should have outgrown Jane and Lily. The names were relics of a bygone era. What were pseudonyms that suggested undying devotion rather than cheap thrills? He opened Shane’s contact, deleted those four letters. Typed out Shane Hollander just to see what it would look like and then deleted that too. Chose a plain heart emoji, all his lies slowly replaced by evasions, and then pressed call.

Two days later a slim package with Canadian postage arrived at his door. Inside was a DVD with a yellow post it note. The note read, I know I’m not always available, but this way I am. I love you so much. It must have been Shane’s handwriting, which Ilya had seen before but not often enough to immediately recognize.

It was clear from the first frame of the DVD what it was, Shane naked on his bed. Ilya for a moment felt like throwing up. He couldn’t think of a single tolerable explanation for this. Had Shane felt pressured to send this, could he somehow tell how fucking stupidly horny Ilya was all the time? Was this to stop Ilya from stepping out? He wouldn’t, he never would, Shane didn’t need to do this.

He called Shane and Shane didn’t answer. Not always available. Ilya texted instead. You’re so fucking hot but you don’t need to do this I don’t need this. I have many memories ;)

He turned his TV off because he didn’t want to see what Shane had done for him any longer, and played games on his phone so it wouldn’t feel quite exactly like waiting around for Shane to get back to him. An hour and a new high score later, Shane texted, I want you to have it. It turns me on to think you have it.

Ilya didn’t understand. He asked for pictures and videos from Shane all the time, but because he liked Shane knowing how desirable he found him. He felt safe assuming Shane knew he wasn’t serious, that Shane wouldn’t feel under pressure to comply. He understood why Shane wouldn’t do this. He called him and said, “Shane.”

“Hi,” Shane said. “Don’t you like it?”

“I haven’t watched it,” Ilya said. “I imagine yes I will like it. But, Shane. You are not scared?”

“No,” Shane said. “Put it in a safe or something. I did a bunch of research, paid extra for a secure courier service.”

Shane could make almost anything sound rational. The fact remained that he would not have done this four months ago. “Did I say something so—?”

“No,” Shane said, firmly. “I wanted to, Ilya.” Ilya said nothing, still unconvinced, and Shane added: “I had to buy the blank DVD in a pack of five, so I could do more.”

Well. That was that. Ilya let himself smile. “I have requests.”

Shane laughed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. “You haven’t even watched this one.”

“Good point,” Ilya said, grabbing his remote. “I should do this now.”

Shane cleared his throat. “Will I leave you to it?”

Ilya frowned. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Stay on. Two Shanes at once. My dream.”

“Weirdo,” Shane said, as Ilya pressed play. The angle wasn’t all that close; Ilya could see the art on the wall above the bed. He could see the sheets, and he could see Shane sitting with his legs folded in front of him, his hands resting on his shins, glancing at the camera intermittently. He was half hard, and he slid one of his hands up to wrap around himself. He wasn’t putting on a show, which was even better. This must have been what it looked like when he was alone, something Ilya had never gotten to see before, that quiet mix of concentration and pleasure.

“Fuck,” Ilya said.

“This is weird,” Shane said. “I don’t know what part you’re reacting to. I can’t believe you didn’t watch it as soon as you got it.”

“When did you make this?” Ilya asked.

“Like a week ago,” Shane said. “It took me a while to get it right.”

Ilya frowned, worked out the implications of that as Shane’s knees on screen drifted farther apart. “You mean you tried many times to make one?”

“Not many times,” Shane said. “Like four times.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya said. “There are other videos?”

“I deleted them,” Shane said. “They weren’t good.”

“What the fuck.” Ilya was outraged, even as his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. “You send me video of you jerking off and you somehow are still such a tease.”

“I don’t just jerk off in it,” Shane said. “And it wasn’t like – the angle is good in the one you’re watching. I was filming too close in the other ones and it was missing things.”

“I love this,” Ilya said. “This is like – you know when you get to hear the people talk and watch the movie at the same time.”

“Director’s commentary,” Shane said. “I hate you.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, laughing.

“Don’t laugh,” Shane said. “This isn’t funny, this is hot. Jerk off.”

“No,” Ilya said. He was hard, but it wasn’t urgent. Studying every single pixel on screen was urgent. “I will later. First time I just want to watch.”

“Weirdo,” Shane said again, more accusatory, just as Ilya learned what he’d meant when he said he didn’t just jerk off. On screen, Shane reached behind himself and returned with his dildo. He rearranged himself, pulling his other hand from his dick and leaning back on it behind him, his legs falling open. Ilya was expecting a detour with the lube, but instead Shane slid the dildo inside himself in one slow, smooth move. Ilya frowned.

“You did not film yourself getting open?”

“Stop complaining, oh my God,” Shane said. “You’re so ungrateful.”

“I am so grateful,” Ilya said, as Shane pulled it out and pushed it in again, patient and deep. “I am the most grateful man on earth. Do you always stop jerking off when you start fucking yourself?”

“Usually,” Shane said. “If I’m going through the trouble of using a sex toy, I want to make it last.”

“Have you ever made yourself come with dildo alone?”

“No,” Shane said. “You’re still special.”

Ilya smiled. That wasn’t why he’d asked, but it was nice to know anyway. “What were you thinking of, when you were making this?” he asked, his voice lower.

“You,” Shane said. “Watching it. I love making you desperate. Maybe I am a tease."

Though Ilya had been the one to introduce the concept, he found himself shaking his head. "Always give me everything I want."

He heard Shane swallow. "I wasn’t imagining it would be like this. I didn’t think you’d have so many questions about it.”

Shane’s skin on screen had started to glint. He kept his bedroom so warm, a contrast with the rest of his apartment that Ilya found inexplicably moving. His toes were clenching in the cover beneath him. Ilya’s hand slid into his pants, but he didn’t move it, just held himself. On screen, Shane repositioned his legs and leaned forward, no longer resting on his hand but instead relying on his core strength, and took his dick back in his grip. “No more questions,” Ilya said, softly.

“Good,” Shane said.

His two hands were moving in sync. Ilya had never seen this before; he wasn’t sure there would be any other circumstance in which he would, in which he would have enough restraint to watch Shane touch himself to the point of completion without interference, and phone sex had never gotten this sophisticated. When Shane got close the hand holding the dildo stopped moving, keeping it pressed inside, and the hand working his dick sped up. Ilya had naturally turned the sound up high, but at this point Shane’s shallow breaths turned into vocalizations, and Ilya had to knock it back a couple of notches. Still he found himself whispering when he told Shane on the phone how unbelievably hot he was, how badly Ilya needed him, so as not to miss anything.

Shane was leaning forward over his knees, presumably to stop from falling flat on his back and ruining Ilya’s view. He came, and Ilya stopped breathing as he watched it, Shane’s body tensing all over. Ilya was glad he hadn’t jerked off himself, was glad he was relatively clear headed and could track every twitch, the shifts of Shane’s facial muscles from bliss to serenity. Shane pulled the dildo out, less careful than Ilya would have been and wincing because of it, and put the newly free hand on his sternum, where it rose and fell with his deep breaths. Ilya did that sometimes, felt the movement of Shane’s lungs in the aftermath. Then, after a few moments of recovery, Shane rose from the bed. The beginning of the video must have been edited, or set at a delay, because it had opened with Shane already on the bed, but Ilya got a glimpse of process now, Shane moving slightly less gracefully than his norm toward the camera, leaning over and gifting Ilya one brief smile before reaching to turn it off. Ilya hit pause, the whole screen taken up by Shane.

He dropped the remote and dragged a hand down his face. He was almost painfully hard, and he would restart the video soon and actually jerk off this time. But he needed to get his head around it first.

“I miss you so fucking much,” Ilya said.

“I know,” Shane said, shakily, and Ilya could hear that he did. He was the only person who did, he’d always been the only person, it was just now they could say it. They could say I understand, what you’re feeling I’m feeling too, I don’t think anyone else is. Shane was the first person he’d ever shared loneliness with, so different from the women he found in crowds, the encounters witnessed and notarized by teammates, different even from Sasha, given how Svetlana had played go between. He and Shane for years had been without conspirators or allies, each of them the other’s only witness. Now that more people knew than Ilya could count on one hand, it probably shouldn’t still feel like that.

Chapter End Notes

Why does ‘when you come in april we will go swimming’ sound like such a duolingo sentence do other people hear that.... thank you sm for the response to the first chap i hope people also enjoy this one

Chapter 3: spring (1)

Chapter Notes

Chapter CWs: off-screen sexual harassment treated cavalierly and a bad reaction to drugs resulting in paranoid thoughts. Happy to elaborate in comments if anyone isn’t sure if it’s for them.

On the flight to Toronto Ilya promised himself he’d be good for the next week. Toronto, Boston, Ottawa, Montreal, Shane in between all of them, Shane’s parents too, and his old team and his future team. It wasn’t the time to fuck up or act out or disappear into his head.

Toronto was a regrettable loss after a long flight, Boston was the closest a game could get to a regrettable win, Ilya cringing at the wreckage from the trade, which he’d mostly been avoiding looking at since he left. Players who’d been sold on the promise of playing with Ilya Rozanov and had now been thrust into a rebuild, the couple random guys from LA who’d lost their place on a championship contender to make space for him, a well-respected veteran coach who had no interest in not making the playoffs, fans who heckled him and fans who held up signs welcoming him home.

But he didn’t fuck up or act out or disappear into his head. He flew to Montreal. Shane had come down to Toronto when Ilya had played there and stayed until the next afternoon. That had been beautiful but hotel-bound, which would always carry baggage for them, and Ilya was looking forward to going to Shane’s home. He had been hoping they’d cook together but it turned out with Shane’s new regimen they’d largely be eating separate meals, and Ilya didn’t fuck up or act out or disappear. Yuna had gotten David a set of model planes for Christmas, and Shane had helped him put some together, and then David had given him one to save for when Ilya was visiting, so that Ilya could work on it too. Ilya hadn’t known about that, Shane hadn’t mentioned it when he’d talked about his holidays, and Ilya was grateful; he wasn’t sure he’d have survived it, the knowledge of the little wooden pieces waiting for his hands in a different timezone while he got ticketed for speeding again.

So Ilya arrived in Montreal at 1am and found newspaper laid out over Shane’s kitchen table, parts from the kit and little tubs of glue and varnish spread across it. Shane said he’d just been getting it ready for the morning, but Ilya was too embarrassingly besotted by the whole arrangement and made Shane show him what it was and how it worked right then. They got to bed at 3am. Ilya was surprised at how flexible Shane was about his sleep schedule, but selfishly he didn’t want to say anything in case it had somehow just slipped Shane’s mind that he should care about it. They didn’t get to sleep in, either, because they drove up to Ottawa the next day to get brunch with Shane’s parents. It went well, Ilya thought. He was unobtrusive and polite. He risked a few jokes that all landed. David and Yuna said nothing that directly or indirectly suggested an unhappiness with their son’s continued commitment to him.

Shane had to go back to Montreal afterwards to play Nashville that night, but he came back the next day and they had an early dinner before Ilya’s game, again with his parents. They couldn’t eat out, obviously, and there was an added feeling of closeness from Ilya getting to spend time in their home. It went well, too. He and Yuna ganged up a little on Shane about something stupid, and Ilya forgot his nerves enough to enjoy it, how lovely Shane’s family was, how loved Shane was.

Yuna and David went to Ilya’s game with the plausible deniability of rooting for their hometown team. Not that Ilya thought they were secretly rooting for him, or anything, but he liked that they were at least interested in seeing him play.

He was more engaged that game than most players would be playing Ottawa. He was trying to get a feel for the team, and it was mostly pretty bleak. Boodram could score, and Dykstra could, every now and then, single-handedly stop an opponent from scoring, and the accolades ended there. Shane said they were doing some interesting things on the penalty kill which rarely paid off but pointed to innovative coaching; Ilya was pretty sure Shane had watched every Ottawa game so far this season. The crowd was as dead as LA’s, but Ilya imagined that would change if they had something to root for. After one pretty abysmally botched scoring opportunity, Ilya skated to a stop by Ottawa’s first line right wing, Dillon, and said, “Are you working on transitions?”

Dillon said, “What?”

“They make you work on transitions?” Ilya asked. “You should focus on them. To create space for yourself.”

Dillon frowned. “Is this shit talk? Do you know I’m mic’d up?”

Ilya frowned back. “Why the fuck would they mic you up?” Dillon skated away. Hopefully he wouldn’t still be on the team once Ilya joined.

Ilya played more minutes than he should. Coach Willis kept trying to take him off, leave it to the back up, but Ilya had earned enough trust to have his request for extra shifts granted. Or else there was a mandate from higher ups to keep Ilya happy and give him what he wanted. “You don’t want to save that energy for Hollander?” Willis asked, which added an extra ounce of adrenaline to Ilya’s bloodstream. “I always have energy for Hollander,” he said, smiling.

When Ottawa was retreating from the rink in defeat, and Ilya should have been retreating with the rest of his team to celebrate, he instead skated over to stand by the Ottawa benches. He leaned into their head coach and said, lowly, “I will tell you secret, you can’t tell anyone.”

Wiebe said nothing, looking at Ilya like he’d just broken into his house. Ilya powered through. “I will not re-sign with LA. I am going to sign with Ottawa. Okay?”

Wiebe smiled balefully and leaned away.

“Not a joke,” Ilya said, putting on his sternest face, the one Westerners cowered before. “Boston sent me to LA to fuck me. I want Ottawa. I am going to spend the rest of my career in Ottawa. Okay?”

“Okay,” Wiebe said. Ilya watched him, watched it land. He must have heard the rumors from earlier in the summer, that Ilya’s camp was asking for Ottawa, but nobody had really believed it and Wiebe had only joined the team this season. Still cautious, Wiebe said, “That’d be pretty special.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “And now you know, so it’s real.”

Wiebe nodded, smiled slowly. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Ilya skated away backwards, pressed his gloved finger against his lips like ssh, and made his future coach laugh.

On his drive to Shane’s that night he listened to Wiebe’s post game presser. “It was a tough loss against maybe the best team in the league,” he said. “But I know Ottawa’s future is bright.”

Ilya smiled the rest of the way to Shane. Despite his good mood, he was careful and quiet coming in. Shane wasn’t there to greet him in the kitchen this time, was already tucked away in bed, and Ilya tried not to disturb him as he slid under the covers.

“Hey,” Shane said.

“Shit,” Ilya said, knocking his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “Did not mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t,” Shane said, his voice soft and secret. “I was waiting.”

Ilya shook his head, the strongest disapproval he could muster, immediately undercut by kissing along Shane’s collarbone.

“I think Dillon is beyond coaching,” Shane said. “He hasn’t shown any growth since his second season.”

Ilya rubbed his nose against Shane’s neck and said, “Broadcast used that clip? I did not know he was mic’d up.”

“That was obvious,” Shane said, his hand coming up to comb through Ilya’s hair. “People just think Ottawa are so non-threatening that opposing players don’t mind giving them advice.”

Ilya laughed a little, and Shane did too. “You stayed up just to say hi?” Ilya asked.

“No,” Shane said, and angled his head toward Ilya’s for a kiss.

Ilya kissed back. He’d stripped down to his underwear before getting in the bed, but it was March in Montreal and Shane was all bundled up. Ilya pushed the sweater up to his chest as Shane kicked off his pants. It was dark and quiet and close as Ilya slotted himself over Shane, holding himself up on his elbows to create a pocket of warm air between their faces. Shane said, “Something quick.”

Ilya nodded, retrieved the lube and slicked up Shane’s thighs, slid himself between them. Shane loved this because of the physical challenge of keeping his thighs clenched, at which he excelled. Ilya wouldn’t ask Shane to move but it was a weird angle, Shane mostly just holding him there, hot and wet. Ilya started grinding against him, angling up as much as down, Shane’s dick trapped between their stomachs. One of Shane’s hands was clenched on Ilya’s ass, the other slid between them, gripping himself. Ilya didn’t think they’d ever fucked in this particular configuration before, and it wasn’t even all that obscure. He wondered how many more times he’d get to think that, he wondered if Shane thought about that too.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Shane breathed, the words landing on Ilya’s cheek. “I’m good?”

“So good,” Ilya said. “The best. Shane, still can’t believe you.”

“You too,” Shane said. “You’re good, too, you’re so good to me.”

Ilya delivered on the request of something quick. Shane said so good one more time and Ilya came.

They took the game day morning as easy as they could, had forty minutes where they got to laze on Shane’s couch, both of them scrolling on their phones. “You’ve really won over my mom,” Shane said out of nowhere, and Ilya turned to him so immediately that Shane laughed and bent across to kiss him on the cheek. “She wants to come over after the game, so they can say bye to you.”

Ilya smiled. “Okay, when?”

“I don’t know, I’m saying no,” Shane said, eyes back on his phone. “Want you to myself now.”

Ilya made a disapproving noise before he could think it through. Shane glanced at him, raised his eyebrows. “It’s our last night, Ilya,” he said.

“Only for a month, you are coming in April,” Ilya reminded him.

“Only for a month,” Shane said, flatly.

“Not what I mean,” Ilya said. “I just mean—we do not have to, I would like to see your parents. I... It is important for them to like me.”

“They do,” Shane said. “That’s why she wants to meet again, she loves you.”

Ilya allowed himself a brief smile. “They will not like me so much if I keep you to myself, if I say no when they ask for things.”

“You’re not saying no, I’m saying no,” Shane said.

“Maybe you should not say no to your parents so quickly,” Ilya said, and immediately cringed.

Shane looked for a moment like he wanted to laugh, then raised his eyebrows instead. “Ilya,” he said. “What the fuck? What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said. He knew he could be intense about parents. Svetlana had used to joke that he only fucked her because it was the closest he could get to fucking her dad. “Sorry.”

“No, seriously,” Shane said. “Do you not like—do you think I’m a bad son?”

“No,” Ilya said. There had been a few times he was sort of shocked by the way Shane talked to his parents, but David and Yuna always responded as though it wasn’t disrespectful or inappropriate, so he was learning to accept it. “Your parents are so lucky, and I love watching you with them. You are a very good son.”

Shane looked at him, kind of skeptically. “So what did you mean?”

Ilya couldn’t think of a way out, forced himself to say, “It is just very different to my parents. But your parents – you are probably the one doing it right.”

Shane’s face softened, and he asked, all gentle, “Do you really want us to spend our last evening with them?”

Ilya didn’t really know. He wanted time alone with Shane, of course, but he had no idea how Yuna would react to Shane shutting her down and it made him uncomfortable to think about. More pressingly, he supposed, he wanted Shane’s shoulders to relax, so he said, “No, I want to be with you. If your parents will understand then let’s just have a night together.”

Shane nodded, sated, relaxing back into the couch and returning to his phone. Ilya relaxed too. It was the closest they’d gotten to a fight during this trip, and he was pretty sure regardless of what the fight was about that would have been a disaster. They were good at not fighting, which had come as a surprise to him, that it had only happened once over the off-season. It had been terse and slightly comical, and Ilya had been riding adrenaline for an hour after. He’d been struck by how safe it had felt, what clear parameters were set for it in his mind. It would not culminate in violence or in Shane leaving. He couldn’t recapture that confidence. They had to be happy when they were together.

Particularly they could not fight right now, when they had such little time left. Ilya would leave for LA in the morning, and most of today would be dominated by the game. Shane’s pregame routine clocked in at over three hours. He was a hoarder of rituals and self-help techniques, constantly adding expert advice to his rotation and never sacrificing anything to make space, still doing the breathing exercise he’d learned from his juniors coach at age sixteen.

Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane’s hair. “Just want you,” he said.

Montreal won, and Shane gleefully read him coverage about the game as they laid in his bed. Ilya couldn’t even mind, because it made him happy what high esteem their teams were both held in. It was something like a rivalry, the best teams in either conference, their parity reinforced now by the regular season record, both of them winning at home.

They didn’t have long for goodbyes in the morning, and it was eerily reminiscent of when Ilya had left after first being traded. Complete, God, with Shane tearing up.

“Hollander,” Ilya said, rubbing his thumbs under Shane’s eyes even though none of the tears had fallen.

“Stop,” Shane said.

“Only a month,” Ilya said. It was quite possible a month would have passed without them managing to see each other if he was back in Boston. “We will see each other so soon.”

“I know,” Shane said. “It’s just that I’m not getting used to it. I’m glad I’m not getting used to it, but it makes it harder.”

Ilya made a soothing noise and pulled Shane against him. Said nothing, didn’t agree. Wondered what counted as getting used to it.

The feeling from spending time with Shane surprised him by lasting. He’d been back in LA for a while before it returned to how it was before. Then he resumed partying, tried to take solace in it, tried to stop it from feeling like falling apart. Some of Svetlana’s friends spoke Russian; that was nice. One night they ended up in a gay bar, because apparently in LA some gay bars were pretty casually frequented by people who weren’t actually gay, and that was nice too.

One morning he woke up with a worse than usual hangover and few memories of the night before, and stumbled to the bathroom to inspect himself for damage. The team wanted him at some event that night. It took him a while to get his eyes wide enough to see himself, his dry lips and greasy hair and pallid skin, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Except – he grinned when he noticed it – a small bruise on his jaw. He couldn’t feel any pain, so he pressed his thumb to it to wake it up. The grin dropped. He knew the feeling about as well as he knew the feeling of a bruise, though it was entirely different. He pulled his thumb away and saw red on it.

He left the bathroom, stomach churning, and grabbed his phone. Last night had been a post-game celebration and he’d been out with his teammates for most of it, so Marly would know what happened. He had to, because Ilya didn’t. His last memory was bumping coke from parliaments in a bathroom with a crowd of people around him, but he couldn’t remember what bathroom or which people or whose cigarettes.

“I’m fucking dying,” Marlow said, when he answered the phone. “What do you want?”

“Did I cheat on Shane?” Ilya asked, and because he was bad at expressing emotion it sounded angry, like he was blaming Marly for something.

“What?” Marlow said. “Holy shit, did you? When?”

“Last night,” Ilya said. “I have fucking lipstick on me. Did I fuck someone else?”

“Oh,” Marlow said, and then kind of laughed. “Oh, no. That wasn’t cheating, that was like, the opposite of cheating. There was this girl who was all over you, but you were really doing your best to get rid of her. I guess she got kind of pushy.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, breathing a little easier. “But how pushy? Pushy enough there is lipstick on me?” She’d have had to get pretty close for that. He shouldn’t have let someone get that close.

“Yeah,” Marly said. “It was pretty embarrassing for her, honestly. She was wasted too. Don’t worry, man, you conducted yourself with total honor. Hollander would be proud.”

“Fuck,” Ilya said, sitting heavily down on his bed. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples. “Jesus, fuck. Thank you.”

“Dude,” Marlow said. “Calm down. It’s all good.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, and pinched his thigh. “I need to shower.”

It didn’t feel all good. The dark red pigment washed away in the water, and he came out of the shower looking like himself again, but he couldn’t shake the guilt or the horror. He felt like he owed Shane an apology but at the same time he knew he would never, ever tell Shane about this. He couldn’t let Shane know it had even crossed his mind as a possibility – because that was a bad sign, he thought, that he didn’t have faith in himself, that he hadn’t assumed there must have been some other explanation. There must have been something about him. He’d noticed how his reputation for promiscuity had followed him to LA, and that nobody had yet raised questions about the fact that he had never gone home with anyone, been credibly linked with anyone. The same jokes were being made about him after more than six months of what should have looked to others like celibacy. It was like they still saw it in him, that capacity, even if he was no longer following through.

It wasn’t so long after that that Shane visited, and even though Ilya had been the one downplaying the month of absence, Shane had to pry himself out of Ilya’s hold when he first arrived. Ilya needed him more than ever, barely let him out of his sight for the whole stay, barely blinked, tracking every twitch and heartbeat. It got under Shane’s skin in a way Ilya hadn’t managed in a while, got him flustered and embarrassed, which made Ilya worse, a feedback loop of obsession. “I love you so much,” Ilya said, while they were brushing their teeth, and Shane said, “Oh my God, I know,” containing a smile around his toothbrush, maybe the first time ever that he hadn’t returned the words.

Shane had brought with him another DVD and they watched it together, Shane sinking down onto Ilya on the couch while he fingered himself onscreen, and Ilya came saying thank you.

“So you liked it?” Shane asked, after, like it wasn’t abundantly obvious.

“Hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Ilya said. “You treat me so well.” He kissed where Shane’s neck met his shoulder. “Will stop me being so restless at night.”

Shane was obviously pleased, but rolled his eyes anyway. “I think you’re plenty entertained at night,” he said.

Ilya went cold, nausea he’d staved off returning. “Actually I think I will be going out less,” he said.

“For the playoffs?” Shane asked. “That makes sense.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. Honestly it was close enough to the playoffs that he should have already gotten a talking to about his lifestyle. There was no captain to get mad at him, but the coaching staff should have intervened. He was pretty sure they were letting him away with it because the team was courting him, trying to get him to stick in LA, and surely this was the way to Ilya Rozanov’s heart. They were treating him like a spoiled child, like he couldn’t take discipline. “But not just playoffs. From now on, I think, I will go out less. I am just not really enjoying it, and it is not smart.”

Shane looked at him, cautious and curious. “Okay,” he said. “Really? You’re not enjoying it?”

Ilya shrugged. “It was just distraction, I guess,” he said. “And it stopped working.”

Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder, took his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What will you do instead? Other than watching these videos over and over and over.”

“Sleep more, hopefully,” Ilya said.

Shane smiled a little. “That’d be good.”

“And go driving,” Ilya said. “Do you want to go for a drive?”

“Now?” Shane asked.

Ilya nodded, and so they did, in one of the cars that Shane hated and Ilya loved so much getting to see him in. They stopped at a small cove empty and lit up by the moon and, like Ilya had said they would, because Ilya kept his promises, they went swimming.

The next day, Shane’s last day, he went out for breakfast with Rose. Before he left he said, “Rose is so solid, doing this for us.”

Ilya nodded, forced a smile. He resented Rose for doing this for them, even though he understood it was necessary. He resented it because it was necessary. There were times where Shane wouldn’t have to explain his presence in LA, but leaving Montreal for three days between games in the last stretch of the season was not one of them. Ilya did not like being indebted to Rose. They hadn’t yet met, but he hated that they wouldn’t meet as equals. He wanted to ask but couldn’t ask what Shane’s teammates thought of the reignited rumors, if Shane knew what they thought, if he was willing to pay that price for a handful of extra hours with Ilya.

A week before the season ended Ilya threw the first pitch at a Dodgers game, which he’d done for the Red Sox in his rookie season and kind of embarrassed himself at because he did not understand a single aspect of how baseball worked. This time he’d practiced pitching with Marlow in his backyard and Marlow made a joke about them being father and son, which he’d had to explain was because this was apparently a stereotypical father and son activity in America, which had made Ilya feel weird, but whatever. He didn’t embarrass himself this time. It was fun, and the atmosphere at Dodgers games seemed far superior to that at Brakemen games, which Ilya would usually resent but which he appreciated that afternoon, while it was aimed at him. There was a little celebration afterwards and though Ilya had largely stopped partying he wasn’t going to be a buzz kill about it, so he went along. He didn’t have a game for two days, and if he played at all it would be minimal. They’d already clinched their division. When a blunt got passed his way, he partook. He was home when it actually hit.

It hit wrong, but his ability to connect the growing feeling to the weed, probably not just weed, dissolved quickly. There was nothing but the feeling, which was of imminent death. He was pretty sure he was dying. Had someone poisoned him? Either he was dying or he was going to die, someone was going to try to kill him, so he locked up his house and retreated to his room and did not move. Maybe he was already dead, that could be it. It would explain why he couldn’t feel his body all that well. His body had died and his soul had gotten stuck in it. What he could feel of his body was stiffness – rigor mortis. It was hard to get breath in his body while in rigor mortis. He didn’t sleep, his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the inevitable intruder. He knew people were looking for him because his phone kept ringing. Sometimes he was convinced it was Shane rather than anyone evil, but he’d be putting Shane in danger by talking to him so he didn’t answer anyway.

The intruder arrived in stages. Ilya heard banging on his front door and clutched the knife he’d cleverly brought with him from the kitchen. He’d calmed down a little, regained his senses. He was pretty sure he wasn’t dead, only very susceptible to it. He just had to keep himself safe and he’d be okay. Then the person who had been outside his house was inside, calling his name, and then Marlow was standing in his bedroom doorway staring at Ilya like – well. Ilya didn’t really know. It was a relief, anyway, because Marlow was an ally, not somebody who wanted to kill Ilya.

“Marlow,” he said, whispering. His jaw felt wired shut. He was surprised he could speak. “This is not good.”

“No fucking shit,” Marlow said. “Coach is already mad as hell you missed practice, no fucking way you can miss the game, not even someone as blessed as you. Come on.”

“Come where?” Ilya asked. He wouldn’t mind going somewhere secret; his house was not especially secure. People knew he lived there.

“To the game,” Marlow said. “Jesus, didn’t you see my texts? I know your phone’s not dead because it’s still ringing.”

Ilya looked at his phone. So not every single one of those calls had been from Shane. Okay.

“I don’t think I know how to drive,” he said.

“Dude,” Marlow said, and squinted at him. “You’re not drunk. Are you stoned? What’s up with you?”

Ilya shrugged.

“Okay,” Marlow said, on a sigh. “I’ll drive ya.”

Ilya nodded. Marlow made him shower first, and agreed to stand outside the bathroom door as he did. Then Marlow herded him to his car, and gave him the side eye as he slunk low in the seat. “What the fuck did you take?” Marlow asked. “I thought you were calming down on this shit.”

“I think I’m going to die,” Ilya said.

“Jesus,” Marlow said. “I don’t know what to do for you, pal. I wonder if there’s a drug that counteracts this. Like taking uppers and downers at the same time, you know.”

Ilya did what Marlow told him. He went into the locker room and got changed. People wanted him to leave and talk to other people, but Marlow went in his place. They went onto the ice; Ilya knew how this worked, knew what was expected of him. Maybe if he did it well people would not kill him.

He did well until a player in a different jersey fucking lunged at him. Ilya managed to get out of the way but his heart was beating so hard he thought he might have a heart attack. That shit was scary. Hockey as a whole was fucking scary. He had blades on his feet that could split open a throat. He’d have to quit, he could not keep doing this. Thankfully he got pulled and didn’t have to play again. He focused on staying still and looking at nobody on the bench, and then Marlow was bringing him home again.

“I don’t know if that was a good idea, bringing you there,” Marlow said, as they walked back into the house. “But I guess they probably can’t fine you now. Let me google if I should be bringing you to the hospital or something.”
Ilya didn’t want to go to the hospital, but he could probably run away or something if it came to it. He was really fast. Marlow stopped talking for a while, Ilya lay with his eyes closed on his couch, and then there was a knock on the door. Ilya flinched, tensed, and Marlow made some hand gesture Ilya couldn’t understand as he went to see who it was. “Holy shit,” Marlow said. “It’s Rose Landry.”

“No,” Ilya said. “I do not like her.”

“Get your shit together, man,” Marlow said. “I’m not saying no to Rose Landry.”

The door opened, and Ilya closed his eyes shut tight.

“Is Ilya here?” he heard in a clear voice, which must have been Rose’s. Before this moment Ilya had never actually heard her speak.

“Yeah,” Marlow said. “I’m—”

“Cliff Marlow, I know,” she said. “Hi. Is Ilya okay?”

“Not really,” Marlow said, apparently appreciating the gravity of the threat to Ilya’s life. “Don’t really know what’s up, but my guess is a bad trip. He’s been cutting down, but I know he was still smoking, so maybe some weed was laced.”

“Shit,” Rose said. “Can I come in?”

“Uh,” Marlow said. “He doesn’t really want… company.”

“I need to actually check on him,” she said. “I—” she cut off for a moment, and then gave a laugh. “I’m sorry, you must be confused about why I’m here. It’s just that—”

“Hollander asked?” Marlow asked. “I know about them. Figure you must too.”

“Thank God,” Rose said. “Yes, Shane asked, he’s been freaking out for days, so can I please actually see Ilya?”

Marlow didn’t say anything, but moments later Ilya heard two sets of footsteps approaching. “Hi, Ilya,” he heard, and still didn’t open his eyes. “I’m Rose, it’s nice to finally meet you. Shane’s told me so much. You’ve got that boy wrapped around your finger.” Ilya said nothing, and Rose continued. “He’s really worried about you right now. I don’t know why you’re not answering your phone, but would you like to talk to him? Would you like to talk to Shane?”

Ilya considered. If they used Rose’s phone, it’d probably be safe. He opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “On your phone.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure. Let me talk to him first and then I’ll put you on.”

Ilya watched her take out her phone as she retreated to the dining room, closed the door behind her.

“So what’s her deal?” Marlow asked. “Shane’s like, her gay best friend? My ex had one of those, he fucking hated me.”

Ilya stared at him.

“Sorry,” Marlow said. “You can tell me later. When you’re not crazy.”

It wasn’t long after that Rose emerged from the dining room again, handed her phone over to Ilya. He clenched it against his ear, cleared his throat, and said, “Hi.”

“Baby,” Shane said, sounding shocked, like he hadn’t expected for Ilya to be there. “Baby, oh my God. Why didn’t you pick up when I called?”

“I don’t want you to catch it,” Ilya said. “I thought it might be contagious.”

“What?”

“Death.”

He heard one of Shane’s careful breaths. “Okay,” Shane said. “I can’t catch that, Ilya. I’m okay, I’m safe. So are you. Marlow’s there, right? And Rose. They’ll look after you. I’m so sorry I can’t look after you, but you’ll be okay.”

Ilya closed his eyes again. “Really?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Yeah, of course. You’re so strong. Nothing can hurt you.”

“I don’t know,” Ilya said.

“I do,” Shane said. “Trust me.”

“I love you,” Ilya said.

“I love you too,” Shane said. “So much. Hey, can I talk to Rose again?”

Ilya frowned. “Why?”

“So I can tell her how to keep you safe,” Shane said, which was pretty convincing. Ilya handed the phone over.

Rose retreated to the dining room again, but Ilya felt more alert. He moved from his couch to the armchair by the door, and could just about hear the call. She’d put Shane on speaker.

“You lied,” Shane was saying. “This can last months.”

“I don’t think looking it up is a good idea, Shane,” Rose said, but Shane didn’t seem to hear.

“And we don’t even know what he took. It might have triggered a psychotic break, this could be a fucking psychotic break.”

“He was able to play a game of professional hockey,” Rose said. “It’s bad but it’s not the worst case scenario.”

“Did you see the game? He couldn’t skate for shit.”

“That is not the same thing as a psychotic break. Let’s not borrow trouble, okay? These things usually just resolve after a couple days.”

“No, we should call someone. He has – there’s family history. With mental health stuff. With Ilya. They’re saying here that’s a risk factor, for the worst case scenarios.”

“Look, he’s out of it, but he’s pretty calm. Cliff said he hasn’t done anything too worrying. I don’t think he’s a threat to himself or to anyone else. That’s the standard, right?”

There was a pause. “For getting someone committed,” Shane said. “I’m not saying we get him committed, Jesus. You’re in therapy, right? Does your therapist do house calls?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” she said. “I’m going to put your boyfriend to bed, and in the morning I’ll make him breakfast and try talking to him a little. And I’ll call you or get him to call you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said, although he didn’t sound very happy. After a pause, he added, “Thank you so much, Rose. I love you, you’re such a good friend.”

“I love you too,” she said. “Don’t worry too much, okay? I got this.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and then cleared his throat. “By the way, not that it matters, but just so you know, Ilya didn’t pick that house for himself, the team did. He has better taste.”

Rose laughed. “Good to know,” she said. “I was worried for a second.”

Moments later the door opened again and Rose re-emerged. If she was bothered by Ilya's relocation she didn't mention it. “I’m going to stay the night,” she said, addressing Marlow. “If you want to get home you can.”

Marlow paused. “No disrespect, I’m not sure Ilya would love having you here by yourself.”

Rose frowned and turned to Ilya. “Ilya, are you okay with me being here?”

Ilya didn’t really know how to answer that, not when Rose was apparently his connection to Shane.

“Do you have a problem with me?” she asked, which was easier.

“You fucked my boyfriend,” Ilya said.

“Right,” she said.

“How did you not know he didn’t want that?”

“Well, I figured it out pretty quickly,” Rose said, with an awkward smile.

Ilya shook his head. “You should not have made him do that, he didn’t want to do that.”

“Jesus,” Marlow said. “Let’s not accuse Rose of anything here. I’m sure she didn’t make Hollander do anything.”

“You have to be so careful with him,” Ilya said. “You can’t assume.”

“I know,” Rose said. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya nodded, and Rose turned to Marlow. “Could you get him to bed?” she asked. “I’m gonna call Shane back. It mightn’t be best, I guess, for me to be here.”

Marlow nodded, and led Ilya to his room. “Sleep,” Marlow said. “Nobody’s gonna get you or whatever, and you look fucking awful. You need to sleep.”

Ilya still didn’t think sleep was a great idea, but this time he couldn’t help it.

He woke up with the ghost of Rose Landry in his room. He scrambled into sitting upright, and Rose scrambled too. Not a ghost, he realized, actual Rose Landry, just with her face lit up sort of spookily by the light of her phone. She turned on a lamp and solved the problem.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know staying in your room while you sleep is kind of weird, but Shane really didn’t want you alone and Marlow drew the line here. At first I said no too but then Shane started talking about paying me so I gave in. Not that I took his money, obviously, but just – it was clear he was pretty desperate.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, and smiled a little. Rose looked relieved.

“So,” she said. “You want some breakfast?”

Ilya frowned. “It is not night?”

“Oh, no, it’s morning, you just have crazy good black out blinds.” She smiled and went to lift them up, for which Ilya was grateful. They were, as she said, crazy good, and he never used them. It fucked with him not being able to tell night from day. On his first day off in LA, with those blinds down, he’d stayed in bed until three and thought that his phone must have been wrong when he saw the time. Actual sunshine forced him up, even if he was still exhausted.

“So, breakfast?” Rose asked again.

Ilya nodded. “I’m fucking starving,” he said, suddenly painfully aware of it. Had he eaten at all in the past couple of days? He must have, but he couldn’t remember it.

Marlow was in the kitchen when Ilya walked in, and he grinned at Ilya. “Morning, champ,” he said. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Ilya said, which was undercut by him jumping when waffles popped out of the toaster. He was still jittery, but he was pretty sure he had a better grip on things than he had last night. He was more certain that Rose wasn’t an agent of evil, for example.

Marlow took a bite from a waffle that could not possibly have cooled enough and said, to Rose, “You got him? I need a shower.”

Rose nodded, and he left, waffle in tow. Ilya’s eyes tracked Rose. It was a pretty disastrous way to meet one of Shane’s best friends, and one he already felt weird about. He was even more in debt to her than he had been before. He should take her to a fancy dinner or buy her something, and he would, but he wasn’t sure if it would be enough. Rose was one of the few people he knew who was richer than him, and it was by a significant margin. He’d have to figure something else out.

“Shane says you date a lot of gay men,” Ilya said. “Marly is definitely not gay.”

Rose glanced at him, wide eyed. “You do seem to be doing better,” she said. “I told Shane these things tended to pass after a couple days.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, vaguely. He was being beset by a new form of torture, which was humiliation.

“I could give him an update,” she said. “But it might be better coming from you.”

Ilya nodded, a little annoyed he hadn’t thought of it himself, and left to retrieve his phone. It was at 3% and he charged it in the kitchen as Rose plated waffles. Ilya could have done that himself too. He really needed to figure out how to make this up to her. His phone had about as many notifications as he would have guessed after going MIA for nearly four days, and he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to look at the texts from Shane. He was surprised to find texts from Hayden, too, and opened them out of sheer curiosity.

Shane seems really distracted today. Was sitting in his car in the parking lot for like twenty minutes. And he just freaked out at a rookie for improper cone placement.

Turned down my dinner invite :(

Wait dude did YOU do something?

He did not like me asking about you lol.

Fuck. He is all good don’t worry about him, Ilya texted back, and then called Shane. Rose took her own breakfast to the dining room.

“Oh my God, Ilya,” Shane said. “How are you?”

“Good,” Ilya said.

“Really?”

“Better,” Ilya amended. “My body feels like shit and I am, um. Jumpy, I guess. But not…” He didn’t really know how to describe how he’d felt.

“Oh, thank God,” Shane said. “I hate that I couldn’t be there, I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t—”

“I know,” Ilya said. “It is okay. Thank you for sending Rose, she has been very nice.”

“She’s the best,” Shane said. “I’m glad Marlow was there too. And I guess it’s a good thing you’d already told him about us, if Rose was going to show up. You’re really feeling better?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. He could remember Shane’s conversation with Rose and parse it better than he had when he’d heard it. How terrified Shane had been. “I got lucky, this is not as bad as it could have been.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Thank God. I mean, it would have been such shit timing, you’d have missed the playoffs.”

Ilya smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I hope you were not too scared. I’m sorry I was not talking to you. That was bad of me.”

“Well, you were trying to save my life, apparently,” Shane said. “So I guess I can’t be mad. I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

They said their goodbyes when Marlow emerged again, slapping Ilya on the back. “Fucking scared me,” he said.

“Sorry,” Ilya said. “I put in a good word for you with Rose.”

“What? What did you tell her?”

“That you’re heterosexual.”

“High praise,” Marly said. “Anyway, as desperate as I’m sure Rose Landry is for me, I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Ilya blinked at him. “Seriously? Who?”

Marlow shrugged. “Early days, don’t want to jinx it,” he said. “But I didn’t get laid last night because you lost your mind, so you owe me more than telling Rose Landry I’m straight.”

Ilya was definitely not steady yet, because he found Marlow passing up on sex to look after him incredibly moving. “What does the team think?”

“I said it was the flu,” Marlow said. “And that you refuse to ever see doctors.”

Ilya nodded. "If you had brought me to hospital I would have run away."

Marlow raised his eyebrows. "Would've fucking tried, dude." 

Thanking Marlow was easy because Marlow didn’t make as much as him. Ilya got him backstage passes to a rap show and a watch. Rose was trickier, and Shane was no help at all. He said that Rose didn’t need anything, that this was what friends did, and that if Ilya wanted to thank her he should bring her out for lunch or something, but not in public because obviously they couldn’t have paps seeing Ilya with Rose, and Ilya was pretty sure this whole idea was more about what Shane wanted than what Rose would appreciate. Still, Ilya also owed Shane, so he agreed.

He brought Rose to the private restaurant at the arena on an afternoon that nothing was on, because Rose liked hockey and it would maybe be somewhat interesting to her. Having the whole place to themselves was as much for his own benefit as to keep it on the down low. He was only just starting to feel okay in crowded places. Rose responded enthusiastically to the setting but he wasn’t sure how genuine it was. Rose was very charming; it impressed Ilya how well she made it seem like the meal was not overwhelmingly awkward. He wondered if Shane kind of had a type. He could see why she would be the woman Shane had convinced himself he could make it work with – talented and ambitious and determined to smooth over any social hiccup.

“Not a great first impression,” he said, self-deprecating, when they finally broached the bad trip.

Rose waved a hand like actually Ilya had been incredibly endearing when he’d accused her of taking advantage of Shane. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It beats small talk. And it was kind of sweet seeing how much you loved Shane even with everything else going on.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. It was important for Rose to know that, for everyone who cared about Shane to know that. “I love him a lot.”

“Believe me, it’s obvious,” Rose said. “Even just from the way he talks about you. I’m kind of obsessed with you guys.”

Ilya looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Like it’s just so romantic,” she said. “My relationships are generally pretty underwhelming, so I’ve been enjoying living through Shane vicariously since he told me. And I’ve gotten a lot of details out of him, I have to be honest.”

“You fantasize about long distance?” Ilya asked, sarcastic but mostly unsure.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Rose said, leaning forward, wide eyed. “Obviously it must be so hard, I know Shane finds it hard. But it’s still – it’s like an epic love story, you guys. Spanning decades, different countries, different time zones. Like an Italian opera, or something. Or what I imagine happens in Italian operas.”

Slowly Ilya smiled. He couldn’t tell if Rose was playing him – she seemed smart enough for it – but that was exactly the reaction he wanted him and Shane to earn. All it took was explaining their situation to someone with a flair for drama.

“Yes,” he said. “It is special, what we have.”

Rose smiled. “And you’re doing better, right?” she asked.

Ilya nodded. “It passed quick,” he said. “Just bad drugs.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Hey, I was wondering, do you guys have, like, a sports psychologist on staff? I was thinking if anywhere would it’d be LA, right? Everyone has a therapist here. I actually have two, for depending on where in the world I’m working from.”

“No,” Ilya said. He remembered what Shane had told her, the history of mental illness in his family. As discreetly worded as he could manage, but Ilya hated that she had even that. “We don’t.”

“Shame,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but after something like that, do you think it’d help to talk to someone?”

“It is done,” Ilya said. “Play offs are starting in a couple days. I should just put it behind me.”

Rose nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I just think… It’s really romantic, what you guys are doing, but it’s also really hard. I mean, a lot of the most romantic stuff is really hard.”

Ilya clenched his hand. “Shane is finding it hard?” he asked. “You are worried about him?”

Rose smiled sympathetically. “He’s worried about you, Ilya,” she said, emphasis on you. “He just wants to know you’re looking after yourself. And it’s not something you could lie about to him, you know. You have to actually look after yourself.”

Ilya said nothing, and Rose expertly steered them to safer waters. Maybe she knew the job was done, that those words would stay with Ilya for days.

Chapter End Notes

ty for reading and for all the lovely comments!! means so much :) ig i should say updates mightn't always be this frequent, i'm just posting as i write. but i doubt i'd ever go longer than a week!

Chapter 4: summer (1)

Chapter Notes

Song of the chapter is I’ll be here in the morning by townes van zandt which is in general my cottage anthem. Evil song of the chapter is videotape by radiohead which is my evil cottage anthem (ilya POV).

How was locker room was anyone shit to Shane

?????

Hayden

Hayden

Hayden

Ilya had paused the coverage on his TV while Svetlana went to get another bottle of wine. Regardless of any emotional attachment to Shane, she seemed about as upset by the game they’d just watched as Ilya was. It had not been good hockey. The play offs were as much a war of attrition as anything, and this deep things got ugly – especially in Denver, where the air was thin and the players had been inflicting injuries since pre-season. Ilya knew that first hand; Colorado had killed LA in the conference finals, and they’d fucked up Ilya’s knee in the process.

Montreal had been holding up well until tonight. It was game six in a series everyone had been calling Montreal’s from the start, and Ilya still believed that with it going back to Montreal for game seven. It wasn’t like Shane had been bad tonight, but he’d looked tired. Ilya hoped he was the only one who could see that. Shane would do better on home ice, anyway. One of the commentators had called him a home bird, which Ilya had looked up and found sweet. Another line on which to draw their differences; Ilya thrived in hostile arenas.

“Colorado are an affront to the sport,” Svetlana said as she reappeared. She’d been staying with him for the playoffs, a tradition from Boston that Ilya was glad they had salvaged. Returning to an empty house from a playoff game was always disturbing, too much of a cliff edge, and it wasn’t wise to leave him alone after his team was knocked out. It was especially dismal this year, considering all the high expectations.

“You were their biggest fan when I was playing them,” Ilya said as she settled back on the couch, in the complaining tone that always annoyed her.

“That was because you deserved to lose,” she said patiently. “Montreal do not. Montreal do proper team hockey.”

“LA did too much fucking team hockey,” Ilya said, no longer faking the discontented tone, and Svetlana reached over to squeeze his shoulder. He knew she agreed; she’d been the first to say it, not that Ilya had needed it said. With raised stakes and more focused attention from their opponents LA’s usual tricks stopped working. They’d needed him to play the hero, in the way he’d been accustomed to in Boston and hadn’t done once since the trade. He’d become too used to easy wins, out of practice in brute forcing his way to victory. He’d lost whatever it took to take over a game – the ferocity, the skill, the stamina. Some part of him had atrophied in LA. It bothered him most that he hadn’t noticed. Nobody had raised any issue with his performance, so he’d chosen to believe everything was okay, forever taking the path of least resistance. He wondered, not for the first time, if his father and brother no longer being in his life made him a worse player.

“On the bright side, Hollander’s always fun the game after playing bad,” Svetlana said.

“He didn’t play bad,” Ilya said immediately, and Svetlana laughed.

“Sorry,” she said, and pinched his cheek. “How rude of me. He’s always fun the game after playing mediocre.”

Ilya couldn’t really argue with that, except to say that even Shane Hollander was allowed one lackluster game in an otherwise stellar post-season. He had said as much in his text to Shane once the final buzzer had sounded, but it was pro forma – he didn’t expect to get anything through Shane’s skull until they were in the same room, which, thankfully, would be tomorrow. Even then he’d have to figure out as he went what tack to take. He had no experience with this version of Shane; the only time they’d interacted during the playoffs before had been last season, when Shane had been out with injury.

During the second period of their rewatch, Hayden finally responded.

+1-555-673-5981: Chill man. He’s fine.

+1-555-673-5981: Look I don’t know if we should do this anymore

Ilya rolled his eyes. You are breaking up with me?

+1-555-673-5981: You’re truly the fucking worst. I mean texting about Shane.

+1-555-673-5981: I told my wife about it and she says Shane mightn’t like it.

Ilya stared at the screen, considered calling Hayden. The amount of derision he was feeling couldn’t be communicated over text. Of fucking course he would not like this. This is why we do not tell him. Fucking catch up.

+1-555-673-5981: Bro that’s messed up.

Ilya clenched his jaw. He didn’t like Hayden’s sudden about face, but he wasn’t about to beg. Okay. Do not text me about everything but if anything really bad happens tell me. Deal?

+1-555-673-5981: I’m sure if anything really bad happens Shane will tell you

Ilya: Hayden

+1-555-673-5981: Deal

“When are you leaving tomorrow?” Svetlana asked.

“Early,” Ilya said. “You’ll still be sleeping.”

Svetlana made a noise of acknowledgment and ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I didn’t think you’d last this long,” she said.

Ilya was about to say me neither before realizing that probably wasn’t what she'd meant. “Me and Shane?”

“Yeah,” she said. “So, sorry. It’s obviously one of the things you care about.”

She said it like that held a lot of weight. It was a short list, admittedly, and she was one of the few who could name everything on it. When he’d first told her about Shane he’d tried to imagine how he’d feel if she told him she wanted to move to, like, Nebraska, for a guy Ilya had never met and who didn’t even live in Nebraska but just kind of nearby. Ilya didn’t hold anything against her.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Taking an early morning flight when you’re not contractually obligated to take an early morning flight,” she said. “It must be love.”

“It is,” he said.

“So you’re really happy with this, this is what you want?” she asked, turning to him. “To be his.”

That would be what it seemed like to her, before anything else. A surrendering of the self.

“Yes,” Ilya said, easily. After a lapse of silence, the game playing on before them, he added, “It doesn’t matter that I want it, though. Even when I didn’t want it I was his.”

“Well,” Svetlana said. “I guess you should make the most of it, then.” And she leaned forward toward the TV to indicate the end of the conversation. Ilya nudged her with his foot, and she nudged back.

When Ilya arrived in Shane’s apartment the next day he found him eerily calm. Shane wrapped him in a hug and held him there, and then he said “Okay,” to himself and pulled away, like he’d had a timer in his head for how long he was allowed to do that. Ilya rubbed his thumb over Shane’s cheekbone, kissed him once, twice, said, “How are you?”

“Fine,” Shane said. “Just. Have things to do.”

Ilya smiled. “Squats? Shower? Win a cup?”

“You don’t plan on winning a cup, you plan all the steps you have to take to win a cup,” Shane said, and Ilya detached a little the way he always did when Shane’s words stopped being his own. He’d known arriving before the deed was done was a risk, but he’d missed Shane too bad to wait any longer.

“You need anything?” he asked, and laughed when Shane’s eyes dropped to his lips.

“I don’t mean sex, Hollander,” he said. “I mean if you need help with the things you have to do.”

Shane smiled back, his eyes not lifting. “Can you just be here? Like, be around.”

Ilya was there, around, until Shane left the next day for the arena. It was fascinating to watch Shane go about his preparations, the naps and the stretches and the game tape and the meals, all steadily and evenly and with an expression of total contentment, like he was never more at peace than in the hours before game seven of the NHL finals. Ilya had felt manic his entire ride to the cup, and he felt itchy even then, on Shane’s behalf. He tried a few times to poke at Shane, but Shane was singularly immune to him, not rising to any of his bait. Ilya hadn’t known that was possible and it only deepened his fascination. In bed the night before the game he found that Shane had added a sleep mask and weighted blanket to his already unduly complex sleeping arrangements, but in this he finally relented to Ilya, allowed one deviation from his routine. The blanket was bundled at the bottom of the bed, and Ilya lay on Shane in its place.

Once Shane left for the arena Ilya pulled out the Hollander jersey he’d kept in his luggage, got comfortable on Shane’s couch, and texted with Svetlana about all the stupid remarks made in the pre-game coverage. Texted with her about the game too, except for the stretches when Shane was on the ice, when he instead let Svetlana octuple text a stream of consciousness. He was relaxed by the second period; he wondered if Shane knew that, that Ilya could see, sometimes, when Shane was going to win. One of the only instances in which Ilya had any foresight at all, watching Shane’s absolute and unassailable control on the ice.

He watched Shane lift the cup and had to wait six hours to see him in person, into the small hours of the morning, because this was the one set of circumstances in which Shane couldn’t get away with leaving early. Ilya got increasingly worked up; he’d thought about this, wanted this, the last time Shane had won a cup, had wanted to be there with him, to see it in his eyes, on his skin. The anticipation made his stomach twist, and he was on his feet as soon as he heard the key in the latch, heat and need shooting through him. They were on each other instantly, Ilya staggering back with the force of Shane, biting his lips and squeezing his shoulders, like his body hadn’t been through enough already.

“Wait,” Shane said. “Wait, wait.” He pulled away and looked down at Ilya and laughed. “Ilya, where did you get that?”

“Black market,” Ilya said, looking down at the shiny Hollander jersey. He’d worked it through and concluded that Shane’s only possible reactions were finding it hot or funny. Ilya was open to either. He still felt a little embarrassed.

“Ilya.”

“I stole it from little kid.”

Shane shook his head, still smiling, leaned in to kiss Ilya again, but only momentarily. “What would you have done if we hadn’t won?”

“Hid it for next time,” Ilya said, after a moment’s consideration.

“Next time,” Shane said, soft and dreamy. It was Ilya’s turn to steal a kiss. When he pulled away Shane’s eyes were closed, but he still had questions. “Have you ever worn someone else’s jersey before?”

It was such a ridiculous idea it became too sweet to make fun of; who else? “No,” Ilya said, and Shane pushed his face into Ilya’s neck, his chin rubbing on the fabric, like it was too much for him to handle. It was too much, Ilya knew that. He wouldn’t have done this, he didn’t think, if he was still in Boston. Like how Shane wouldn’t have made those DVDs if Ilya hadn’t left. They were getting desperate, the both of them, raising the stakes every chance they got, trying to push themselves past the point of no return. Ilya was pretty sure he had passed that years ago, but it never hurt to go a little further. Maybe he should get a tattoo.

Ilya pulled Shane away from his neck and kissed him, dipping in and out of his mouth, feeling how Shane shook. “Congratulations,” he said, because he hadn’t said it yet, and when he kissed Shane again he felt his smile. Shane’s hands started pushing the fabric around on Ilya’s back and stomach, and Ilya said, “You want to ride me? Look down at me in this?”

“You’d keep it on?” Shane asked, and Ilya kissed him again.

“This is point, Hollander.”

“Hollander,” Shane said, and pinched his name on the jersey. Ilya couldn’t believe the degree to which this was paying off.

“You like it so fucking much,” Ilya said, marveling and smug.

“So do you,” Shane said, which Ilya couldn’t deny. “I’ll ride you later.”

With that he dropped to his knees, pressed his face into the crease of Ilya’s thigh before pulling Ilya’s shorts down to his feet.

“Fuck,” Ilya said. He hadn’t said it outright but he thought the tone was clear: tonight was about whatever Shane wanted, about him claiming his spoils. And here he was, on his knees. “Look at you. Champion.”

Shane reached up to ball his hand in the fabric of the jersey and licked Ilya’s shaft, both sides then underneath, almost methodical, which Ilya had come to find hot. A perfected technique to accentuate the raw talent. When Shane took him in his mouth Ilya made himself think about Shane’s wide red smile on TV, made himself think about all those people cheering for Shane, worshiping him. Ilya almost felt hysterical, manic, like this could only be explained as a fever dream. He’d had the thought after the trade that his reality seemed different from everyone else’s, and at the time it had been depressing, but now it felt powerful, like he had been gifted access to a version of the world nobody else could even conceive of. Shane, on his knees, sucking Ilya with the same focus and passion as had been exerted in the game that night – a vision from God. Ilya, for some reason, chosen as the prophet.

Ilya didn’t tell Shane when he was about to come because Shane had previously obliquely communicated that he preferred the surprise. Shane’s eyes popped open when it started, and Ilya’s hands clenched hard enough in Shane’s hair he already knew there’d be a few soft dark strands between his fingers when he pulled away. He softened his grip as he pulled out of Shane, Shane’s mouth immediately sealing up. Ilya held his hand out and, after scanning his immediate vicinity for better options and coming up short, Shane spat. Ilya didn’t hesitate, or really think, before rubbing the mix of spit and come on the front of the jersey.

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane said, face scrunching up.

Ilya’s knee was still stiff from the playoff injury and he couldn’t join Shane on the floor how he wanted, so he pulled him up instead. “I am not planning to return it,” he said. He walked Shane backwards against the wall, then guided Shane’s hard, pulsing dick against his abs, under the wet fabric. He put his own hand over the fabric and rubbed, up and down. Shane’s face contorted as he started grinding against Ilya’s stomach, the both of them looking down at the shape of him under the jersey, getting it wetter.

“Ilya, what the fuck,” Shane said, his head banging back against the wall. Ilya laughed, giddy, when Shane came.

“You don’t have to keep wearing it if it’s gross,” Shane said, once he’d caught his breath, and Ilya rolled his eyes and brought Shane to bed. He didn’t take it off but Shane did ruck it up under his arms, kissing at Ilya’s ribs.

"It was so good watching you," Ilya said, a confession, once they were settled. "You were so beautiful."

Shane hummed, pleased. “People always ask me how it feels,” he said, pressing his cheek to Ilya’s chest. “I like that you know.”

Ilya ran his hand down Shane’s back. He wasn’t tired but he was sated, a bone deep ease he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d been with Shane. His eyes were closed when Shane said, “You are very beautiful.”

It came out sounding kind of awkward, and—he’d said it in Russian. Ilya’s eyes flew open, the realization landing a second after the words. “What?” He half thought he’d imagined it. Shane laughed and said it again, and it was clunky and accented but Ilya still felt like Shane had just reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart.

“What the fuck,” he said.

“I’ve been trying to learn a little,” Shane said, smiling. “I’m still really on just the most absolute basics, but I went out of the way to learn—”

“How to tell me I’m beautiful?” Ilya asked, grinning wildly.

“I know my pronunciation is still rough. I was going to wait until I was a little better, but.” Shane shrugged, and Ilya laughed. He knew what had changed Shane’s mind. He had earned those words by wearing Shane’s jersey. Ilya pulled him up into a kiss. Later, while Shane was riding him, Ilya made him practice his pronunciation.

Ilya woke up in an empty bed, which wasn’t surprising. Shane was an early riser. He found him in the kitchen, sitting on a stool by the kitchen island with his back straight and legs tangled around the post, a neglected smoothie beside him as he frowned down at his phone. Ilya kissed the crown of his head by way of greeting, and by way of greeting Shane showed him his screen. Ilya hunched down a little to see the Metros group chat, which felt like one of the most intimate things Shane had ever shared with him. “What do you think of that latest message?” Shane asked.

It read my whole fucking body hurts I can’t wait for Cabo. Ilya went to grab some bread. “Cabo is not good place for rest and recovery,” he said.

“True,” Shane said. “But not what I mean. You don’t think it’s weird?”
“Weird how?”

“Like,” Shane started. He breathed heavily through his nose, evidently struggling for the right words. “As though they’re already moving on. I mean, it’s been fewer than twenty four hours and they’re talking about vacation plans.”

Ilya shrugged, still not seeing the problem.

“I mean,” Shane said again. “It stays special, right? Winning the cup? Like it’s not something people get bored of.”

Ilya snorted. “If somebody said they felt this way to me I would probably punch them.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, but absently. “Maybe it’s the way we won. Like, it took us seven games. Last time we did it in five.”

“And people said it wasn’t real cup because Seattle was so fucking weak,” Ilya said. “There is no right way to win.”

“But seven is like.” Shane shook his head. “It’s barely better than a coin toss. We won four out of seven games. If I was a kid and I got four out of seven questions right on a test, nobody would say I did good.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, a little impatient. “You won three cups in last four years. If you tell me this is not actually impressive I will not be able to get hard for days.”

“Sorry,” Shane said, and dropped his head onto the counter. “At least I wish I’d played you in the finals.”

Ilya hummed, because he’d thought about that too. But it didn’t do to dwell on. “Colorado are mean team,” he said. “You guys were banged up. You still won. People don’t think seven games is a coin toss, they think is gritty. Like going twelve rounds in boxing.”

Shane straightened up. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know that. I guess I just worry my teammates don’t.”

Ilya understood the implication. Shane’s coming out had hinged on their gratitude trumping their resentment, which might require their gratitude to be pretty immense. “If they do not care about winning they should not be on your team anyway.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and Ilya leaned across the kitchen island toward him.

“But, Shane,” he said, in a stage whisper. “Everybody cares about winning.”

Shane smiled. It was a hell of an insurance policy, for the both of them.

A couple weeks later – after the parade, and Shane’s media tour, and the NHL awards – they got to the cottage. Ilya sunk into it like it was home, like it was the most familiar place in the world to him. It didn’t have much competition, he supposed, not these days. They had enough time together for the days to blur, and Shane relented under Ilya’s insistence that they shouldn’t make plans. The calendar on the fridge remained blank, and when they moved to July it stayed on June. Not every touch was urgent now. He could hold Shane without squeezing.

It wasn’t like Ilya had ever had any doubts that the suffering of the last year had been worth it, but looking back it felt entirely inconsequential, barely worth mentioning, a stone in his shoe as he had walked to the oasis. They didn’t talk about it and they didn’t talk about the season to come, their conversation more concerned with space exploration and what other pro sport they thought they’d be best at and what they’d do if the Purge was real. Shane said that he’d been scared of the zoo as a kid and Ilya said that he’d once held his breath for three minutes but nobody believed him. Shane said he believed him. Ilya ballooned up with happiness, just like he had last summer. There was nothing like this, nothing on earth that compared to Shane. 

And then the schedule for next season landed in both their inboxes, and acknowledgment of the future became inevitable, archaic calendars coming back into use. Shane would be in LA in October, early in the season, and Ilya would be in Montreal in February, a week after the all star break. “That will be nice,” Ilya said. “Seeing you twice in a week, basically.”

“I wish they weren’t so close together,” Shane said.

“Why?” Ilya asked, trying to hold off the automatic hurt.

“Just – I wish the visits were more evenly spaced out,” Shane said, frowning down at his phone. “Only going a week without each other just means there’s going to be this big long stretch of us not seeing each other.”

Ilya smiled. “You do not need to measure me out, like diet plan.”

Shane shrugged, glanced up at him and down again. “I’ll compare the schedules, see if there’s another weekend I could visit. Maybe more than one.”

Ilya obviously liked the idea, but seeing Shane scour their schedules to find gaps that matched depressed him, so he excused himself for Shane’s gym and told him to join him with the good news once he’d figured it out.

About a week after that Shane finally convinced Ilya that going camping was a good idea, even though the only part of camping that appealed to Ilya was lighting a fire and Shane said they weren’t allowed to do that. They lugged a tent and an insane amount of supplies to a clearing in the nearby woods, right by a cliff overlooking more woods, which was Shane’s parents’ favorite sunset view. Ilya diligently followed Shane’s instructions in putting the tent up, hammering in tiny posts into the dry ground and pulling little ropes as tight as they would go. Shane had not gone camping since he was a teen, and this tent had obviously escaped all the upgrading that had happened once he got rich. The fabric was faded, frayed at some seams, and the zip jammed. “I remember it being bigger,” Shane said morosely, once it was set up, and Ilya snorted.

“Do we get in?” he asked, and Shane looked at him askance.

“No,” he said. “Tents are just for sleeping. Why would we get in now?”

“If it is just for sleeping why did we set it up in middle of day?” Ilya asked.

“You can’t set up a tent in the dark,” Shane said.

“Do we go back home now?” Ilya asked, mostly just to be a dick. “And come back here to sleep?”

“No, we’re going on a hike,” Shane said. “It’s like a mini vacation. Hiking and camping. And when we’re back we’ll make food here.”

Shane had a little camping stove to cook over, which Ilya would enjoy more if he wasn’t blaming it for not being allowed to light a fire.

“If there were no trees I would be able to see your house from here,” Ilya said. “And we go on hikes anyway.” Ilya hadn’t thought he’d be the kind to like hikes, but what he found he liked was spending time with Shane while doing anything physical.

“But this one has a different starting point,” Shane said. “And we can go further than we usually get.”

Ilya couldn’t think of anything else to make fun of. He kissed Shane instead, backed him up against a tree and kissed him harder.

The hike did take them further into the surrounding woodland than they’d been before, following a trail only Shane could see, and it was so remote they took to speaking very quietly. When Ilya was a kid he used to have dreams about waking up and finding he was the only person left in the whole city, wandering on his own, doing anything he wanted. Now he imagined that with just him and Shane, an otherwise empty world they could do anything in.

They got back to where they’d pitched the tent, a location Shane referred to as camp, and took out the food Shane had brought, eggs and sausages and potatoes and corn, food that Ilya considered unambiguously healthy but which he knew fell outside of Shane’s current diet. It had lightened up a little in the off-season and was unrecognizable today, Shane’s nostalgia for the camping trips of his youth apparently trumping his discipline. Ilya hadn’t known that Shane was all that nostalgic. He wondered if Shane ever thought about their earliest encounters, all those years ago, learning about each other for the first time, becoming aware of each other.

Shane drew the line at toasted marshmallows, which he’d apparently brought purely for Ilya’s sake, but he did kiss Ilya while Ilya’s mouth was still sticky with them.

They kept kissing, and then Shane was swinging into his lap. Ilya pulled him against him, keeping their hips tight together, and said, “Let’s go into tent.”

Shane shook his head, which had the effect of brushing his lips against Ilya’s. Ilya bit down on one, and then on Shane’s chin, so he could still talk while Ilya chewed. “Tent sex definitely sucks,” he said, which sounded like a challenge until he followed up with: “It can’t be as good as outdoor sex.”

Ilya bit harder. They’d fucked outside before but only on Shane’s property. They hadn’t seen a single other soul all day, but this was still technically public. Ilya got his hands on Shane’s chest and pushed, lowered him onto the cool ground, and draped himself over him. His first thought was to blow him, but he knew he should make the most of this, that he should go all out. “Take of your clothes,” he said, but barely gave Shane enough room to oblige. Shane forewent folding them, but did stretch to leave them on the camping chair rather than the dirt. He lowered himself back down with no such concern for his skin. Shane had them well stocked up on water, so maybe Ilya could wash him down after. But after was a long way away.

He pulled off his own shirt when Shane made it clear with his hands that was what he wanted and then undid his pants and shoved them down a little, because it was easier to do before the lube got involved. When he bullied his way between Shane’s thighs and pressed a finger at his hole Shane said, “Seriously?” Almost disbelieving, like fucking outside wasn’t his idea. But then, maybe Shane had only been envisioning covert handjobs. Maybe he didn’t realize the way Ilya did that they were the only two people in the world.

Ilya didn’t answer, just got a finger inside, and Shane said, “Okay, but be quick about it.”

Ilya laughed. “Because you are so responsible,” he said. “Not because you are desperate, not because you like when I—” Shane put a hand over his mouth to stop him from finishing the sentence, and Ilya laughed again.

Ilya was quick about it, pressed against Shane’s barely ready entrance because that was what Shane liked, and pushed in. “Fuck,” he said. Then, half as dirty talk and half real concern, “I should have put on condom. How will you clean yourself up?”

“Shut up, Ilya,” Shane said, and linked his legs around him, his heels pressing into Ilya’s ass. Ilya fucked him hard because he liked watching Shane move under him and because he felt wild, anyway.

When he got close he said, through clenched teeth, “Can I come inside you, really?” and didn’t get a straight answer because Shane came between their stomachs, which was probably a yes but Ilya didn’t want to take any chances. Eventually Shane’s oh my God Ilya gave way to an explicit request for Ilya to finish inside him, so Ilya let himself go.

Shane did let Ilya clean him, with bottled water and gauze from the first aid kit, although it wasn’t as big a job as Ilya would have liked. He wondered if Shane had ever had an injury that required sponge baths; he wondered if he’d ever be around for one in the future.

Shane started getting dressed, and Ilya grabbed at his ankle and then his ass. “I don’t know how I ever go more than hour without this,” he said, and he was talking exclusively about within the world of the cottage, but as soon as he said it he heard it differently, the months he’d gone without this, and he saw that was what Shane had heard too. Shane pulled his t-shirt on, held it over his face for longer than necessary, and when he emerged again he said, “I’m sorry.”

Ilya snorted, made sure his posture and position were relaxed. “For what?” he said. “Nothing is your fault.”

“It’s a little my fault that you have to just not have sex at all when I’m not there,” Shane said, and Ilya blinked. That logic was tortuous even for Shane.

“Don’t act like I’m being ridiculous, I’m not,” Shane said, and Ilya settled back on his hands. Shane had something to say; he sat on the camping chair to say it. “I did a lot of reading, over the season, and I know that can be how it works for some people in long distance relationships. Especially when it’s temporary. That they fuck other people. But I just couldn’t do that, Ilya, I couldn’t handle it. I wouldn’t let you.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, wondering when he’d betrayed himself to Shane, and how many times. “I have never asked—”

“I know, but.” Shane shrugged.

“I only want you,” Ilya said, because that was true. His general horniness had never settled on any particular target in LA. In fact that might have always been true, that everyone he’d slept with other than Shane had just been people who happened to be in his vicinity when desire struck. Shane was the only one who didn’t blur at the edges.

“Well, good,” Shane said, and swallowed. There was as much warning as apology in his voice. “Because I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Ilya said, and smiled a little. “You would never forgive me.” It was a comforting thought. He believed that if Shane slipped up Ilya would forgive him, eventually, would find a way to, but he was also pretty sure it wasn’t true in reverse. He didn’t want it to be. Ilya needed hard limits like that, walls he couldn’t smash through.

They watched the sun set, their legs overhanging the cliff, and then they climbed into the tent. The red fabric glowed with Shane’s lantern as they got settled on the camping mats, still too warm for the sleeping bags discarded beside them, but Shane said they'd need them later in the night. It wasn’t comfortable, which Ilya had predicted and was his main point of contention with the practice, but he could better see the appeal. In their childhood Svetlana’s bed had been a four poster with heavy curtains, and Ilya had loved feeling enclosed within it. The tent was like that too, almost womb like, holding them.

Still the first thing Ilya said was, “This is not good for my knee.”

He miscalibrated; Shane sat up, looked down at him, and said, “We can go back, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that.”

“No, Shane,” Ilya said, pulling Shane back down. “I am just complaining. Is fine. I see why you like this.”

Shane smiled at him, dug his chin into Ilya’s shoulder. “You do?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “You did this a lot growing up?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Well, my dad’s really into it. He was a scout when he was a kid, spent a lot of time outdoors, and he wanted me to join the boy scouts too. But I only wanted to play hockey, and mom only wanted me to play hockey, so no boy scouts. He’d still take me out when he could and teach me stuff.”

"Boy scout Shane," Ilya said, overcome.

"That's literally a story about how I was never a boy scout." 

Ilya smiled. “Did David teach you how to make fires?”

Shane gave him a look. “He taught me fire safety, yeah.”

Ilya groaned his disapproval and rolled over onto Shane, laid his weight on him. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and held tight. It was the perfect position for sleeping, but Ilya started running his fingers up Shane’s side instead.

“No,” Shane said. “Seriously, I don’t want to have to clean come out of my childhood tent.”

“That sounds hot,” Ilya said, and Shane thwacked him on the arm before starting to stroke his back. It was the perfect position for sleeping.

They watched the sunrise, too, because it wasn’t the right environment for sleeping in. They had steel cups of instant coffee, something Ilya hadn’t known Shane was aware existed, and sat again at the cliff. The bird song was so loud that when they talked it felt like interrupting. Ilya abruptly stopped being able to hear it when Shane said, “What do you think about coming out soon? Like, this season.”

After a couple beats Ilya said, “To who?”

“Everyone,” Shane said. “About us, I mean. I just think – then we’d be able to see each other when we want. We wouldn’t have to fit it around everything else so much.”

He sounded serious. Ilya felt like he was missing something. “It could be not good for me,” he said. “With Russia.”

“Right,” Shane said. “But we could get married. I don’t know if you’d get automatic Canadian citizenship from that, but you’d have some right to be here, I’m sure. Like they couldn’t deport you if we were married.”

The fact that Shane didn’t already know precisely how that worked – that he hadn’t researched in advance of bringing it to Ilya – was proof it was a bad idea, some kind of temporary insanity. Ilya wondered when exactly it had come to mind for Shane, and was pretty sure it was sometime in the past twelve hours.

“Maybe not,” Ilya conceded, deciding not to linger on Shane proposing marriage. He started playing their last day back in his head, wondering what could have set this off. They'd been so happy, so at ease. He doubted it came from the talk about sleeping with other people, which was more connected to the distance than the secrecy, and coming out didn’t solve the distance. This seemed pretty out of nowhere, which scared him. He always watched Shane closely, but the truth was not everything breached Shane’s surface; sometimes things brewed without any outward sign of it. “But, Shane, you said after we retired. You know there are reasons not to do this.”

Ilya had previously thought he didn’t feel them as deeply as Shane, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them at all. He feared losing the ease he experienced in locker rooms. He’d never been one of the kids who’d found them hard and he wasn’t sure how he’d handle it. He didn’t want the trash talk he’d been largely indifferent to his whole career to finally locate one of his soft spots. Ilya didn’t regret telling Marly, but sometimes even having Marly talk about his relationship made him grit his teeth. He was liable to lose teeth if people he liked less than Marly tried it. He didn’t want people judging him and Shane, judging his worthiness of Shane. He couldn’t imagine how many people would be disappointed – would love Shane less because Shane loved Ilya.

He liked, of course, the prospect of not having to contrive excuses to see Shane, not having to avoid public spaces or keep his bites soft. But they probably would have to avoid public spaces for a while anyway, with the attention coming out would garner them, and in all likelihood Shane would just get more paranoid about marks once people knew where they came from. Coming out would only make sense if it meant stepping away from the spotlight too, which neither of them were ready for. Jokes aside, Ilya had been genuinely half expecting Scott Hunter to retire.

“I know,” Shane said. “I know, but I just. I feel like all the hard things about it would be worth it, maybe. All this sacrifice is too much. It’d be worth it to get what we wanted. To not have to go through another year of...”

Shane apparently couldn’t find a word for what the last year had been. Ilya hummed; he didn’t want to outright say he didn’t agree, that it wouldn’t be worth it. He didn’t want Shane to not feel supported. But his hesitation was because of his care for Shane, his conviction that this wasn't really what Shane wanted, that he was flailing, grasping, for anything like solid ground. Ilya just had to be more solid. “Why don’t you do your research and you can tell me if there is safe way to do it,” Ilya said, feeling a little guilty for putting it on Shane but not knowing how to take responsibility for it himself.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “That makes sense. Okay.”

They returned to the cottage and their sacred way of life. At some point in the days that followed Ilya assumed Shane did look into it, but it was never brought up again. It was easy to forget, to write off as momentary madness, when everything else was so idyllic. They worked out together and ate together and swam together and slept together; they played video games and had dinner with Shane’s parents and watched youtube videos together to learn chess, after stealing a board from David. Ilya taught Shane Russian, deemed himself a brilliant teacher and Shane a terrible student. Shane hated any inconsistency in grammatical rules, constantly tried to correct Ilya like Ilya had somehow gotten his own native language wrong because something he’d said didn’t immediately make sense to Shane. But Shane was dogged, too, and Ilya liked watching his mouth work. It was a long term project; it felt like it would take years for Shane to be at even a conversational level. Ilya liked that. Another inch past the point of no return.

Once he woke up in the middle of the night, in Shane’s arms, Shane’s mouth against his neck, murmuring the same thing over and over, practicing a Russian phrase in that obsessive way he'd taken to. Ilya didn’t move, didn’t give any indication of having awoken, just listened. “I can keep you, I can keep you, I can keep you.”

Chapter End Notes

boy scout shane is sort of important to me bc why da hell does a jock know bird calls.

Chapter 5: fall (2)

Chapter Notes

CW for references to addiction

Leaving Shane after a whole summer together hurt less the second time. Ilya would miss Shane just as much, but he had a better understanding of what was facing him in LA, how to handle it. And one year was a hell of a lot shorter than two. It wasn’t even a full year, it was more like ten months. Ilya would control everything he could control, and ignore what he couldn’t. He was good at knowing one from the other. 

LA’s second game of the season was against Detroit, and Rose had a front row seat. She heckled Ilya viciously whenever he was in her vicinity, asking him how his knee was and telling him to go back to Boston. It was awesome. Ilya was trying to play harder this year, take up more space on the ice, and her contributions served as great motivation.

After the game Rose moved to a VIP space by the opposing team's tunnel for photos with the Detroit players, and Ilya gatecrashed. When she went to get a drink of water he leaned into her and asked, “Have you talked to Shane recently?”

“Not really,” she said, glancing up at him. Ilya wondered if her makeup ever got messy. “Like last week. Why?”

Ilya shrugged. “He seemed okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, dragged out. “Ilya. Why?”

He was saved from answering by an LA photographer approaching and raising their camera as a question. Both Ilya and Rose were programmed for such occasions and nodded in tandem. Rose pointed at the LA jersey and pulled a disgusted face, so for the second photo Ilya kissed her on the cheek. Rose laughed, and the photographer turned away satisfied.

“Seriously,” Rose said. “He’s just focused on the season. We just talked about hockey, really. That’s a good sign, I think. Like, that’s his happy place, right?”

Ilya nodded.

The locker room had already started to thin when Ilya entered, but Marlow was pulling on sneakers on the bench and gestured Ilya over. “Wanna come by tomorrow night?” Marlow asked.

Ilya paused. He was trying hard to avoid repeating last season’s mistakes. Since he’d left Shane for training camp he’d been on good behavior, going out only as often as his captaincy required of him. He wasn’t all that skilled at practicing moderation once he was out, but even just cutting down the number of nights that happened made a big difference, as did limiting his social circle to his team, who didn’t have inroads to the more dangerous places in the city. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” Marlow said, frowning. “Mine. Like, for dinner.”

Ilya stared at him. “Will we say grace?”

“Fuck you, honestly,” Marlow said. “It’s to meet Nina. Come over and bring something. It’s about time I civilized you.”

Ilya grinned. He’d been hearing about Marlow’s girlfriend – official as of last month – for a while, but they hadn’t yet met. She was a model transitioning out of modeling toward high-class personal training. She was very into wellness, and had been sober for two years following a semi-publicized stint in rehab. Ilya had asked Marlow how he’d met someone who didn’t drink or do drugs, and Marlow had revealed that they were neighbors. “Girl next door, bro,” he’d said. “I’m living the dream.” Ilya was familiar enough with American mythology to know that the girl next door usually wasn’t an aging model in recovery, but America was stupid like that. Befriending someone who couldn’t even be around drugs or alcohol seemed like a smart idea to Ilya. For the past month it had been feeling like his choice was either getting wasted or being entirely alone, sitting at home doing nothing or going for long aimless drives. Those nights had their own rewards; Ilya had started taking bitter satisfaction in the distance and hardship. It was a crucible, a means of proving himself to Shane, his love and loyalty. The harder it was the more Ilya must love him. Still, he wouldn’t complain about a third option for how to spend his time.

But that was tomorrow night, and this night ended with him on his phone on the couch again. He made a move against Shane in their ongoing chess game but Shane didn’t seem to be online. Ilya hoped he was sleeping. They’d downloaded the app sitting side by side in the cottage, having gotten too invested in the games they’d been playing on David’s physical set. Ilya had spoken about it at media day. He’d been asked what he’d gotten up to in the off-season that wasn’t hockey related, and he’d said he’d gotten into chess.

When Ilya checked his social media he found that the Brakemen had posted the photos of him and Rose. It had a lot more likes than he’d anticipated, which he eventually worked out was because Rose had quote tweeted it: making me look like a bad gf smh! Ilya laughed and sent it to Shane. He enjoyed the inside joke of it, the idea of him and Rose and Shane all in on something together. He hoped Shane would laugh too.

It had been a while since he had heard Shane laugh.

Ilya called Shane the next morning as he heated up his breakfast, and Shane answered quick. “Hey,” he said, and he sounded out of breath, which was unexpected, considering Montreal had a game that evening.

“You are working out?” Ilya asked, the surprise audible.

“Not really,” Shane said. “Just a quick run is all. How are you?”

“Good,” Ilya said, and because Shane hadn’t responded to the text, “You see pictures with Rose?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Brave of her to support a team as bad as Detroit when she’s outside of Michigan.”

Ilya snorted. They weren’t that bad, they were squarely middle of the pack. “I might not be able to watch your game tonight,” he said. “I will score watch, but I am going to Marly’s. Meeting his girlfriend I told you about.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Shane said. “I think it’s been good for him. He’s been good to start the season.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, trying to not sound impatient. It was getting hard to talk to Shane about anything other than hockey; every road led to it. If Ilya was so inclined he could have made a game out of it, saying something as far removed from hockey as he could think of and seeing how long it took Shane to make his way back. But Ilya wasn’t so inclined; he was baffled, and a little annoyed, and entirely unable to relate. Even as a kid, after finding his mom and before finding sex, when hockey had been the one good thing in his life, he still hadn’t given himself over entirely. He was terrified of any single thing meaning that much to him, especially something notoriously unreliable, that he could be forced to give up at any moment. It probably said a lot about Shane that he chose to wed himself to something so fickle. Ilya couldn’t look straight at what it said about Shane.

“I am thinking about getting pilot’s license,” he said, in an attempt to steer the conversation away from hockey.

“Absolutely not,” Shane said. “Are you serious? That’s so dangerous.”

Ilya smiled. “Well then I might become ordained.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You can do this online,” Ilya said. “Somebody told me this.”

“You mean to officiate weddings?” Shane asked.

“Yes, and other things. I think it makes you a priest,” Ilya said. “Like fully.”

“It doesn’t make you a priest, you can’t become a priest online,” Shane said. “Why would you want to be a priest?”

“Some priests are allowed to fuck now,” Ilya said, plating up his breakfast. His changed approach to hockey extended beyond the ice, and he had finally begrudgingly ceded to some of Shane's lifestyle advice, which Shane had been gleefully smug about when he'd realized. His current breakfasts were the most tolerable version of healthy available. Ilya had to admit that it wasn't just about improving his body for hockey, it was about tying his body to Shane. “I would become one of those priests.”

“Some priests can get married,” Shane corrected. “They’re still not allowed extra-marital sex.”

“How do you know this?” Ilya asked. “Did you try to fuck a priest?”

Shane made a strangled noise of frustration, and Ilya laughed. “I hate you so much,” Shane said.

“I hate you too,” Ilya said, smiling broadly. “Seriously, I want to find hobby. If you think of anything let me know.”

“Oh, okay,” Shane said, and Ilya loved how seriously he could hear Shane taking it. “Some of my teammates are really into hunting.”

“Yes, I should get gun license,” Ilya said.

“Okay, no, scratch that,” Shane said. He took a breath. “Why are you looking for a hobby? Are you bored?”

“Not bored,” Ilya said. He’d said it before but it warranted repeating: “Just passing time.”

“Well, you don’t want something that takes you away from hockey,” Shane said.

They hung up an hour later, and ten minutes after that Shane sent him a link to a list of the 15 best hobbies for busy people. Then he sent a screenshot of number three circled, which was camping.

The dinner with Marly and Nina went well. They had it at Nina’s in the end, because apparently she didn’t like Marly’s place, which was understandable. Her own home was a lot nicer, airy and homey, soft and coordinated. Shane would like it, Ilya thought. An air purifier in every room, even. The dinner was from a meal delivery company but Nina still put on an apron about it, which Ilya respected. He liked when people committed. When he was saying goodbye she told him that next time he could bring alcohol for himself if he wanted, and behind her Marly drew a hand across his neck in a cut throat motion, so Ilya said it was okay. They both saw him off at the door and Ilya felt inexplicably emotional. He felt taken care of, maybe.

He’d been keeping half an eye on his phone so he knew Montreal had won that night, but when he went home he watched the game in full. He hadn’t been enjoying watching Shane on the ice this season the way he always had before, ever since that first time at seventeen years old. Even though it was only Montreal’s fourth game Ilya was pretty convinced that Shane’s playstyle had changed quite fundamentally. He had seen it in preseason too, but it was a mistake to draw hard conclusions from preseason.

Ilya shuddered watching a replay of Shane’s goal that night, flinching at the force of the puck as it ricocheted into the net. If Shane kept it up he’d be worn out by March, never mind the play offs. It was like he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t regulate his force, everything as fast and as intense as possible. His scoring numbers looked nicer than his career averages, his assists worse, and Ilya was pretty sure it was because his teammates were struggling to calibrate to the speed of his passes. Frankly it reminded Ilya a little of his own game, but he’d built himself around that style since he was a kid, and the same could not be said for Shane. He was twisting himself into it, and it looked painful.

So it wasn’t all that much of a surprise when two days later Shane went down. Again Ilya wasn’t watching live, this time because he was in the locker room before his own game, but he got the notification. Hollander Down in Hit with Philips. Philips wasn’t known to be a dirty player, but Ilya felt preemptive anger at him anyway as he put in his headphones and loaded the clip.

As it turned out Philips had little to do with it. There was the tiniest bit of shoving and then Shane’s legs just seemed to give out. Ilya had watched it three times before he realized he felt sick. The movements of his teammates around him reminded him of his impending game, and he cursed under his breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He texted Yuna, Let me know if you get updates please, and then Shane, I’m sorry baby I have to go play I will call after I hope you are okay.

The game was a blur, Ilya reverting to relying on the talents of his teammates, doing what was needed of him and nothing more. He rushed his way through post game necessities and pulled out his phone to call Shane while still in the car in the parking lot. Gratifyingly, Shane picked up almost immediately.

“You should be sleeping,” Ilya still said.

“What if your call woke me up?” Shane asked.

“How are you? Is it serious? It looked bad.”

“It’s bad,” Shane said, and took a shaky breath. “Not – it’s not a bad injury. It’s my right ankle, and I’m out for a week. Not serious, not structural. But, Ilya.”

“What?” Ilya asked, and then realized a moment later. He sunk lower in his seat, closed his eyes. “Oh.”

Shane answered anyway. “I’m not going to be traveling with the team,” Shane said. “I asked, I did ask, but they said it was medically inadvisable.”

“Right,” Ilya said. That was standard practice, particularly for lower body injuries. Don’t do cross country flights with a fucked up ankle. He believed Shane when he said that it wasn’t structural, and he believed that Shane would be back on the ice in a week, but he didn’t believe that it wasn’t a serious injury. The fall had been brutal, and Shane wouldn’t miss a week if he could hobble through it.

“So I’m not going to be able to come when we play LA,” Shane said, because he liked getting things on the record. Ilya made a noise of acknowledgment. Montreal were scheduled in LA next week. Ilya had been making plans. Apparently he hadn't learned his lesson.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Shane’s breath on the other end thick with something, and then he said, “I could make my own way there. I mean, it’s time off, now. I could come to LA, people would think it was for Rose—”

“Shane,” Ilya said, wincing a little. This hurt enough already without Shane trying in vain to fix it. “You said is medically inadvisable. It is bad for your ankle.”

“It’s not structural damage,” Shane said. “I’ll get over it, even if this means it takes a little longer.”

Ilya almost laughed at how surreal this felt, Shane cavalierly discussing exacerbating an injury. He could still see the clip in his head, over and over, one of the strongest people he’d ever met suddenly rendered fragile. “A little longer means more missed games,” Ilya said.

“I know,” Shane said. “But it’s so fucking unfair. I mean it’s just been taken from us, this one chance, this small thing we wanted, and we don’t get to have it. It’s so unfair.”

“I know,” Ilya said. “It’s okay.”

“How is it okay?”

Shane sounded outraged, and Ilya hadn’t resented his failings in English this badly in a while. “Not okay, but not – it is how it is. There is nothing we can do, nothing we can fix. We have to accept it.”

“God, do you even fucking want to fix it?”

Ilya could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He felt immediately terrified. “Shane.”

“Sorry,” Shane said, after a tense moment. “I know you’re right, I just – it’s not fair, right?”

Ilya didn’t think much about fairness. It seemed like something from children’s games. “Right,” he said. “It’s not fair. I’m sorry.”

“I really wanted to see you,” Shane said, and Ilya blinked away tears. He could never be prepared for that, when Shane stated things so plainly.

“I wanted to see you too,” he said. “I love you more than anything.”

“Good,” Shane said. “Me too.”

Ilya felt cold for the rest of the night. He kept thinking about the clip, and wondering how bad the injury really was (Yuna’s eventual updates weren’t helpful in this regard), and replaying Shane asking if Ilya even wanted to fix it. Fix what, specifically? This particular problem, or their situation more generally?

Ilya could handle what they were going through, found it endurable, because it was a variation of a pattern he’d been experiencing since childhood, proximity to what he wanted without actual possession, looking in from the outside, peering through the window at a happy family eating dinner together. But Shane had always been inside, had always been well-fed, would not know how to survive on scraps. The only real thing Shane had ever wanted and been denied was desire for women, and he’d tortured himself trying to remedy that, too. Ilya wasn’t sure Shane had learned the lesson he should have from the experience, a lesson that Ilya himself felt like he’d been born knowing. Take what you’re given and be grateful.

Unsurprisingly, LA beat Montreal. Ilya headed straight home afterwards to call Shane, which had been the norm since the injury anyway. Shane had more free time and Ilya was trying to assuage whatever doubts Shane might have about him. He was calling more, telling Shane he loved him more, doing whatever else he could think of to convey the degree to which he was Shane’s. But that had its own issues, because Shane's schedule outside of hockey was busier than Ilya's and it seemed to always stress Shane out when Ilya called and Shane couldn't answer, despite Ilya's attempts to assure him it was okay. Shane had never liked not being able to give what Ilya asked for, but Ilya knew he also wouldn't want him to stop asking. 

“I would’ve kicked your ass if I was there,” Shane said as soon as he answered, and Ilya smiled. He was in bed, still fully dressed and with his keys in his pocket. He hadn’t wanted to delay.

“We were going easy on them without their Captain,” he said. “We would have killed you even harder if you were playing.”

“You were not going easy,” Shane said. “You nearly wiped out my right wing.”

Ilya laughed, pleased with himself. “That one was for you, baby.”

“Injuring one of my teammates doesn’t count as a romantic gesture,” Shane said.

“What if I start jerking off right now, is that romantic?” Ilya asked. It was how most of their late night phone calls ended, so sometimes Ilya didn’t bother to ease into it. Especially because it was one of the only ways to get Shane to not talk about hockey, although that had been easier since the injury, like Shane didn’t mind as much focusing on something else when he wasn’t actually playing.

“Depends,” Shane said. “What are you thinking about?”

Ilya leaned back. “Well, you, obviously,” he said.

“Obviously,” Shane said. “What about me?”

“Your ass,” Ilya said, honestly.

Shane snorted. “Creative.”

“Fine, your elbows,” Ilya said.

“You’ve never complimented my elbows before,” Shane said, as though suddenly aggrieved.

“You have very sexy elbows, Shane,” Ilya said. Embarrassingly he had had thoughts about Shane’s elbows before. When he’d been holding them one time, and the bone had nestled perfectly into his palm.

“I could jerk you off with the bend of my arm, probably,” Shane said, all contemplative.

“Yes, flexing your bicep,” Ilya said. “Fuck.”

“Wait, are you really gonna get off about my elbows?” Shane asked.

“Well, this is your whole arm, now,” Ilya said. “Your arms are definitely sexy.”

“So are yours,” Shane said.

“Yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “It was one of the things – well.”

“What?”

“Well, when I first started feeling attracted to you,” Shane said. “Your mouth and your eyes and your hair – I thought about them and it didn’t feel that gay because, you know, a girl could have a mouth as pretty as yours. But then I’d think about your arms a lot, too, so.”

“Maybe you were into female bodybuilders,” Ilya said.

“I tried that kind of thing,” Shane said. “Like, buff women. I thought it might help.”

Ilya’s hand had been stop starting on his dick as they flitted between dirty talk and conversation, which wasn’t unfamiliar. He liked it. He liked the image of Shane with buff women, too, but Shane had never been able to make his past experiences with women sound sexy and Ilya didn’t like to ask too much of him. “But nothing helps except my dick, yes?” he said, placing them more firmly in dirty talk territory.

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“You miss it?”

“So much,” Shane said. “Ilya, I’d do fucking anything.”

“Don’t have to do anything,” Ilya said. “It’s yours. Don’t have to work for it at all, I just give it to you.”

“I like earning it,” Shane said, and Ilya smiled.

“Too bad,” Ilya said. “I’m just going to give it to you, and you’re just going to take it. Right?”

“Right,” Shane said, his breath thinning out the word. “Ilya…”

“Yes?” Ilya said, even though he knew Shane had said his name just to say it.

“I want so much,” Shane said. “I want everything. I want you to give me everything.”

“Yes, baby,” Ilya said, almost high on those words. “Take it, take everything.”

For some reason the sadness over Shane not visiting hit the next day, when he would have been leaving if he had come. Ilya set his jaw and got through it. Thank God he had make up plans – he was going over to Nina’s for what would be the fifth time in less than two weeks. Ilya felt a little weird about that but he wasn’t inviting himself. Nina wasn’t inviting him either, Marly was, but Marly said she liked Ilya, which Ilya could tell was true, at least. Still, Ilya liked a lot of people who’d never been to his house even once. His fear was that they could see how sad his life was, that they were looking out for him the way they would a stray dog in the neighborhood. It was a context in which he was reminded that there were a number of years between him and Marly, a dynamic that never really came into play in the locker room. He felt young with them sometimes, the way he could with Yuna and David. His other fear was that the reason Marly had never had him around one of his girlfriends in Boston was because Ilya hadn’t been in a committed relationship back then.

Nina’s house was swiftly becoming his favorite place in LA. She always had bright flowers in every room, and music playing quietly, and it always smelled like baking bread. He’d said as much to her and she said, “Thank God you noticed, I pay a lot for it to smell that way.” It was because she had started having to spend a lot more of her time in the house when she got sober, so she needed the house to not be a horrible place to be. Ilya understood that deeply.

Shane would like her, Ilya thought, and he imagined bringing Shane along next time he was in LA. But of course that wouldn’t work, because that would involve telling Nina about them, and he’d only met her last week. When Marlow had first started talking about her as though it was serious Ilya had warned him not to tell her about Shane, which Marlow hadn’t been very happy about but which Ilya couldn’t regret. It sucked but it was necessary.

That day he and Marly played Madden while Nina worked with a client in the studio out back. Ilya had gone back there the last time he was over, and Nina had led him and Marlow in some crazy stretching routine that Ilya’s shoulders could not hack at all. Marlow if anything had been worse, and it had all seemed pretty sadistic, complete with Nina laughing at them. Still it constituted a physical challenge, so Ilya was thinking of asking to go again.

But it didn’t seem like the right move when Nina reappeared. Thus far in their short acquaintance she’d been incredibly even keeled. He’d never seen her stressed before, or angry, but he didn’t know how else to read the tension in her shoulders or the set of her jaw. “These women are fucking nightmares,” she said, and Marlow paused the game.

“You like Sara,” he said, as he left the room, a move that made Ilya’s eyes widen.

“That’s one client!” Nina called after him, and then sat on the couch by Ilya. Ilya cleared his throat. He could not believe Marlow had left him here.

“They are rude to you?” he asked, cautiously.

“They expect the impossible,” she said. “They’re mad that meeting me once a week for two hours hasn’t changed their lives.”

“It’d change mine, babe,” Marlow said, reappearing in the doorway, and Ilya, as was his prerogative, made a noise indicating his disgust. Nina held out a hand and Marlow gave her a tall stainless steel flask with some kind of flourish. Ilya stared as she drank from it.

“It’s literally just juice,” Marlow said to him. “But she swears it like – what does it do, Nina?”

“It helps me absorb calcium, which calms the nervous system,” she said.

“Oh,” Ilya said. Really he should make fun of that – when Shane said things like that Ilya always made fun of him – but he found he had to look away. The video game portion of the day was presumably over so he got up and turned the TV off, bending down to turn it off at the socket, too.

Marlow and Nina were really pretty chill. Ilya never felt like he was third wheeling, and he’d never even seen them kiss, but for some reason Marlow bringing her a flask of special juice left him badly shaken.

He and Shane looked after each other that well when they were together. They weren’t perfect, but more often than not they knew what the other person needed. Ilya knew when to stop making jokes and Shane knew when to stop asking questions. Ilya had nearly smothered Shane in blankets one time when he’d been freaking out, and Shane had this way of massaging Ilya’s temples that felt magic. But stuff like that was only possible when they were in the same room.

Ilya had been worried about Shane since he’d returned to LA, his worry sharper than it had been last season. But he was worried about big things, Shane finally hitting a breaking point with his own expectations or his teammates crossing the threshold of what was manageable. How many small annoyances did Shane face that Ilya didn’t know about, not because Shane was deliberately keeping them from him but because they didn’t warrant mentioning? Packages arriving late and phone calls going on too long and practices where it felt like nothing was accomplished. There must have been countless instances of inconveniences and aggravations since Ilya had been traded, and he hadn’t had the privilege of comforting Shane over a single one.

He returned to the couch but found he couldn’t really look at the couple beside him. Maybe this was what Shane meant, how Shane felt, when he talked about things not being fair.

Shane returned from injury; a secret part of Ilya had hoped Shane might learn a lesson from it, but he hadn’t really expected him to and it was made clear that he hadn’t by his first game back on the ice. He played as hard as had become his new normal, like he was daring his body to give out again.

Another month passed. Ilya continued to give more to hockey, and to worry about how much Shane was giving to hockey. He continued to spend time with Nina and Marlow and feel weird about it for half a dozen different reasons. He continued to talk to Shane as often as he possibly could, listening to him and playing chess with him and getting off with him and trying to make him laugh.

One day they had a call while they were both on their respective treadmills, the implicit challenge being to remain capable of conversation. Shane was talking about the dinner he’d had with his parents the night before and he said, “Dad’s been missing you. He got a new puzzle and he wanted to do it with you.”

Ilya smiled. That was something he’d started up when they’d gone over to Shane’s parents during the off-season, a nice way to keep his hands busy and not feel too awkward if silence fell. He liked David a lot, but he found Yuna easier to talk to. “Maybe there is phone game for jigsaws,” he said. “Like with chess.”

Shane smiled. “Dad won’t even do online crosswords. He likes the real thing, he says.”

“Shame,” Ilya said, and found he meant it. “It would be nice to keep in touch with him some way. Yuna too.” They texted intermittently, check ins and updates, but he wouldn’t say he felt any closer to them because of it. It was too small and arrhythmic.

“Really, you’d want that?” Shane asked.

“Yes, of course,” Ilya said.

“Well, we can do that,” Shane said. “The four of us, we could do, like, a video chat one evening. Would that work?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “You would like this? They would want to?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, perplexed, like it was obvious.

“Your dad does not think video calls are evil too?”

“He’d prefer the real thing,” Shane said, smiling. “But he’d love to talk to you, even if it is online. I kind of think he wants to be your best friend. So. Be warned, for when you move to Ottawa.”

Ilya smiled widely, as he did whenever his impending move was mentioned. Less than a year. “Okay,” he said. “I will practice being his best friend when we talk.”

Shane worked fast, and it was in all of their diaries for four days time by the next morning. Ilya felt like he ought to do something to prepare, dress nice or get the Hollanders something, but that obviously didn’t apply to video calls. When the day arrived, he just found the setting in his house that made for the least offensive background and logged on. Shane had given the meeting a title, and it was Family Catch Up, which almost made Ilya cry. David and Yuna joined from the same device, sitting close together to remain in frame, and Ilya felt a pang. Shane was there too, frowning at something on his screen. Wherever he was situated the light was washing him out, and Ilya weirdly didn’t resent it. It was just another way to see him. He knew that Shane minded his angles when they had calls just the two of them, and it was sweet in a different way that he didn’t care about looking good right now.

“Okay,” Shane said, presumably resolving some background technical difficulty none of them knew about. “Hi.”

All of the rest of them said hi at the same time, the audio clunkily accommodating them. “This was a great idea, Ilya,” Yuna said. “It’s so good to get to see you.”

“You too,” he said. “It was Shane’s idea.”

“We came up with it together,” Shane said, which Ilya would allow, mostly just because it seemed important to Shane.

“Teamwork,” David said. “That’s what you need.”

Ilya smiled and nodded. “Shane says you got new puzzle.”

“Yeah,” David said, and turned to Yuna. “You think I can show him on this, hun?”

“No,” Yuna said, quite firmly. “You can send him pictures later.”

“I’ll send you pictures later,” David said.

“Teamwork,” Ilya said. He meant David and Yuna, and he reached up to gesture between them to make that clear, but that didn’t really work over video. They laughed, and it didn’t seem forced, so he hoped they knew what he’d meant. Conversation continued with other bumps like that, moments where the medium interfered with what they wanted to convey. It was a reminder of the distance between them but not fatal to the mission. Ilya felt warm and upbeat. Shane didn’t contribute much, except to provide prompts, telling Ilya something about his parents or his parents something about Ilya. He looked happy, calm and relaxed, a slight smile on his face the whole time. Ilya badly wanted to touch him.

After an hour and fifteen minutes, after Yuna had had to get up and turn the light on in their room, they started saying their goodbyes. Shane said, “I was thinking we could try doing these weekly.”

Ilya smiled immediately. He hadn’t wanted to seem too needy or pushy, but he’d been wondering about trying to set a date for another call.

“That’s a lovely idea,” Yuna said. “We’d love to see you guys more often.”

They saw Shane plenty, so her making it plural rather than just saying Ilya was curious. Ilya wondered if they liked seeing the two of them together specifically. It was a nice thought.

“How about Wednesdays?” Shane asked.

David and Yuna glanced at each other. “Wednesdays aren’t always good for us,” Yuna said. “It’s not like either of you can commit to a specific day either, with your schedules.”
“I know,” Shane said. “But we can say Wednesdays and in any given week if there’s a reason it doesn’t suit we can reschedule.”

“I don’t know, honey,” Yuna said, frowning. Ilya wondered if David was making the same conscious decision he was to let Yuna and Shane work this out. “That sounds like it’d cause more trouble than it was worth, we’re all quite busy people. It makes sense to play it by ear, right?”

“So, what?” Shane said. “Every time we meet decide a time for next week? Or organize it through a group chat every week? That seems like a lot of trouble too. I think it’d make sense to have a default time.”

“Default times don’t make sense with your schedules,” Yuna said. “And, anyway, weekly might be a little intense, I don’t want you two feeling under pressure. It’s better to be realistic about it, or else these things just don’t end up happening. What about once a month, or every two weeks? And we can figure it out as we go, it doesn’t need to be strictly scheduled.”

“It does if we want to keep at it,” Shane said. “Mom, don’t act like you don’t like schedules.”

There was a slight amount of tension in his voice, like this had evolved past thrashing out logistics. Ilya shifted, uncomfortable.

“For business,” Yuna said. “This is family. It’s not good to put too much pressure on it.”

“It’s not pressure, it’s—I’m doing this because I care.”

Ilya averted his gaze. Shane sounded kind of mad. He didn’t understand where it was coming from.

“We all care, Shane,” David said, like maybe intervention was needed. Ilya didn’t have the guts. He wanted this over. He was trying to make sure his tiny face on screen didn’t look freaked out.

“Then why are you trying to get out of seeing Ilya?”

Ilya flinched. Okay. He really didn’t need to be made part of this, and he definitely didn’t want Shane’s parents spending time with him out of guilt. “Shane, your parents are very busy,” he said.

Shane stared at his screen for a pained moment, and then disconnected from the call.

David cleared his throat. Yuna said, “I’m sorry about that, Ilya. I hope you don’t feel like we’re trying to get out of—”

“No, no,” Ilya said. He had an impulse to apologize for Shane but probably that would make Shane mad. “It’s okay. Shane is just stressed. I will talk to him.”

They said awkward goodbyes before disconnecting. Ilya stood up and took a few deep breaths before taking his phone from his pocket and calling Shane. Shane answered and didn’t say anything. Ilya didn’t really know what to say either. Eventually he said, “Are you alright?”

It took a while for Shane to respond. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Ilya clenched his eyes shut for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “If it is really important to you I am sure your parents will meet every week. I would like this.”

“That’s not the point,” Shane said.

Ilya swallowed. He hated himself for not being able to tell what the point was, for needing Shane to explain this to him. He really had no idea what was going on. “What is the point?”

“The point is I don’t want to be the only one who it’s important to,” Shane said.

“Yuna was just worried about us, how busy we are,” Ilya said. “I’m sure they care too.”

“I’m not talking about my parents,” Shane said. His voice was tight, like he was struggling to keep it calm. “I want it to be important to you. I want anything to be important to you.”

Ilya felt unsteady. “There is nothing I care more about than this,” he said.

“Then you mustn’t care much about anything,” Shane said. “You never fucking want anything, you never want to try anything, anything I want you say no to.”

“This is because you keep wanting fucking impossible things,” Ilya said, his voice louder than he needed it to be. Louder than it had ever been as Shane’s boyfriend. He doubted he had it in him to grow past anger being his first response to accusation, but it still made him wince.

“Fuck you,” Shane said. “Hard isn’t impossible, it’s like you don’t even want to try.”

Ilya had been trying so hard. His hand took the initiative of hanging up, like it was trying to save them both from whatever he’d say next. He stood in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, and laughed when he remembered telling Yuna and David that he’d talk to Shane. As though they could trust him to take care of it, as though he’d be able to make Shane feel better.

Shane called back less than a minute later. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—that was shitty, I’m sorry. I know you care, Ilya, I guess I just…”

“What?” Ilya said. He’d been trying so hard to make it clear how much he loved Shane. He didn’t know how he’d fucked up this bad.

“I guess we just have different approaches to things,” Shane said, after a moment, which was the kind of thing that owners said in press statements after firing a coach. “I know that doesn’t mean you love me less than I love you.”

“I want to try,” Ilya said. “Shane, if there are things you need me to do, tell me. If you are upset please tell me.”

“I’m okay,” Shane said. Ilya could hear him calming himself down, the way his voice was growing steadier. It was strangely unpleasant, like as he got more collected he got more distant from Ilya, too. “I’m really sorry, Ilya, I shouldn’t have said those things about you.”

“It is okay,” Ilya said. “If you feel—”

“No,” Shane said. “You and mom were right, we’re all really busy. We can figure it out as it goes. Maybe every couple weeks. I can figure it out, I can look at our calendars.”

“That sounds nice,” Ilya said. “I would like to do it every week, you know. I just didn’t want to fight with your parents.”

Shane gave a little laugh, but it was too sad for Ilya to count. “Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry, I got too pushy, and I shouldn't have brought you into it.”

“Don’t keep apologizing,” Ilya said. “I’m not mad, I just want to understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Shane said.

“Shane,” Ilya said, and worked up some nerve. “You don’t seem happy. For a while now.”

Shane didn’t say anything, and Ilya repeated his name. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Shane said. “Are you happy? Am I expected to be happy?”

“I’m happy when I talk to you,” Ilya said. “It feels like even when we talk you are not happy.”

Shane was quiet for a while again. Then he said, “I thought I was going to get to stop feeling lonely. If our plan worked, if you came to Ottawa. I was going to get to keep you, and I'd be happy then. Now everything just feels… out of my control.”

“Well, yes,” Ilya said. Of course it was out of their control. “But this does not mean…” He faded off, unsure what he was getting at.

“I know,” Shane said. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just embarrassed, I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I’m really sorry if it made you uncomfortable, seeing mom and I go at it like that.”

“Is okay,” Ilya said. “This is what families do, yes?”

Shane huffed out a breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya said. He didn’t think he could keep pushing, but nothing felt resolved. Shane had said Ilya didn’t care about anything, didn’t try enough. That hadn’t come from nowhere. “Maybe next time we see each other in person. At all stars. Maybe we can talk some more then.”

“Okay,” Shane said. “That sounds good.”

He apologized three more times before hanging up. Ilya sat down. All-stars was only two months away. They’d see each other then, they’d talk then. Ilya felt guilty, disgusted, when he realized that he was mostly dreading it.

Chapter End Notes

A couple people had expressed curiosity about ilya’s oc teammates. Please enjoy cliff marlow’s oc girlfriend, who I for some reason spent like legitimately a whole day of my life thinking about.

Chapter 6: winter (2)

Chapter Notes

messy

Ilya and Joshua represented LA at all stars. Ilya was made captain for the west and Joshua got in late in the fan vote. It was kind of awkward; their dynamic had devolved this season, felt less low maintenance. Ilya hadn’t really had a teammate like Joshua before – good enough he didn’t need Ilya to elevate him, not good enough to keep up. It left him overshadowed. Ilya couldn’t feel bad for being better, or for doing what the team needed, but he regretted the discomfort that came with it. People had always liked playing with him before. It hadn’t been like this last year, when Ilya had been – without really thinking about it – letting Joshua set the pace. But Ilya was determined to win a cup before he left LA and he knew that meant taking more responsibility on the ice, which also meant taking some from Moran. In another world the all star break would have been a good time to try patching things up. In this world all Ilya could think or care about was Shane.

It was in Minnesota and the weather was what would be expected of Minnesota in January, so when Ilya and Joshua went to the hotel bar they found basically every other all star already there. Ilya craned his neck and Joshua said, “Looking for someone?”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said.

“Huh,” Joshua said, which was about the level of curiosity Ilya had expected to elicit. “I heard he’s gay. Like fully fucks men. But then I don’t get the Rose Landry shit.”

“I heard this too,” Ilya said. It had diffused throughout the league over the months, the churn of trades and free agency quickening the spread, but it seemed like mostly people had absolutely no idea what to do with the information. If all it was was rumor, it probably felt safer, less destabilizing, to allow one of the best players of the twenty-first century some plausible heterosexuality.

Ilya spotted Shane then, sitting at a booth with JJ and, luckily, Sam Call, who Ilya had played with in Boston for a year. He patted Moran on the shoulder and jostled his way through the swarms, being somewhat impolite to players who tried to talk to him, before stopping at Shane’s booth. “Sammy,” he said, loudly and happily, and sat down.

“Roz,” Call said, looking confused but not displeased to be singled out. “What’s up?”

“I am worried this weekend will suck,” he said. “Will you make it not suck?”

Call launched into his plans for the weekend, reliably excessively sociable, and Ilya caught Shane’s eye and smiled. Shane immediately turned away, but his mouth lilted up in a way that had Ilya pressing his tongue against his teeth.

They never said anything directly to each other for the hour or so they were in that booth, and on Ilya’s part at least it had become a game. It was energizing in its own way just being in Shane’s proximity, having to steal looks, having to bite his tongue when Shane made his few interjections. Ilya’s nerves over the sort of promise they’d made to have a serious conversation were swamped by the sheer pleasure of getting to see Shane in the flesh. It had been months. Shane was beautiful, so it wasn’t like Ilya didn’t get a lot out of just seeing him on screen, but his beauty almost seemed like a lucky bonus as opposed to the fundamental base of Ilya’s desire. It was like Ilya hadn’t been fully aware of what a body was until he met Shane, like he’d only tuned into the broadest, crudest dimensions of them. Shane had made him start paying attention to detail. His all-encompassing need stemmed from Shane’s physicality, the weight and solidity of him, the way he moved through space, the shine of his eyes and the mechanics of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest. Qualities Ilya could only appreciate up close and personal.

Of course it didn’t really get up close and personal until hours later, when Ilya was knocking on Shane’s door. Shane opened the door and pulled Ilya inside, slamming the door shut and leveling a look at Ilya when Ilya laughed. “Needy,” he said. Shane was wearing the same clothes as earlier, but he was showered, freshly scrubbed. They were here to talk and Shane had gotten clean for it. Ilya felt unsteady.

“You can’t talk,” Shane said. “You looked like you were about to fuck me on that table.”

Before Ilya could defend himself, or maybe play into the idea, Shane was kissing him, deep and open mouthed immediately, looping his arms around Ilya’s neck and pressing his body against Ilya’s with a shiver. Ilya groaned, allowed himself to take it, his hands slipping up Shane’s smart sweater to the warm skin.

“Your stylist picked this?” He wasn’t sure why that was worth breaking a kiss to ask, but it felt it in the moment.

“Yeah,” Shane said, and painfully earnestly: “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, honestly. “I love when you look all… neat and tidy.”

Shane smiled. “Never lasts long, around you,” he said, and Ilya made another hopeless noise and dove back in. There was no finesse, but there never really had been with Shane. It was about getting as much as they possibly could from each other, mouths stretching wide and tongues pressing deep. It was only when Shane started walking them toward the bed that Ilya, partially, came to his senses.

“We said we would talk,” he said into Shane’s mouth.

“We did talk,” Shane said. “You want to fuck me on the table, you like my sweater…”

Ilya smiled. “Shane.”

Shane took a step back, his hands still on Ilya’s elbows, squeezing. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Ilya said. Want wasn’t the right word for it at all. He had no desire to talk, just a sense that it was overdue. “I am worried about you. This season it has felt like… things are off.”

“It’s hard, being apart,” Shane said, looking and sounding equally uncomfortable. Ilya’s lips were still wet with their spit and he couldn’t tell if he was an idiot for making them do this.

“Yes, but not just that,” Ilya said. “Something else.”

“What?” Shane asked, and Ilya knew he had no chance of getting through this without offering Shane some specificity. The problem was particular examples of what he meant slipped from his grasp. It was all murky, all ambiguous, all undoubtedly partly fueled by Ilya’s worst fears. And he knew he couldn’t ask about Shane’s game or Shane’s team, not right off the bat, that nothing would get Shane's hackles up faster.

He latched onto the first real thing that came to mind, notwithstanding the fact that the first real thing that came to mind was stupid. “Like when I sent you pictures of me and Rose,” Ilya said. “I thought it would make you happy but you didn’t want to talk about them. And I don’t get it.”

Shane’s eyebrows went up and he detached from Ilya. “You want to talk about that?”

Ilya shrugged. Again, he wouldn’t say he wanted to talk about anything. He just wanted to stop feeling sick with worry, and he couldn’t figure out how to achieve that.

“Did you read the replies on that post?” Shane asked.

Ilya squinted. It was months ago now and he couldn’t really remember. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“They were all about how you were stealing my girlfriend,” Shane said. “In cruder language than that.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, and laughed.

“Fuck you, it’s not funny,” Shane said, and he looked genuinely pissed. Ilya was deeply confused.

“Yes it is,” he said. “What is the problem? You don’t want me to steal your girlfriend?”

“No, I don’t,” Shane said, loudly, and Ilya realized a bad reason for a serious conversation at all stars was that if they raised their voices they’d likely be overheard. Shane seemed to realize this too, and his voice was lower but no less pissed off when he elaborated. “It makes me look fucking – weak. Like a bad boyfriend.”

“A bad boyfriend to Rose Landry,” Ilya said, flatly. He really couldn’t believe this.

“That’s not the point,” Shane said.

“It kind of feels like the point.” Ilya already felt lethal. This was always what he’d hated about Shane’s past with Rose, the undeniable advantage it had over him in terms of how the public perceived it, the obvious appeal that would carry for Shane.

“It’s not,” Shane said. “The point is that right now people think I’m her boyfriend. And it’s fucking weird for my long time rival to be all flirty with her in photos everyone’s going to see.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Ilya said, and then deeply regretted defending himself. He was convinced Shane was the one in the wrong here.

“People think everything you do is flirting,” Shane said. "People look at you and think about sex."

“You are mad people think I fucked your girlfriend?” Ilya asked. “Rose did not worry about this.” He had a moment of clarity where he understood that this was not the argument they should have been having. That this was a tangent on a tangent, a distraction, not even an offshoot of the root cause of their issues but a freak one off occurrence. It was the kind of fight that would make sense if they could afford to have small fights that didn’t really mean anything. But they were in the middle of it now, and he was already fired up, incapable of detaching, so the only way out was through.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean,” Shane said. “Rose’s joke only works if you know it’s weird for you to kiss my girlfriend’s cheek.”

“Except she’s not your fucking girlfriend, Shane,” Ilya said, again too loud, and they both paused for a moment to make sure nobody was about to, like, bust down the door or something. Catch them in the act of an argument, not even fucking. A very sad way to be exposed.

“That’s not the point,” Shane said again, his voice exaggeratedly calm. It was unconvincing, given the murderous set of his expression. “The point is what people think. And it’s not just what people think about it now, it’s if we come out, too. It’s just like with the strippers, just this unnecessary attention, just one more thing for people to speculate about, to question us over. And it’s not like I get any joy out of people thinking I’m with Rose, but they do think it, and so it matters how that relationship comes across. You should get that, you know I care what people think about me.”

Ilya did get it, but he was still mad, so he went low. “And what about what your teammates think?”

“What?” Shane looked thrown off, which Ilya found vindicating.

“That Rose made you straight again,” he said.

Shane blinked at him. “How do you know that?”

“Is obvious,” Ilya said, and he was so righteously indignant about everything else it didn’t even feel like lying. “You come out to them and then two months later are in pictures with her again.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” Shane said. The energy was filling up the room the same way it did when they fucked. Ilya couldn’t think straight the same way he couldn’t when they fucked. “I can’t control what they think, and you didn’t even fucking want me to come out in the first place.”

Ilya shrugged. “I wouldn’t have worried if I knew you were going to take it back after like a week.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, loud again. They were worse at staying quiet when they were arguing than when they were having sex. “Fuck you, sitting on the sidelines and judging, you’re so fucking condescending, always acting like you know everything—”

Ilya laughed, a little hysterically, because he’d never felt more clueless in his life.

“Fuck you,” Shane said again, this time in stilted Russian, and kissed him.

It was even rougher than before, teeth clacking and dragging, Shane clawing at his shoulders and hitching a leg up Ilya’s thigh. Ilya had tried, and he’d succeeded – he’d wanted to talk and they had. It wasn’t like he’d expected them to talk the whole night. They knew how the other felt, at least about this stupid incident that they’d ended up focused on, and Ilya wasn’t sure what else talking was supposed to produce.

Anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this long without sex, and he’d used up all his discipline. He grabbed Shane’s leg and heaved him up, took the couple steps necessary to the bed and dropped him again. Shane looked up at him for a second and then turned on his stomach. Ilya cursed and dropped to his knees.

Together they pulled Shane’s stylist-approved trousers down and Ilya bit his ass, sucked. Shane reached a hand back into Ilya’s hair, guiding ever so slightly. Ilya obliged, spreading him open and licking over his hole. He licked again, and again, broad and without agenda, before bringing up a finger and pressing in. Shane’s moans were wordless and continuous, muffled in the sheets. His voice would be hoarse by the morning. Ilya’s dick twitched at the thought, as though Shane in the moment wasn’t enough. Ilya needed his past and future too.

“You want to come like this?” Ilya asked, his own voice not unaffected. “Come in the sheets?”

“Please don’t,” Shane said, still muffled. “You have to fuck me.”

When Ilya stood he felt about twenty feet tall, with the dizziness to match. He stripped his clothes off as quickly as possible while Shane lay there catching his breath, then put his hands on Shane’s hips to pull him up. Shane got his legs under him, lowered himself down to his elbows, and Ilya was on the verge of forgetting about the lube, he needed him so bad. He dealt with it quickly, got a knee beside Shane’s on the bed, and pressed in. Shane’s hand spasmed in the sheets, and Ilya reached down to press his own hand down on top of it. It took away the perfect angle he’d been in for fucking Shane, but he didn’t care, he relished this about them, the tangles they got themselves into for a little more touch.

He came first and was proud of himself for managing more than three thrusts, given how long it had been. Not just sex in general, but with Shane, which was always impossibly better, more, than he remembered, and he remembered it being everything. It almost hurt with how badly he’d needed it, shooting through him like a cannon. He pulled out and turned Shane over, dropped to his knees again and took him in his mouth. Shane’s sounds were more like wheezes at this point, and he came down Ilya’s throat almost immediately. Ilya stayed on his knees until Shane guided him up by his hair, and they lay together sideways across the bed.

Ilya felt beyond pillow talk, but was brought back to earth when Shane said, “I think maybe I was jealous, too.”

Ilya would blame just how fucked out he was for how long it took him to determine what Shane meant. Then his eyes widened. “Of me and Rose?”

“Not like that, obviously,” Shane said, his own eyes closed. “But she’s in LA. She’s my friend, one of my only real friends, and you get to see her more than I do.”

Ilya had more or less accidentally crossed paths with her, but he supposed that was the point. Shane had to work to spend time with her, the way he had to work for everything. Shane had said he felt lonely. Probably the best thing Ilya could do was make him not feel alone. He kissed him.

The next morning when Ilya got up and dressed, Shane remained dead to the world. He looked completely melted into the bed, jaw hanging loose, and Ilya couldn’t disturb him. They’d spend the next two nights together too. Ilya told himself it was kindness and not cowardice that made him leave quietly.

Over the course of the weekend Ilya didn’t try raising his concerns again. It didn’t seem like it had helped, and he wasn’t sure why he’d thought it would. Maybe it never would have, or maybe he’d left it too late. He’d stayed silent too long, ignored the issues too long, and it had all gotten so messed up there was no place to start anymore. He should’ve asked sooner, should’ve checked in on Shane sooner, shouldn’t have waited until a blow up in front of Shane’s parents to admit to worrying.

Or maybe talk was never going to do any good. The sex had helped more, he thought. It had been profoundly reassuring to know that it was as great as ever, and it had made him feel more relaxed than he had since the off-season, like maybe some of his agitation had just been pent up horniness. He could tell Shane loved him from the way Shane kissed him, the way he touched his ears. They weren’t good away from each other, it wasn’t how their love worked, but it wouldn’t be too much longer now. Less than half a year.

On his way back to LA Ilya capitulated a little and texted Shane, I’m sorry I didn’t think about what people would say.

Shane responded, I like that you don’t think about that.

He’d only be back in LA for two days before they were heading out east, to Carolina and DC and Philly and then Montreal. Marlow made a couple jokes about how Ilya must be looking forward to it and Ilya felt unjustifiably irritated. He wasn’t used to hearing people talk about him and Shane at all, and he didn’t think he was in a good place to hear people talk about them lightheartedly, even if it was well meaning. It just raised his protectiveness, his desire to keep what he and Shane had safe. He only had himself to blame, though, when out of nowhere he asked Marlow, “Do you and Nina ever fight?”

They were in the gym, lifting, and Ilya had had no intention of saying anything about relationships at all.

Marlow said, “Not really, man, not yet, anyway. But we haven’t been through it like you and your boy.”

Ilya grimaced, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to convincingly argue that his inquiry had nothing to do with Shane. “Not really so kind of?” he said instead, half to be a dick but half because he wanted to force Marlow to talk about it.

“I mean, we’ve disagreed about things,” Marlow said. “But it’s not like it’s ever been real knock down drag out.”

“You have made her mad, though?” Ilya asked. “Upset her?”

Marlow laughed a little. “Ask her,” he said. “I’m sure she’d love to bitch about me with you.”

“You cannot be telling me to do this,” Ilya said. “I am very good listener, if you are not careful she will leave you for me.”

“Nah, she says you’re too pretty.”

Ilya was immediately outraged. “What the fuck? What is too pretty?”

“Like, not manly enough,” Marlow said, which seemed even more ridiculous.

“Has she seen my arms?”

“Yeah, but where’s the stubble, bro? Where’s the stubble?” Ilya hadn’t seen Marlow this smug since the single inexplicable playoffs MVP vote their championship year.

“Fuck you, this is ridiculous,” Ilya said. “You two deserve each other.”

“Uhuh,” Marlow said. “So. You and Shane are fighting?”

“No,” Ilya said. “Not really.” For some reason it felt like a shameful admission.

Earlier in the season Shane had tried figuring out a way for them to see each other on Ilya's road trip before he got to Montreal, but to no avail. Even though Ilya was back on the east coast they were still always too far away, too busy. Ilya’s leg was jumping the whole way to Montreal, so he was made to sit beside the back up goalie who always spent flights knocked out on xanax. He didn’t understand his nerves. They’d left on good terms at all stars, and Shane had been fine when they’d talked since.

Kind of fine. Mostly fine. A little weird? Ilya couldn’t tell, exactly. It was a paradox; when he saw Shane he didn’t much want to talk to him, and when he couldn’t see him, he always felt like he was missing something when they talked. So, that was probably why he was nervous.

Their plane got in at ten in the evening. He left the team without offering an excuse and made his way to Shane’s; the game was tomorrow night, meaning they’d have almost a full day together uninterrupted, and he wanted it to start as soon as possible. Stepping inside Shane’s door and kissing Shane was the same movement, but when he pulled away he flinched.

Ilya loved what good care Shane always took of himself, found it comforting, like Shane knew how important his body was. For the first time that Ilya had ever seen, Shane didn’t look healthy. He looked drawn, like he was recovering from a flu or something. Had Ilya missed it at all-stars, had he missed it on the broadcasts, was it brand new? It wouldn’t show up on broadcasts, probably. Shane was still strong, still broad, had probably been keeping mass on better this season than usual. It was his face, his eyes, his skin.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked.

“No,” Shane said, and turned around and walked further into his apartment. Ilya followed.

“What?” he said. Demanded, almost. “Tell me.”

Shane took in a heavy breath, released it. “You’ve been texting Hayden about me,” he said.

Ilya stared. “Hayden told,” he said, shocked and pissed in equal measure.

“I asked,” Shane said, and the shock overtook the anger.

“You asked him?”

Shane nodded. “I knew you were lying,” he said. “I knew you knew what my teammates had been saying about Rose, and I didn’t know how you could know. I thought maybe JJ had for some reason said something at all stars, but I asked and he said he hadn’t talked to you. So when I got back to Montreal I asked Hayden. It was the only other thing I could think of. I knew you’d have his number. I thought I was being paranoid.”

Ilya could only imagine how quickly Hayden would break. “Doing detective work,” he said, because a detached part of himself managed to find this endearing.

“Ilya,” Shane said, shakily, and then nothing else.

“Yes?”

He was looking at Ilya dead on, which usually meant trouble. His voice steadied out. “I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever been this mad at anyone before. I feel so insane I was thinking of telling you not to come over.”

Ilya shifted into survival mode, and the fear drained. He had to deal with this. “I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You were fucking monitoring me,” Shane said. “With someone you don’t even like or respect, you were fucking talking about me, about sensitive, embarrassing stuff. Like I’m a kid.”

“It was not like this,” Ilya said. “I was worried about you, that’s all.”

“Don’t act like this is no big deal,” Shane said. His voice was breaking again, which was probably only making him more annoyed. “You kept it from me, you made Hayden keep it from me, you knew it was fucked up, you knew I’d hate it.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, after a pause. “But I didn’t feel like I had choice.”

“No choice?” Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “Secretly monitoring your boyfriend with your boyfriend’s best friend who you hate was your only option? You couldn’t do anything else? Ilya, it wasn’t your only option, it was the most fucking insane thing you could have possibly chosen to do. Oh my God. It’s so humiliating. Jackie knows, Christ.”

“Yes, no choice,” Ilya said, angry although he probably had no right to be, angry because he’d always meet other people’s anger with some of his own. “If I want to know what’s going on, I need to find out from someone else. You don’t fucking talk to me.”

Shane threw his hands up. “You don’t fucking ask!”

“You don’t want me to!” Ilya said, just as loud. “This way I knew what was going on and we didn’t have to talk about it. It was fucking ideal.”

Shane stared at him, then sat down on his couch. “That’s so fucked up,” he said. “Oh my God, we’re so fucked up.”

Ilya’s eyes widened, and he crouched down in front of Shane. “No,” he said. “It’s not—we’re just fighting.”

“Fighting doesn’t feel like enough,” Shane said. “It feels bigger than that, like I can’t even say enough about what—”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “I should not have texted Hayden, I know, it was fucked up, but I just wanted to know about you, I should have just asked, I’m sorry.” He sounded pathetic and couldn’t even care; he noticed it abstractly, distantly.

“It wasn’t even... I was already scared about so many things,” Shane said. “And then that, too, out of nowhere. It didn’t feel real.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, again.

“Thanks,” Shane said, and sighed. “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

He wasn’t looking at Ilya. The fear returned. “Shane,” he said.

Shane wiped a hand over his eyes. “It’s too much for me, Ilya,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but it’s too much.”

“What is?” Ilya moved onto the couch beside Shane, took Shane’s hands. Shane let him, but it felt passive.

“This,” Shane said. “Us. Trying to do this when we’re so far away from each other. I’ve tried so hard, Ilya, I swear, but I just can’t. I can’t keep doing it.”

Ilya should defend himself, should defend them, but he felt adrift. “You’re breaking up with me.”

“No,” Shane said, and then came back to himself a little. “No, Jesus, Ilya, of course not. I just – it’s just for the rest of the season, that’s what I mean. We can try again in the offseason, if you still come to Ottawa—”

“No fucking if,” Ilya said.

“Okay,” Shane said. “I’m sorry. I just mean – I just can’t handle this during the season. I’m so scared I’m not gonna win a cup, and I’m so scared I’m losing you, and I’m sorry, it’s fucking me up, it’s fucking my game up.”

Ilya stared at him. “You can’t put a relationship on hold, Hollander.”

Shane shrugged.

“You can’t just ask me to wait for you,” Ilya said, and Shane gave him a look that communicated that he didn’t quite believe that; that actually he felt pretty strongly that Ilya would just wait.

“It’s just a few months,” Shane said, pleading. “We probably wouldn’t see each other during it anyway.”

“Okay, so if we take break,” Ilya said. “I can fuck other people?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Shane said, flinching, and Ilya laughed.

“I cannot talk to you and I cannot see other people. So I just wait at home until you want me again?”

Shane clenched his eyes closed. Ilya felt cruel, but he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just accept it.

“You said,” Shane said. “Last year, you said that if this got too hard for me it was okay to stop.”

“And then you sent me fucking homemade porn!” Shane flinched again. Ilya felt like he was supposed to whisper around him.

“I thought you’d be okay with this,” Shane said, quietly.

“Why the fuck would…” Ilya couldn’t even put the question together.

“Because you’re okay with everything,” Shane said. “Not seeing me at Christmas or when I’m injured, only meeting with my parents once a month. You didn’t want me to come out to my team, and you didn’t want us to come out at all. And I get it, that maybe none of those ideas made sense, but they were the only ideas I had. I just don’t know what to do, now.”

“Shane,” Ilya said. “You can’t just… You can’t.”

Shane opened his eyes and looked at Ilya, and his face broke open. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked for this, Ilya, we don’t have to do this. I never want to hurt you. I just – I’m hurting, and I don’t know what to do.”

Ilya had no idea what to do either. He kissed Shane, and Shane kissed back. He pulled Shane into his lap and Shane followed. He ran his hands through Shane’s hair. Shane’s cheeks were wet. Ilya broke the kiss, pressed his face into Shane’s shoulder, rocking slightly, trying for soothing. He felt wetness on his ear, tears dripping off Shane’s face. Either his heart broke in that moment or it was the moment he noticed it. It felt like most things were coming to him on delay recently.

“Okay,” Ilya said, after a pause. He straightened up, kissed Shane’s forehead, smoothed a hand over his hair. “If you want to take some time, this is okay. We can do that. We have survived so far.”

Shane shuddered like it was a relief, like Ilya had just shown him mercy. “Thank you,” he said.

Ilya swallowed it down, nodded. Shane wasn’t moving out of his lap, and Ilya did not want to leave. Voice low, he asked, “Do you want to start now or tomorrow morning?”

He felt another shudder run through Shane. He sounded almost apologetic when he said, “Tomorrow morning.”

Ilya pushed Shane’s shirt off there, then pushed at Shane’s hips to get him to stand up. He led him to his bedroom. It was slow, careful. Ilya wasn’t trying to prove anything. Shane knew how good he could make him feel, and it wasn’t enough, not when it was so infrequent, at least. Shane hitched his legs up on Ilya’s hips and Ilya pushed inside, held himself there for a few beats before moving. He wanted this to last as long as possible. It seemed like maybe Shane wanted that too, because he wasn’t urging Ilya to move harder or faster the way he usually would. His eyes were closed, and Ilya usually liked that, usually interpreted it as bliss, as overwhelm. He kissed Shane’s eyelids and then took his mouth.

More tears leaked out when Shane came, and Ilya followed soon after. He tried to pull out and Shane clenched his legs around him, said, “Stay,” which if Ilya wasn’t still shell-shocked he might have pointed out was kind of ironic. Instead he obliged, lying on top of Shane until it seemed like Shane was drifting off.

Ilya eased himself out carefully, went to the bathroom to wet a cloth and came back to clean Shane up. He made more of an ordeal of it than necessary. It was always such an honor.

He lay himself down carefully beside Shane afterwards, looked at him. The skin around his eyes looked bruised, his lips dry, chewed up. He had red spots along his hairline that Ilya only noticed now, with the strands falling away. Had Ilya done this to him? He felt panicked, close to waking Shane up and apologizing again, but he forced his own eyes closed, laid his head down on the pillow beside Shane.

Neither of them had set alarms, and it was ten in the morning when Ilya woke up, Shane still asleep beside him. Ilya had never known him to sleep this late. He kept quiet getting up. He was sweaty but he didn’t want to shower, didn’t want to be clean of last night quite yet. He went to Shane’s fridge, found food that must have been for him inside, and wondered when Shane had made the decision to end things, if it had been spur of the moment or if he’d planned it but still known that Ilya would stay the night. Ilya did not eat the food. His hands were shaking. Shane emerged shortly after and Ilya couldn’t look at him. “I should go,” he said. “I will go now.”

“Oh,” Shane said, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He followed Ilya to the doorway, his eyes flickering up and down him.

“Don’t be too mad at Hayden,” Ilya said.

Shane’s eyebrows creased up. “Since when do you care about Hayden?”

Ilya shrugged. He just didn’t want Shane to be lonely. He was scared of speaking, his throat full and eyes burning, but he said, “I love you so much, Shane. I love you more than anything.”

Shane looked at the ceiling. “I know. I love you too, so much.”

Ilya nodded and left.

He didn’t order a car to pick him up, he just walked, needed to get himself in order before he faced his team. He had to resign himself to it, he had to be grateful Shane hadn’t left him for good. Ilya was putting him through hell and he still hadn’t left him. Although Ilya wasn’t all that convinced that Shane would really want him back when it was the off-season, but that was… He’d deal with that when it came around.

He knew Shane loved him, he knew that wasn’t the problem. It was just that Shane had already had such a full life before Ilya. Ilya couldn’t understand what that was like, not when he was trying desperately to fill every yawning gap in his own with Shane. He didn’t know what it was to struggle to make space for something. If Shane had too much on his plate, it made sense to set Ilya aside. It wasn’t that he was the least important part of Shane’s life, but he was the most disposable, the easiest to disentangle. What would it actually change for Shane, for Ilya to not be his? His data usage would go down. Nothing else that left a mark. Ilya had never been allowed to leave marks.

Ilya’s hands went numb and he ordered a car. Nobody on his team noticed anything wrong. They played the game, and Ilya and Shane both played hard and well. Ilya was thankful, wouldn’t have wanted to squander both games against Shane this season, and his body took satisfaction in meeting its match on the ice like everything else had fallen away. But it wasn’t fun the way it usually was, and they didn’t say anything or make eye contact. Ilya had never felt more out of place in Montreal.

He went back to his hotel room and lay in the dark and tried for maybe five minutes to sleep. Shane lived near the arena and visiting hockey teams always stayed near the arena, so Ilya was never that far from Shane. It had beguiled him before, and that night it felt like torture. He pulled out his phone to open their text thread. He’d reflected on it way back when he was coming out to Marlow, that the texts were the only physical evidence of what he and Shane had together, and he was grateful now that it wasn’t nothing. Scrolling through the most recent texts – this week, last week, the week before – Ilya kept wondering if Shane had already started considering it, if he’d already started wanting it.

While he was scrolling an email from his agent came through, a reminder of a meeting with Brakemen executives tomorrow night, after the team arrived back in LA. Ilya almost laughed at the idea of being in an environment like that while feeling like this, being subject to LA’s ludicrous proposed contracts and his agent’s frustration at his continued refusal. And he couldn’t call out sick or cancel it, because he’d already been as uncooperative as he could get away with and it was a bad move to genuinely piss off his agent, who he’d need for signing with Ottawa.

He knew the media was already speculating about his contract, about why he hadn’t yet re-signed with LA. The most popular theory was that he was holding off until after the playoffs, because if he brought the cup to the city it’d put more money on the table. People still assumed he wanted LA, and his agent assured him this was good, that if it seemed there was some credible competition then Ottawa wouldn’t cotton that he’d sign for peanuts. Ilya worried what Shane would think of the stories, another thing they hadn’t ever talked about.

He got up early the next morning for the team flight, going through his routine automatically, most of his attention remaining on his texts with Shane, scrolling farther and farther back. The hardest part so far had been the off-season, when the texts had thinned out and become just where are you and get my headphones when you’re down there please. There was a two week span without a single text at all, where they’d never been far enough away from each other to need it. It hit him with a longing he genuinely wasn’t sure he could physically bear.

He and his teammates were all packed in the lobby waiting for the cars to bring them to the airport when he reached a bunch of texts he’d forgotten about, ones he’d never actually read. The texts Shane had sent when Ilya had been locked up from the tainted weed. Even now he half wanted to flinch away, but ultimately he couldn’t bring himself to give up a part of Shane that was on offer, not when he might not get anything else again. He scrolled up to get to the earliest of them, the first in a long column without responses.

You threw that ball so good Ilya not embarrassing at all.

Ilya smiled. Shane had little respect for baseball. Then,

Are you free to talk this evening?

I know you said you were going out after so you’re probably still busy. Check in when you can x

Okay I’m going to bed talk tomorrow love you!

Ilya’s gut twisted, filled with guilt. The next morning:

Ilya?

We should have had a talk about when it’s okay for me to start freaking out. Because I’ve started, to be clear.

Idk if you’re sick or something but could you please just say something. I would take a thumbs up haha

A gap of a couple hours, then, Ilya please pick up.

The messages that followed over the next couple of days were erratically spaced, like Shane was switching between calls and texts.

I can’t believe I don’t have anyone’s number I should have Svetlana’s number and Marlow’s. This is so bad.

Are you mad at me? I’m sorry if I’ve done something but I would just really appreciate proof of life. Sorry I’m probably being dramatic.

I’m getting kind of mad actually which I will feel terrible about if you’re hurt or in hospital or something.

You can’t just disappear like this though Ilya I won’t let you if you’re going through something you have to tell me.

Like I don’t care what it is or how bad it is or how scared you are you can’t just shut me out.

I don’t know what to do can you please call? Please literally anything. Post on your instagram.

Okay you’re playing tonight! You’re not dead!

A little later, presumably when Ilya had actually gotten on the ice.

Ilya what the fuck is wrong with you.

Okay I’m gonna ask Rose to go over. I’m sorry but I’m scared.

She’s going over now so now’s the time to tell me if she’s walking into something you don’t want me to know about

You realize if something has happened to you our last conversation will have been about baseball.

I’m sorry I shouldn’t say that. You’ll be okay Ilya, I’ll look after you. I just need to know what’s wrong.

Another realization on delay – Ilya didn’t notice he was standing until Marlow said, “Dude.”

Ilya glanced at him. Marlow widened his eyes, so Ilya assumed he looked deranged. “I am going—I have to go,” he said. “Tell them I will get back myself.”

Marlow frowned, leaned in and lowered his voice. “Roz,” he said. “You’ll get fined.”

Ilya made a frustrated noise. “I have so much fucking money, I do not care.”

He was striding out of the lobby before Marlow could respond, his fingers jabbing at his screen so hard he thought it might crack as he ordered a car. Shane’s address was the only one he had saved in Montreal. He was there in fifteen minutes, but it felt like forever. So did the walk up to Shane’s door, and the wait for Shane to answer his knocks. It maybe didn’t count as knocking when he was using the flat of his palm.

Shane opened the door, looking as worse for wear as yesterday and stunned on top of that. “Ilya?” he said.

“I was stupid,” Ilya said, pushing past him. He felt lighter than he had in months, with a clarity that rarely struck him off the ice. “Of course you cannot put this on hold, that’s fucking crazy talk, Shane. You are my boyfriend, we are in a relationship, we are getting married some day. There is no fucking break.”

Shane stared at him. “Ilya.”

“I’m sorry it’s hard,” Ilya said. “I know it’s hard, and maybe I’m making it harder on you. I am not being good, I am not—I don’t know. But we figure it out, okay? You can’t shut me out. You said that to me, that I could not shut you out, I could not disappear, even if I was scared. You said you would look after me.”

Shane opened his mouth, maybe to say Ilya's name again, then clicked it shut. His lips quivered.

“I will look after you,” Ilya said. “I don’t care how scared you are, I will look after you. Okay?”

Shane had tears in his eyes again. Ilya did too. “I’m sorry,” Shane said.

“No,” Ilya said. “It is nobody’s fault. Or it is both our faults, but same thing. We love each other, yes?”

Shane nodded.

“And we have been through a lot, both of us,” Ilya said. “So we will figure this out. I should not have let you do this. I should be trying harder, I did not know what you meant when you said that, but I know now. I should not have told you it was okay to take a break.”

Shane swallowed. “No, you shouldn’t have,” he said, almost smiling.

“We need to – fuck, we need to talk,” Ilya said. “Like, actually. And plan, plan again.”

“You can’t stay,” Shane said, frowning. “You have that meeting this evening, you have to get back, your agent already hates you.”

“I know,” Ilya said. “It is so stupid but I know. But we will plan, soon, and I will make it less hard for you. We will figure it out.”

Shane stepped closer, balled his hands in Ilya’s sweater. Nodded.

“We will get through this, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said.

Ilya raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Okay, Hollander?”

Shane laughed. “Okay,” he said.

Chapter End Notes

the way i project things without any basis in canon onto these characters is by repeatedly giving ilya restless leg syndrome. ty for reading :)

Chapter 7: spring (2)

Chapter Notes

back to my lawng chapter roots, hope people enjoy.

+1-555-673-5981: I wouldn’t say he collapsed. It’s going to be okay even though it was a little scary.

Ilya had been awake from his pre-game nap for three minutes, and was still in bed when the text came through. At first he assumed Hayden had meant it for someone else and that it was probably about one of his kids. While he was typing out his response, largely comprised of question marks, the push notification from ESPN appeared. Hollander Appears to Collapse at MTL Practice [WATCH].

Ilya did not want to watch. He stood up and called Shane and got no answer. He called Yuna and then David and got no answer, which was understandable, because their son was maybe in fucking hospital.

In hospital and Ilya couldn’t see him. He’d have gone to him if he was still in Boston; if not before tonight’s game than immediately after. They’d been so close, all those years, practically spitting distance. They’d squandered it.

With nothing better to do, Ilya watched the clip. Hayden was right, Shane didn’t really collapse. It was poor quality zoomed in phone footage, presumably from some beat reporter at open practice. Shane was on the far side of the ice, still, and after about five seconds he suddenly reached out to the assistant coach a couple feet away from him, who Ilya had assumed he was talking with. The coach was immediately at his side, put his arm around Shane’s waist and Shane’s arm around his shoulder, and led him off the ice, Shane listing into him like he couldn’t stand straight. The video ended. Ilya didn’t know what he’d just watched. He had an encyclopedia of hockey injuries in his brain, experienced and witnessed and described, and not one of them matched up with the video. Was it a fucking heart attack? He had no idea how to be calm about this, not when he was so far away and none of the Hollanders were answering their phones. The only comfort he had was that Hayden had said it was going to be okay.

Ilya: Hayden thank you

+1-555-673-5981: We had a deal right

Ilya was pretty sure the deal for Hayden to tell him about anything really bad had been voided when Shane found out and blew up about it. Ilya couldn’t tell if this was Hayden being dense or a stand up guy. He sent prayer hands.

Not long after, Shane called. “Thank fuck,” Ilya said, picking up immediately. “Shane, how are you?”

“Pissed,” Shane said. “They’re saying online it was dehydration, which makes it sound like I’m on PEDs.”

Ilya closed his eyes, breathed out a laugh, immediately eliminating all the worst case scenarios. Shane just sounded like Shane, no weakness or unsteadiness in his voice, nothing alien. “It was not dehydration?”

“No, I’m not stupid,” Shane said. “I know how to drink water.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, lips twitching for a moment into a smile. “So what was it?”

“Vertigo,” Shane said.

“Vertigo?” Ilya repeated. He had an idea of what that word meant, but not if it was an official medical diagnosis.

“Like extreme dizziness, not being able to keep upright,” Shane said. “Felt kind of like being really drunk. It hasn’t happened to me before, but I’ve been feeling it a little the last couple of days, and it got really bad then.”

“Do they know why?” Ilya asked. “Can they treat it?” It would have been far more terrifying if this had happened during a game. It would be far more terrifying if it still could happen during a game.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I haven’t really been sleeping, so they said it’s probably that.”

The tone was determinedly casual. Ilya readjusted, the relief that this wasn’t something terminal or catastrophic fading. “How long have you not been sleeping?”

Shane took a couple beats. “Since you left.”

“So a couple weeks,” Ilya said. Not really sleeping for two weeks seemed manageable, depending on how bad ‘not really’ was.

“No,” Shane said. “Like since you got traded to LA.”

It took Ilya a little while to comprehend that.

“When you say not really sleeping,” he said. “How bad?”

“Pretty bad,” Shane said. “Some nights not at all.”

Ilya wasn’t sure what he’d actually been worried about for the past year, but all that worry hadn’t prepared him for the reveal. “I’ll fucking kill Hayden,” he said, which, considering everything, was a poor first reaction.

“You mean for not telling you?” Shane asked, tenser. It was still a touchy subject. “He didn’t know, I didn’t tell him, or anyone. You want him to put nanny cams in my room?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Or maybe I should have paid Rose to watch you sleep.”

“That’s different,” Shane said, defensively. “You were falling apart.”

“You’re falling apart,” Ilya said, immediately and regrettably. He changed the subject before Shane could respond. “You never told anyone?”

“Last year I brought it up with my nutritionist because I thought it might be dietary.”

Ilya felt a new kind of tension shoot through him. “The only person you told was your nutritionist.”

“Well, I mean,” Shane said. “I thought they could help.”

Ilya was the only person Shane had ever had good sex with, but he still had strong cause for possessiveness. Plenty of other people had their hands all over Shane – coaches, trainers, nutritionists. Stylists, even. “Did they?” he asked, ignoring the stab of hurt. “Did it?”

“No, not really.”

Ilya ran a hand down his face. Shane was answering his questions probably out of a sense of obligation; he didn’t sound enthusiastic about it. “What about pills, have you tried?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “There’s some over the counter stuff. Last year I was just taking antihistamines, and that helped. Last year wasn’t all that bad. It just kind of stopped working this year, and eventually I did go to the team doctor. They put me on these crazy ones that just knocked me out cold, like I was going into surgery, you know. But I was only allowed to take them for a few nights because they’re addictive. After that they transitioned me to this non-addictive one, and it helped me sleep but I just felt really… not myself. I don’t know. So I stopped, before all stars, because you wanted to talk and I didn’t want to be like that with you, and after that, even though not sleeping sucked, I didn’t want to go back to those meds because I had hated how I felt.”

“So you’re not taking them now?”

“No,” Shane said.

“Will you go back on now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are not sleeping so bad you are just, falling over?”

“Well, apparently sleep deprivation can affect your balance,” Shane said. “That’s what they said. Not getting enough oxygen to my brain, something about neural transmitters and my ears, I don’t know. They printed me out some information.”

“You have not read it yet?” Ilya asked, because Shane should be all over that.

“I wanted to call you first.”

Ilya smiled. “So sweet,” he cooed.

“Stop,” Shane said. “I know there’s a video, I’m really sorry if that was… scary.”

“It was very scary,” Ilya said. “But, uh, Hayden texted me, said it was nothing too serious. Just so you know.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Shane said, a little wry. “It’s okay. One time medical emergency pass.”

Ilya nodded, even though Shane couldn’t see. “It would have been less scary if I knew about this already,” Ilya said, although he wasn’t sure that was true. He wasn’t above emotional manipulation. “You did not tell me.”

“No,” Shane agreed.

“You told your nutritionist.”

“I thought they could help,” Shane said, again.

“And I could not,” Ilya said.

“I – you helped without knowing, Ilya,” Shane said. “The nights I got sleep it was because of you, and when I was having hard days you helped so much, I didn’t have to tell you.”

Ilya was almost impressed. “Clever loophole,” he said.

Shane’s breath was heavy enough for Ilya to hear over the phone. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it. Handle us being apart.”

Ilya didn’t know how to argue against that; that was what he would have made of it. It was hard for him to imagine their relationship was worth it if it was fucking Shane up this bad. He felt sick even now. “And you thought you could handle it.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I mean I did handle it last year, it was barely a problem. I thought I’d figure it out this year too. I can figure it out. Are you mad at me?”

“Not really,” Ilya said. “That’s just who you are, isn’t it?” He half smiled. “Icarus.”

“Right,” Shane said. “You know what that makes you, don’t you?”

Ilya closed his eyes, made a noise of acknowledgment, got himself in check. “Are there other meds you could try?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “It’s just – it’s not great, at this point in the season, to be trialing new meds. It could really fuck with me.”

Ilya wished he knew anything about insomnia, or sleeping pills. He had no opinion about the consequences of trialing new meds and whether it was worth it to potentially help with sleep. “Has this happened before, not being able to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Like in the run up to the draft. And then a little bit after the draft because I got picked fucking second.”

Ilya laughed, mostly because Shane had conspicuously left a space for him to laugh.

“It’s happened a few times since I was a teen, generally when I’m stressed about something,” Shane said. “But it doesn’t usually last this long at all. It’s usually like a week. A month, maybe, at most. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me, this time.”

Shane had mentioned that once, before the trade, having trouble sleeping when he was stressed, but in an offhand no-big-deal way that Ilya hadn’t questioned. It was hitting him now, how many things he hadn’t questioned. The sleep mask and weighted blanket and 3am chess moves, all those times Ilya had been surprised, pleasantly surprised, by how late Shane had stayed up, phone calls after games and responses to texts that were really intended for the next morning, always assuming Shane was breaking his rules and choosing Ilya over sleep, not that sleep wasn’t an option at all. Ilya remembered, too, taking the call from his agent when he was first told about the trade, assuming it wouldn’t disturb Shane’s heavy sleep but Shane waking up anyway. A restful night ruined, the first of many. Ilya felt negligent.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Shane said. “Ilya, you can’t blame yourself. It’s just fucking – stupid, is what it is. I do everything right and my body still won’t meet the most basic standards.”

“If your body was normal you would not come so easy without anyone touching your dick,” Ilya said, because he couldn’t help himself. He liked when Shane’s body misbehaved, even if he didn’t like this.

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane said, but Ilya could hear the smile.

Ilya didn’t know what to do. He needed, viciously, to be there with Shane, to hold him, to take him to a dark room and lie down with him. They’d been doing good at talking in the couple weeks since he’d left Montreal, taking it slow and gentle considering the fragility of things, but it wasn’t enough. They needed to touch each other, see each other, read each other. That was how they worked. They’d talked about Shane coming down to LA after the wrap up of the regular season, before the play offs started, and that was already breaking rules in terms of letting their focus drift from hockey, but it was too distant. Ilya’s longing for Shane had never been this bad, and seeing Shane wasn’t impossible. Hard isn’t impossible, Shane had said.

“Give me a second, Shane,” Ilya said, and rooted out his laptop. He opened three tabs: the Brakemen schedule, the Metros schedule, and a map of the US. He had a game tonight, Shane had a game the next night, and then Ilya had another game. But the day after that they were both clear. Ilya had a game the next night again, but they’d only need one day, they could do it in one day. Especially if they didn’t meet in Montreal or LA.

“I want to see you,” Ilya said.

“I want to see you so bad, God,” Shane said.

“Good,” Ilya said. “Wednesday, this Wednesday, can we see each other?”

Shane took a beat. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Look at your calendar.”

“I don’t have to,” Shane said. “I have practice.”

Ilya winced. He had a mandatory tape session, but a team would be slightly more lenient about a player bailing on that than a full practice. Montreal ran a tighter ship than LA, anyway.

“I’ll skip it,” Shane said.

Ilya for a moment assumed he’d misheard. “Shane—”

“You missed a team flight, I can miss practice.”

“I got fined.”

“So I’ll pay a fine,” Shane said. “I don’t care, I have so much money.”

Ilya smiled. “Okay.”

“Good,” Shane said. “Am I going to you or are you coming to me?”

“Neither,” Ilya said, staring at the map.

“What do you mean?”

“Nebraska,” he said. “Let’s go to Nebraska, meet me in Nebraska, baby.”

Shane laughed, and Ilya felt adrenaline shoot through him. It was such a beautiful sound. “Why the fuck would we go to Nebraska?”

“No hockey team, so nobody will recognize us,” Ilya said. “And shorter flights, more time together. More time to talk.”

“You’re a genius,” Shane said, and Ilya smiled painfully wide.

“So, you will go?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’ll, um – I’ll sort out flights, once I’m home.”

“Same,” Ilya said. “I am home, I will do this once we hang up.”

They stayed on the line, breathing, for a few more moments.

“I am sorry there is video of it,” Ilya said, because it suddenly occurred to him how much Shane must hate that. “I am sorry people are talking about it.”

“Thanks,” Shane said.

“If you want I could post a dick pic and take attention away from you,” Ilya said.

Shane snorted. “If you want everyone to know how big your dick is don’t use this as an excuse,” he said. “Don’t pretend it’s noble.”

Ilya smiled. “So I can post?”

“Please don’t,” Shane said.

“I could send one to you, cheer you up,” Ilya said.

Shane hummed. “I should go,” he said. “I got to talk to coach and my parents and stuff about this.”

“Sure,” Ilya said. “Where are you even taking this call?”

Shane hesitated. “A supply closet,” he said. Ilya was still laughing when Shane hung up.

He had missed a call from Yuna while he was on with Shane, and texted her, Sorry I was talking to Shane he explained things but thank you for trying me. Then it occurred to him that she mightn’t know what was up yet, and sent, Shane is doing okay. He didn’t know if that was true, he didn’t know how big of a problem it was to go without proper sleep for such a long stretch of time, but he had to believe there was some solution to it. Fifteen minutes later Yuna called, and Ilya felt nervous answering.

“Hi,” he said. “You have talked to him?”

“Yes, David and I are just off with him,” Yuna said. “That was scary. It’s a horrible video.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “But he is okay.”

“Relatively speaking,” Yuna said. “I’m looking into sleep clinics right now. It’ll have to wait until the off-season, but still.”

“You think it will not get better by then?” Ilya asked.

“I don’t know,” Yuna said. “Shane doesn’t seem to either.”

Ilya swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what, honey?”

Ilya grimaced. “For making his life so hard,” he said.

Yuna took a moment. “My son hasn’t chosen the easy option in anything even once,” she said. “And, honestly, that approach tends to work out for him.”

Ilya made a skeptical noise.

“Anyway, you can’t blame yourself for this,” Yuna said. “It’s not very scientific. Physiology is complex, there are a lot of reasons for insomnia, and nothing I’m looking at lists missing your boyfriend as a possible root cause.”

“So it is just coincidence?” Ilya asked. “That it started when I left?”

“Maybe!” Yuna said, and despite himself Ilya laughed.

“You take good care of him,” Yuna said. “I’ve seen it. So you can’t blame yourself. If you’ve failed him so have I, and I couldn’t handle that.”

“You are very good mother,” Ilya said.

“Well, you’re a very good boyfriend,” Yuna said, and Ilya was immediately on the verge of tears.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, Ilya,” she said, sighing. “I can’t wait to have you in this city.”

Ilya went to his game frustrated and pent up and grateful for an outlet. Afterwards, in bed, he read up on insomnia for about ten minutes before it got too much. He’d just listen to what Shane said about it. He took a screenshot of a list of symptoms, circled mood swings and irritability, and sent it to Shane. Shane responded, Fuck you. Ilya heart reacted. Shane should be asleep; it felt like Shane telling him should have been the solution, that he should be able to rest now that the secret was out. But talking only did so much.

They’d arranged to fly in to Omaha, and following the nixed research into insomnia, Ilya looked up places in the city where they could spend the day. He didn’t want to book a hotel room, he had enough of hotel rooms for a lifetime, but the alternative suggestions he sent Shane were generally poorly received. I’m not having a serious conversation with you in a pumpkin patch, Shane texted, which seemed regrettable. Ilya had never been to a pumpkin patch before. He sent a sad face and Shane said, We can go to one some other time.

While Ilya read about the city zoo, Shane texted, I got us an airbnb.

Ilya frowned. He had a game the day after their trip; he’d been planning to fly back to LA late that evening. You want to stay the night?

Shane typed and stopped typing and said, I booked it just so we’d have a private space for the afternoon. Do you want to stay the night?

Ilya smiled. For all he knew he’d be benched that game for missing the tape session anyway, and he’d definitely be benched if he missed the pre-game skate, but he’d never cared less about missing hockey. Fuck it, yes.

When Ilya had arrived back in LA for the meeting with his front office, after being with Shane in Montreal, his professionalism had slipped. He was too raw, too on edge, and it had the positive effect of apparently finally communicating to everybody that he was serious about Ottawa and not likely to be swayed. LA had no choice but to keep trying, their plan for the future hinging on it, but they were less self-assured about it now.

News seemed to be leaking out, at least within the Brakemen organization, that Ilya wasn’t staying, and that was how the awkwardness with Moran resolved. Ilya wasn’t sure if someone had told him or if he’d worked it out himself, but he knew that Ilya wasn’t sticking around and it was obviously a weight off his shoulders. “Let’s make this year count, right?” he’d said, their first game after that meeting, and Ilya had agreed, happy for their relationship to play out on those terms. Missing a game to go to Nebraska was sort of like a parting gift, another chance for Moran to resume his role of hero. Ilya decided to deliver it to him on a silver platter.

LA’s game the night before flying out to Omaha was against Dallas, who had acquired Erikson from Montreal at the deadline. Erikson was a serviceable defenceman, and the real reason Ilya was in any way aware of him was because he’d featured in a couple of Hayden’s locker room updates, when the story was bad enough that Ilya had asked for names. Erikson had never been the worst offender, but Ilya still wanted him to die.

Ilya got called reckless on the ice but he wasn’t, really. He was in control of his body and he was good at playing the refs. In the final minutes of the third period, LA up 2, he boarded Erikson brutally and flagrantly, crushing him and releasing him to fall. “Fucking weak,” he said, as Erikson hit the ice. It was one of those moments in a game that felt hyper-real, the crunch and cold and swell of the crowd, even the LA audience not indifferent to violence. When Erikson pulled himself into standing a teammate was already there to hold him back, the fury on his face satisfaction enough. No fight but Ilya took the game misconduct, his second since the new year. Marlow slapped him on the back but shook his head at him, obviously confused.

Ilya’s one game suspension was confirmed by the league that night. He grinned when he got the notification and texted Shane, Cleared my schedule for you baby.

He left for Omaha early the next morning, giddy. The choice in location had been strategic but it also felt symbolic, a statement, taking themselves somewhere other than where their contracts demanded, a place that had nothing to do with their careers at all. Ilya had never been in any US state without a hockey team before. He knew about this part of America purely from the jokes that got made about his teammates from this part of America, and considering the jokes that got made about Russia he doubted they were all that accurate. Ilya liked being somewhere entirely unfamiliar with Shane.

Have you been to Nebraska before? he texted Shane, while airborne. No, Shane replied, and Ilya smiled wide.

Then came a photo of a boring black Mercedes. I’ve rented this car find me outside when you land.

Ilya squinted. Next time I get to pick car.

Ya snooze ya lose, Shane responded, and Ilya said, Is that a joke about how you have not snoozed in two years?

Ilya climbed into the car in a lot of the airport on the edge of the city, was grateful at least for the tinted windows, and crushed Shane’s face against his in a kiss. Shane opened up to him, wet and warm as ever, but when Ilya put a hand on his hip to pull him across the console Shane pulled away. “You think I’m going to break my no car sex rule in the Omaha airport parking lot?”

“Maybe your no car handjob rule,” Ilya said.

“That’s not a rule,” Shane said, then frowned. “Shut up.”

Ilya kissed him one last time, hard and toothy, and pulled away smiling. “Is not safe to drive tired,” he said, running a hand over Shane’s hair. “Are you tired?”

“It’s safer for me to drive tired than for you to drive in any condition,” Shane said. “I believe in speed limits, for example.”

“This car could not go above thirty anyway,” Ilya said.

“It’s a Merc,” Shane said, and started pulling out. “I don’t get you. I thought you’d like it. It’s a fancy car.”

“Fancy old man car,” Ilya said. Then he smiled and reached across to kiss Shane again, albeit this time on the cheek. “My sexy fancy old man.”

“Stop,” Shane said, but he was blushing. He reached over and squeezed Ilya’s hand. Ilya settled back in his seat.

“How far to the house?” Ilya asked, his eyes slipping closed.

“Like half an hour,” Shane said. “Tell me about your flight.”

They crossed the river and cut through the city to get to a cul de sac lined with large houses. Shane pulled up the driveway of a yard enclosed by tall hedges and stepped out to enter a code at a two car garage. It opened as Shane got back into the car and they pulled in, getting out once it had closed behind them and entering the house through the adjoining door. Ilya assumed Shane’s choice had been largely on the grounds of privacy. Once they entered it became clear it had not been aesthetics, at least. Ilya looked around him, but withheld judgment before exploring. There was a heavy fragrance in the air like the host was determined to make it not smell like cleaning products. They walked, largely silently, from room to room to room. The house seemed intended for families with, like, eight children. There were all these white plastic additions Ilya didn’t understand but which Shane identified as childproofing. There were many sets of bunk beds, and many TVs, and many toys. An indoor slide and swing set, even.

Eventually, Ilya raised his eyebrows at Shane.

“Fuck off,” Shane said, immediately. “There was limited choice at this short notice. Everything else was like an apartment in the city.”

“Horrible,” Ilya said.

“I wanted a house,” Shane said, stubborn.

On the kitchen counter their unseen host had left a welcome note, a basket of baked goods, and a pile of pamphlets for things to do in Omaha. Ilya started on the food while Shane flicked through the pamphlets, as though they were actually going to sight-see.

“It doesn’t seem to suck as bad as I’d have thought,” Shane said, which delighted Ilya the way it always did when Shane was accidentally mean.

“It has pumpkin patch,” Ilya said.

“Do you really like pumpkins or something?” Shane asked. “I wonder how hard they are to grow. Pumpkin soup is good.”

Ilya loved him so much. He crowded him against the counter, then urged him onto it and kissed him. “Is there rule against airbnb kitchen sex?” he asked.

“This place has like twelve beds,” Shane said, but he was leaning in for another kiss.

“We will get around to them too,” Ilya said, and Shane laughed.

Afterward they did a little more exploring. They found the master bedroom and dropped their bags there, and in the games room they found a large ostentatious chess set with faux-marble pieces. They set it up on the coffee table in the living room, Ilya sitting on a cushion on the ground and Shane across from him on the couch wrapped in a blanket. They were getting pretty good at the game. Shane had taken it seriously from the jump, which had forced Ilya to take it seriously in order to stay competitive, and now he knew about things like opening gambits. To combine it with Shane’s studies, they used Russian words for the pieces and for check. Beside the board they were holding hands – that was habit too, and whoever was white had to give up their right hand to hand holding and use their non-dominant hand for playing. The hand holding could become harsh squeezes and quasi thumb wars when things got tense, but so far Ilya was happy stroking his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. In the clear light of the room, Shane’s exhaustion was obvious on him, the shadows under his eyes and heavy hang of his shoulders. Ilya couldn’t believe it had ever been ambiguous. Even now, he could feel the temptation of not bringing up anything difficult, just basking in each other. When they were good it felt like nothing else.

But Shane said, “I know things have been hard lately. I’ve been finding things hard.”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“And I don’t have a lot of faith in myself these days,” Shane said, frowning down at the board.

“What do you mean?” Ilya asked.

“Like, my ability to do this,” Shane said. “It felt like I was supposed to figure something out, and I just couldn’t.”

It took Ilya a few moments to figure out what to say to that. “Your mom called me after your vertigo.”

“Oh,” Shane said.

“She was very nice, she said I am good boyfriend to you,” Ilya said.

“You are,” Shane said.

“You are good boyfriend too,” Ilya said. “Best. I don’t think there is anything to figure out how you mean it. You just love me. And we are nearly through, now, anyway.”

Shane quieted again. They got through Ilya’s move and Shane said, “I never wanted to say it, I didn’t want to upset you, but it doesn’t – you’d say, just two years, only get through two years, but it’s not just two years. I know Ottawa and Montreal are way closer, I know we’ll see each other way more, but it’s still two hours apart, it’s still a secret, and we’ll still have conflicting schedules. We’ll still have times where we really want to see each other and can’t, where we’re alone in our rooms and it feels like dying. Maybe you in LA should toughen me up but I don’t feel stronger. I don’t feel like I’m getting stronger from this.”

Ilya had genuinely never thought about that. The finish line was leaving LA. When they’d been making the Ottawa plan there was no hint that it would come with any real difficulties. They’d only talked about the problems it would solve. “I did not think of this,” he said, kind of lamely.

“I know,” Shane said. “And I hate saying it, then, because I don’t want you to have to feel bad about that too. But it just feels like – like if I haven’t been able to figure out how to make this work, then why would I be able to make Ottawa work?”

“It is not just you,” Ilya said.

“What do you mean?”

“You say I, you talk about you figuring it out,” Ilya said. “We both need to figure it out.”

“Right,” Shane said, but he didn’t sound like it was that important a point to him.

“This is what you mean, right,” Ilya said. “When you said I was not trying, or did not care.”

Shane cringed. “I’m sorry—”

“I know,” Ilya said. “But is what you meant. That only you were trying to figure it out, not me.”

Shane didn’t agree straight away. He said, “I just meant things like… Like, how it didn’t really matter to you how often we met with my parents—”

“I told you I would want to do that every week.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t bother you if it’s not every week. That’s what I mean.”

If Ilya was bothered by everything he wanted but couldn’t have he’d probably be dead. He supposed he should try conveying that to Shane, preferably in less dramatic terms. But it took him too long to figure out how, and Shane was talking again.

“It’s seemed like a lot of things didn’t bother you,” Shane said. “I’ve mentioned them, you know. Christmas and my ankle and not coming out. And I get why, but it’s hard, you know, you never coming up with solutions, or even trying, it seemed like. Like you’d just see why we couldn’t do something, never how we could. This means a lot, Ilya. Coming to Nebraska, I mean. I love that you thought of that.”

Ilya nodded. It was funny, he had thought he’d worked out what Shane meant by his not trying hard enough, he’d thought he had identified his transgressions, but his list didn’t seem to match up with Shane’s. “Also,” he said. “These are times you felt I didn’t want things enough, but I also did not do enough. Like you always organized things, the calls with your parents and when we could see each other during the season. I am sorry for that. And here, you got us this weird house and that old man car and all the terrible food.”

“Oh,” Shane said. “No, I don’t mind that. I can do that, I’m able to look after things like that.”

Ilya waved a hand. “I know you are able. But it should not just be you.”

“Oh,” Shane said again. They exchanged pawns.

“I am sorry,” Ilya said, once he’d ordered the thoughts right. “To me, it seems safer to not ask for too much. To not want too much. Or to want, a lot, but accept not getting it. It was smart, as a child, not to try to change things, not to fight. It was easier to just work with what was there. I thought this was way to handle this. I thought it would hurt us more to try and fail.” It came from his childhood but it hadn’t ended there. He’d had to outlive his father to escape him, even a continent away. “From outside, maybe this looks like giving up.”

Shane was staring at him.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Shane shook his head. “It means so much you telling me that. Oh my God.”

Ilya smiled, and Shane tugged at his hand. “Let’s finish the game later,” he said, so Ilya stood and joined him on the couch, Shane spreading the blanket across both their laps. When Shane leaned in and kissed him, Ilya laughed.

“What?” Shane said, pulling away slightly.

“Like you’re trying to train me,” Ilya said. “I tell you about my childhood and I get kiss.”

Shane laughed too, put his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. They settled their bodies against each other. The training was already working; Ilya was surprised by how relaxed he felt, that he didn’t want to walk out of the room, fly back to LA, after saying anything like that aloud.

With his head tucked against Ilya’s neck, Shane said, “It has felt like there’s a lot you’re not telling me. Your life in LA, like I don’t really know what it’s like. That’s hurt too.”

That surprised Ilya. He told Shane a lot, told him about his team and his house and the weather, about the food he liked and the dogs he saw. “I tell you lots.”

“Not the bad parts,” Shane said, and Ilya tensed.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, no.”

“I’d like to know about that,” Shane said. “I want to know you.”

“There are parts I do not think you would want to know,” Ilya said, carefully.

“Of course I want to know, Ilya,” Shane said, and pulled away to look him in the eyes. “I want to know everything about you. I’ve wanted to know everything about you since before I even met you.”

Ilya’s heartbeat ratcheted up. “I don’t want to worry you.”

“Not knowing makes me worry worse than anything,” Shane said. “You should know that. You know me so well. You should know I hate not knowing.”

Ilya nodded. He did know that, although frankly it just made him want to get better at lying. The problem was Shane being able to tell there was something he didn’t know.

“Just one thing to start,” Shane said, rubbing his thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone. “Can you just tell me one thing?”

“Like what,” Ilya said.

“Just,” Shane said. “Something bad.”

Ilya made a face. “Let’s have some food,” he said. Shane held him with his gaze for a few more moments then nodded.

The fridge was stuffed with a day’s worth of meals for two, not from the host but a local chef Shane had found on short notice. Ilya didn’t really know how it had worked, but he knew the food was going to be more to Shane’s taste than his. It wasn’t a great distraction. They had the lunch and took protein smoothies from the fridge door, Shane giving Ilya the vaguely blue one because he thought Ilya would like it most. Instead of returning to the living room they went to the hedge-shadowed backyard, sat on deck chairs and looked up at the gray sky, Ilya propping his feet up on an inexplicable beach ball.

“There was this one night,” he said, halting. He still didn’t really want to talk about it, except he’d been thinking about it since Shane asked and it felt like talking was the only way to get it out his head. Shane turned to him immediately, wide eyed and entirely unconcerned with subtlety.

“Yeah?” he said.

“I blacked out,” Ilya said. “Which is fine, a little rookie, but fine. But when I woke up I had lipstick on my jaw.” It hurt to say it, his stomach tense and uncomfortable. He chanced a glance at Shane, found him frowning, but more like he was confused than angry. “So I was very scared. But Marly had been with me that night, so I asked him about it, and he said there had been someone who was – pushy, he said. And he said I did my best, you know, to stop it. But it…” he shrugged, out of words. It had been a year, and he didn’t want to completely reawaken those feelings.

“God, Ilya,” Shane said.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, immediately.

Shane’s eyes went wide. “For what?”

Ilya shrugged.

“I don’t – you didn’t do anything wrong,” Shane said. “That just makes me, like, I feel so angry. I hate that I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. God, I just want to—keep you safe.” He looked entirely earnest, unembarrassed to profess something like that.

Ilya sunk a little lower in his seat, feeling gross. “I thought I’d cheated,” he said. “When I saw it.”

“Ilya,” Shane said, and reached across and grabbed his hand. “Of course you didn’t.”

Ilya laughed.

“When was this?” Shane asked.

“A year ago,” Ilya said. “Is when I decided to start going out less.”

“Oh,” Shane said. “I remember that, you told me when I was visiting. You were weird that visit. All over me.”

Ilya looked at him dubiously. “I’m always all over you,” he said.

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a quick placating smile. “Ilya, you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t have to feel guilty for that. It’s fucked up someone did that to you, I’m really sorry. I kind of want to set their house on fire or something.”

“Little much,” Ilya said, trying for a joke but mostly wanting to be done with the conversation.

“No,” Shane said.

He seemed like he was waiting for something, so Ilya said, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane said. Then cleared his throat. “I’m tough, you know. I can take hearing things like that. I don’t want you always trying to… keep me happy.”

Ilya nodded. He thought maybe he was the one who couldn’t take those conversations. “Now you tell me something,” he said. He wasn’t sure if Shane had been prepared for that request or if he’d just wanted to share something anyway, but he came up with his answer quick.

“You know when I was looking into marrying you so you could stay even if we were kicked out of the league or something for coming out.” It was said in one go.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded. “I was told, one perspective is that it’s like a bad idea to be wholly dependent on another person for your right to remain. Like it’s unsafe for you for me to have that much power. It freaked me out.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, frowning. “I would not mind.”

“Oh my God,” Shane said. “Well, I would.”

“Really?” Ilya asked. “You would not like me being dependent on you? I think you would like this.”

“Don’t be fucked up,” Shane said. “Of course I wouldn’t. And it made me feel really bad for suggesting it.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, trying not to laugh. “You do not need to feel bad. You were being very sweet.”

“Well, I guess it’s another thing you were right about,” Shane said.

“You know,” Ilya said, faded off. “Coming out earlier, it is something we can talk about. Especially when I am in Ottawa.”

Shane looked at him. “I keep changing my mind about whether I want it or not,” he said, like a confession. “It could cause more problems than it solves.”

Ilya nodded. “This is why we can talk about it,” he said.

“Okay,” Shane said.

They went back inside and finished their chess game, the conversation lightening considerably and consisting largely of trash talk. At one point, though, Shane asked, “Were you ever mad at me, did you ever resent me?”

Ilya frowned, glanced up. “For what?”

“Anything.”

“No,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded. “Good.”

There was a sparse home gym with a weight rack that didn’t go close to either of their maxes, so they avoided it, but also a rowing machine and a pull up bar, which they took turns on, and a couple of exercise balls which Ilya had never once in his life had use for but Shane swore had some kind of value. Ilya loved working out with Shane, even in a carpeted room, loved watching him and grabbing at him and competing with him. After a plane ride, and all that talk, and knowing that he wouldn’t be playing tomorrow night, it felt good to put his body to use for a while. They showered together, and it started all sweet and affectionate where Ilya expected it to devolve into blowjobs; in fact it remained sweet and affectionate even when they were giving each other head.

Shane had won the chess match, which meant it became best of three. They moved the board to the kitchen table and started their second game while they ate dinner. Ilya had balked at the prospect of the food in the fridge and ordered take out – Thai, because sometimes Shane would eat some of his edamame. He was made to do it from Shane’s account and with his card, presumably in case somebody hacked both Shane’s airbnb account and Ilya’s food delivery account and cross-referenced their location data.

Ilya was convinced they’d needed this – spending time together, enjoying each other’s company – as badly as the serious conversation, its absence equally harmful. Shane had called himself lonely, and Ilya was starting to think maybe he was too, and that he might have been for a long time. He hadn’t previously bothered to come up with a word for the feeling that beset him on nights with nothing to do, but loneliness was as good as any. Maybe the block for him identifying that was how tough he found certain kinds of company, too. He struggled a little with Nina and Marly, how often it became just the three of them in quiet rooms with nothing to do but talk. It stressed him out, it wasn’t how he worked. For a long time nights out had served him well, surrounded but with no real expectations on himself or anyone else, everyone interchangeable. It wasn’t like he was one of those people who felt lonely in a crowd; he loved being in a crowd. He thought about his friendship with Svetlana, too, how much of it hinged on neither of them wanting to always have to leave parties on their own or to wake up in an empty house every morning. How they’d never really asked more of each other than that. How terrifying it had been when Shane started asking more of him.

Ilya liked talking to Shane, but he also liked that Shane didn’t want to just talk, that he liked staying active the same way Ilya did, if possibly for different reasons. Ilya hadn’t realized he was looking for reassurance, but this day had confirmed how perfectly suited they were, how much he needed Shane in his life. Having someone around without it feeling like a demand or an incision. The idea that he could be the same kind of solace to Shane was miraculous.

After dinner they watched New Jersey humiliate Seattle, Shane crowing about east supremacy like that meant anything other than a harder playoff path, and then Shane took Ilya by the hand and led him to the master bedroom, which had satiny seashell patterned bedding, a horse sculpture on the nightstand, and a framed photo of the Eiffel tower on the wall. It was a mismatched and inexplicable interior. “I want to fuck you in every bedroom in America,” Ilya said, because he was feeling crazy.

“Yeah,” Shane said, somehow understanding, and smoothed his hands up from Ilya’s stomach to his neck. Ilya slid his own hands around Shane’s back, and they held each other for a moment, looking, breathing, before Ilya blinked first and leaned in to kiss him. Shane liked being kissed as much as or more than kissing, Ilya thought, would often wait for him to initiate.

Ilya decided to be mean, this time. His hands stayed on Shane’s back, and he kept kissing him, and he didn’t do anything else. Shane’s hands slipped down and undid Ilya’s fly, slid in and gripped his dick, and Ilya cursed against Shane’s mouth. Shane had stroked him into full hardness before he pulled away, frowning. “Are you good?” he asked.
“Yes, feels so good, I love it,” Ilya said, and when Shane kept frowning, Ilya smiled, which gave the game away.

“Asshole,” Shane said, his eyes widening. “Touch me.”

“I am—”

“Touch my dick,” Shane said, annoyed, and Ilya laughed. He brought his hand down and gripped Shane through his pants, squeezing roughly, and Shane nodded, satisfied, before leaning in to kiss Ilya again. His own hands slipped from Ilya’s dick to his ass, and then to his chest. Then he broke the kiss again. “Don’t—what are you doing, Ilya?”

“What you tell me,” Ilya said, and Shane paused, and swallowed. Ilya wasn’t sure why he wanted this all of a sudden. He had no reason to think that it would work for Shane, except that everything that worked for him seemed to work for Shane.

“Take your clothes off,” Shane said, voice shaking, and Ilya immediately pulled off his t-shirt, pushed down his briefs and jeans and stepped out of them. Shane stared.

“Do you want me to take my clothes off too?” he asked, and Ilya almost laughed.

“Please, yes,” he said, and watched as Shane obliged. His body was still unbelievable; it felt impossible for something to be so familiar and so exciting at the same time. He had a nasty dark bruise up his right side that Ilya had only noticed when they were working out, that Shane hadn’t warned him about despite Ilya pawing at him and squeezing him all day. They stood there, a couple feet apart, naked and not touching.

“Get on the bed,” Shane said, still sounding uncertain.

“Where?” Ilya said.

Shane frowned. “When you tell me to get on a bed I don’t ask that, I just get on the bed.”

Ilya smiled. “I am not as good as you. You will have to be very clear with me.”

Shane swallowed, squeezed his hands together in front of his stomach, a move Ilya recognized as him thinking things over and had never before seen while Shane was entirely naked.

“Sit against the headboard,” Shane said, so Ilya set himself up as instructed. He broke the rules and took himself in hand, gave himself a couple slow strokes. Shane searched out the lube in their scant luggage, repeatedly flitting his eyes back to Ilya, and once he found it he got on his knees at the foot of the bed. He crawled his way up to Ilya, settled on his legs.

“Get me ready,” Shane said, now a whisper.

“Ready for what?” Ilya asked, squeezing Shane’s hips.

“For your dick,” Shane said. “Ready for you to fuck me.”

Ilya took the lube and slicked his fingers, reached around Shane and felt his way inside. Shane’s hands landed heavily on his shoulders, keeping his breathing controlled the way he always did at the start, like it was a point of pride. It took him a while to figure out Ilya wasn’t going to add fingers unless asked, and then he said, “Jesus Christ, Ilya.”

“Yes?” Ilya asked, and watched Shane realize something.

“Add two more,” Shane said, and Ilya smiled despite himself. He supposed this time he couldn’t say no, even though he didn’t like rushing Shane like that. He added a second and third finger all at once, forcing his way in. Shane full body shivered, lurching forward so Ilya’s face was pressed into his chest for a moment. He bit at a nipple and Shane made a new sound.

“Okay,” Shane said, as soon as Ilya started feeling the slightest give. “Okay, okay. Fuck me, put your dick in me, fuck me.”

Ilya pulled his fingers out and wrapped them around his dick. “Like this?” Ilya asked. “This is how you want it.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, dropping down an inch to kiss him, keeping his mouth by Ilya’s as Ilya pressed himself at Shane’s entrance and guided him down by the hip. He groaned, too loud, heat spreading all through his body. Shane took a moment to adjust and then started grinding.

“We can have this for the rest of our lives,” Shane said, half a question, and Ilya almost came right then.

“Yes,” he said, his head knocking backwards. "I'll make it happen."

“I will too,” Shane said. “Ilya, I’ll do anything.”

The game fell away. They were face to face, their stomachs pressing together every time Shane dropped down, and Ilya barely had to move at all, just got to watch and feel. The muscles moving beneath Shane’s bruises were hypnotic. Shane kissed across his face, hunched to kiss his shoulders, tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair, pulled and stroked. The most Ilya could contribute was squeezing his ass, watching in a daze. He must have looked stupid, staring up at Shane with his eyes, mouth, and probably nostrils wide, but Shane was staring back. Shane’s movements became jerkier, harsher, and then he was grabbing one of Ilya’s hands and dragging it to his dick, tucked between their stomachs. Ilya felt another desperate lurch of arousal, close to the edge, his feet spasming as he forced himself to hold off. He wrapped his hand around Shane’s dick, like Shane wanted, and started stroking. Shane immediately fell apart, his forehead in the crook of Ilya’s neck and his voice almost pained.

“I love you, I love you,” he said, and came, spurting between them, up to Ilya’s chain. A rarity, he pulled off almost immediately, and Ilya barely got to make a noise of protest before Shane had laid between his legs and taken his dick into his mouth, uncaring of the lube, fervent and worshipful. Ilya put a hand on the back of his neck and finished down his throat, the only way Shane would swallow. Shane pulled off, made a face like he’d just noticed the taste of lube, and rested his head on Ilya’s thigh. Ilya’s hand, still shaking, started scratching at Shane’s scalp. Shane’s eyes closed.

“I know you love me,” Ilya said.

Shane’s eyes stayed closed, but he smiled. “I know you love me too.”

Shane pulled on pajamas but Ilya decided to sleep naked even if the texture of the sheets was slightly weird. He fished his phone from his discarded jeans and settled back against the headboard. He opened his browser and was about to search for the Montreal Metros when his eyes latched onto the small orange pill bottle in Shane’s hand. He dragged his gaze up to Shane’s face, who was looking back, and raised his eyebrows.

“They’re different,” Shane said. “They have less intense side effects, apparently, but they’re less effective. Compromise.”

Ilya smiled a little. Shane hated compromise. “How are they?”

Shane shrugged. “Last night was my first night taking them,” he said. “And it wasn’t the worst night of sleep. Wasn’t the best, either.”

Ilya nodded. Despite Shane’s sleep trouble being the catalyst for their trip here, it was weirdly what he found hardest to talk about. It wasn’t one of the issues he had any hope of fixing. He knew nothing about insomnia, and couldn’t imagine he’d be able to come up with any idea for handling it that Shane hadn’t already explored in detail. He didn’t want to talk about it for the sake of talking about it. It either would or wouldn’t resolve. Shane letting him know what was happening was all he could hope for.

“I hope they work better for you,” Ilya said, the most he could offer. And maybe it wasn’t entirely pathetic, because Shane smiled. He didn’t take the pills, just put them on the nightstand, which Ilya was glad about. He wasn’t ready to sleep quite yet. He returned to his phone and tapped into the Metros website, opened the roster tab as Shane climbed into bed beside him.

Shane leaned in and frowned. “Why are you looking at my teammates?”

“It helps me get off,” Ilya said. “I had it open whole time, you did not see?”

Shane smacked him.

“No, we are going to play game,” Ilya said.

“What game?” Shane said, helplessly curious as always.

“Scale of one to ten for how much of an asshole they are,” Ilya said.

Shane looked at him for a moment, gauging his sincerity, and then said, “Why?”

“I want to know what your team is like,” Ilya said. Even in these vague terms it felt intense to say. “I worry.”

Shane still looked unconvinced. “I have a lot of teammates, I don’t want to spend hours of our time talking about them.”

“We go fast,” Ilya said. “Gut instinct.”

Shane made a dubious face and Ilya sat up.

“Come on, Hollander,” he said. “I know you have gut instincts. Out on ice. Imagine, okay, something bad happens on ice and you need to ask a teammate for help. One to ten, how much do you want this teammate to be that person.”

Shane frowned. “That’s different,” he said.

“What?”

“In the first scale ten is bad, in this scale ten is good,” Shane said.

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “Okay, one to ten how bad is it for this teammate to be the one you have to ask for help.”

“So ten is bad?”

“Ten is this person sucks so much and I don’t trust them at all, one is this person is okay.”

“Okay,” Shane said. “What’s, like, seven?”

“I really wish I didn’t have to trust this person but maybe it will be fine.” Ilya looked back to the screen. “Elijah Al… What kind of name is this?”

“It’s Italian,” Shane said. “I’ll give him four. But I’ve only talked to him maybe once.”

Ilya smiled, pleased Shane was on board. “Daniel Banks.”

“Six,” Shane said. “He’s unhygienic.”

“Unhygienic people can still be good in crisis,” Ilya said.

“Don’t argue,” Shane said. “You’re not allowed to argue my rankings.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows. “That’s the rule?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, smiling.

“JJ Boizeau.”

“Zero,” Shane said.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“No arguing,” Shane said.

“What do you mean zero?”

“This is a scale of how much they suck, JJ doesn’t suck. He’s a zero.”

“This is one to ten,” Ilya said. Given what he was trying to get out of this exercise it really didn’t matter, but the point nevertheless had to be made.

“You said one just means okay. I’d be really relieved if JJ was there in a crisis.”

“So sweet,” Ilya said. “Maybe you should rent stupid airbnb house with him.”

“Next teammate,” Shane said.

They got through the roster, Ilya keeping a list in his head of anyone who scored a seven or higher, and then moved to the coaches. They reversed it so ten was a good thing, because Ilya was less interested in figuring out which ones were shitty and more interested in seeing if there were any Shane could rely on. In the end they had come up with one trustworthy assistant coach and eight nightmare teammates.

“How about the principal owner, you have good relationship?”

“I think so,” Shane said. “He seems to like me.”

“You make sure he likes you?”

“What do you mean?” Shane asked. “I’m polite when I see him. It doesn’t happen that often.”

Ilya widened his eyes. “Shane, you should be sucking his dick.”

“I got him three cups,” Shane said. “We’re the most highly valued franchise in the league. He should be sucking my dick.”

Ilya laughed. “Sixty-nine, then,” he said.

“Fuck off,” Shane said. “Are you sixty-nining the guy in LA?”

“No, because fuck LA,” Ilya said. “I was in Boston though. I learned to golf for that guy.”

Shane smiled. “You know how to golf?”

“I would’ve learned puppeteering if it was what he liked,” Ilya said.

“Not like it paid off for you,” Shane said, kind of brutally.

“Not with trade request,” Ilya said. “But overpaying so I would have better right wing, yes. Getting rid of Bradley even though coach loved him, yes.”

Shane opened his mouth and Ilya waved his hand. “This is conversation for other time, we will talk about this other time.”

Shane’s mouth quirked up. “Oh, you have an agenda?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “This trip is for emotional mushy stuff. Next time we talk we will do planning, talk about what next year will be like, how you should blow team owner. It’s too much to do all at once.”

Shane smiled, but it looked cautious, unsure. He said, “You’re not scared?”

“Of what?"

“Making plans,” Shane said. “It didn’t go all that well the last time.”

Ilya didn’t think he was scared, didn’t think that was why he was asking to put it off. Enough had been said that day he was pretty sure he hadn’t processed it all, and he thought they should let it breathe a little.

“We were just impatient,” Ilya said. “Next year is our year. Obviously.”

Shane leaned in and kissed him, and they didn’t stop kissing. At one point Shane reached back to turn off the lamp. Eventually Ilya yawned, and Shane swallowed a pill dry, which Ilya liked because he took pills dry too. They settled back on the pillows, facing each other, inches between them. Ilya waited for his eyes to adjust enough to see the outline of Shane, the broad shapes of his face. Ilya wanted to stay awake until Shane fell asleep, so he would know how long it took and what it looked like, but he held it off for as long as he could, and in his last conscious memory Shane’s breathing still hadn’t steadied out the way Ilya was waiting for.

When he woke, however, Shane looked deep asleep, his mouth slightly open and mashed against the pillow. And maybe he’d only fallen asleep forty minutes before, maybe he’d tossed and turned all night, but Ilya let himself take pleasure in the sight anyway, the total absence of tension across Shane’s face, the slow, heavy breaths.

He showered in a bathroom on the other side of the house rather than the en suite, hoping to keep Shane asleep as long as possible, but when he returned to the bedroom to get dressed Shane was gone. Ilya wandered downstairs and just as he was about to turn into the kitchen he spotted a dartboard on the wall of one of the children’s bedrooms. “Shane,” he called, loud, and turned into the kitchen. It was empty too, but he could hear the TV from the living room next door. He ignored the breakfast left in the fridge for him and called Shane’s name again as he walked into the living room.

“Morning,” Shane said. “What?”

“There is dartboard,” Ilya said. “Let’s play darts. Morning.”

They’d never played darts together before, and Ilya wasn’t sure he’d ever played darts sober. It’d be fun.

“Cool, but later,” Shane said, and nodded at the TV. Ilya came up behind the couch and put his hands on Shane’s shoulders as he watched. It was showing highlights from the six games that had been played the night before.

Shane looked up at him. “How are you feeling about missing your game tonight?”

Ilya squeezed his shoulders and then climbed over the couch to sit beside him. “Suspension is always worse than injury,” he said.

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“And they could win without me easy," Ilya said. If they didn't, he still wouldn't feel that bad; they were safe in the west. "Doesn't matter. For this, it is worth it.”

Shane smiled, eyes still on the TV. “I hope it still feels that way when you’re home alone and your team is out on the ice.”

Ilya almost laughed. Those thoughts had slipped in while he showered, the imminent isolation. “You are most ruthless person I know,” he said.

Shane frowned. “What do you mean?”

Ilya shook his head. “Never mind. You will be proud of me, I was thinking what if it comes out somehow. What you were saying, about what people will think about things once they know about us. People would not like me missing a game for you.”

Shane considered this for a moment and then said, “Hayden missed a game when his twins were born.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “This is as important.”

“People won’t find out,” Shane said, and reached to squeeze his hand. “Even when we come out, we’ll still get to have our secrets.”

Ilya smiled, watched the game unfold. They both hissed at an uncalled slash and Ilya asked, “When did you get bruise on your side?”

“Against Tampa,” Shane said. “Not sure how it happened exactly, it was a pile up.”

“I remember it,” Ilya said. “I would not have known you got hurt, you did not slow down.”

Shane smiled, like it was praise, and Ilya supposed it was.

“You have not slowed down all season,” Ilya said. “Is impressive, with you not sleeping.”

Shane shifted, a little uncomfortable. Ilya knew this was pushing things, hockey far touchier than anything else. Shane hadn’t said a word about Ilya’s disappointing performance in last season’s play offs, and Ilya had been deeply grateful at the time because he seriously doubted he would have been able to respond rationally. It was maybe a little unfair he was asking Shane to do that now. “Yeah,” Shane said. “Well, I have to compensate a little, you know, to overcome the tiredness. But it’s working well, I’ve been playing well.”

Ilya nodded. Shane’s performance couldn’t be faulted, not by any hockey metric. He was trying to figure out if and how to ask for more, when Shane volunteered it all by himself.

“I just feel like I have to up my game,” Shane said. “To get what I want. It’s not just winning the cup, you know. I want to win better.”

“You mean more impressively?” Ilya asked. “Score more goals than last time, break more records?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I don’t know exactly what it looks like, I just… There was a Montreal newspaper that had an opinion piece on me at the start of the season. On the Metros, but really on me. I’m glad it didn’t get national pick up.”

“What did it say?” Ilya asked.

“It talked about excellence fatigue,” Shane said. “It was arguing that Montreal fans were getting bored of us doing everything right. My team say that a lot now, excellence fatigue, as like a joke.”

“Making up things to write about,” Ilya said. He’d had plenty of articles like that in his time, and he doubted this was Shane’s first. He could understand why it in particular got under Shane’s skin, though.

“I know,” Shane said. He was still looking at the TV. “I get why sports writers would be bored of us winning all the time, never having any drama. But fans aren’t sports writers.”

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“Still,” Shane said. “When I won them the first cup, and the team had been so bad for so long before that, it was like nothing else. Well, you know what that’s like. I don’t think the city is bored by how good we are, but maybe they’re slightly less in love.”

Ilya nodded. Shane was a God to Montreal fans, and the worship had only intensified with time, but Shane wasn’t really talking about the fans. “You think you can get that back?” Ilya asked.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I have to try.”

Ilya leaned in and kissed his shoulder. Icarus again. “I know you do,” he said.

They ate breakfast and played darts and standing right there Shane ordered a board for the cottage. They blew each other and packed and cleaned away the traces they’d left around the house. They hadn’t even finished the second game of chess; Ilya took a photo of the board, their pieces mid battle, before returning it to the games room. They stood in the two car garage hugging for ten minutes, because they wouldn’t be able to in the airport. They got in the car and drove through the city, mostly not talking. Shane had overestimated the traffic, and they arrived ten minutes earlier than scheduled. They turned to each other, and Shane pushed Ilya’s hair back from his forehead, held it there.

“This was good,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “But exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a small laugh. He let the hair fall and Ilya took his hand.

“I do not want to always have to talk like this,” Ilya said.

“No,” Shane said. “Maybe we can rent a random house somewhere in North America once a year.”

“Do all our talking for the year in twenty four hours," Ilya agreed. "Good plan.”

Shane smiled, kissed his cheek. Ilya had to figure out how to not cry.

“This is special place,” he said, falsely light, like he’d seen anything more than the airport and a single house. “We will honeymoon here.”

“We’re not honeymooning in Nebraska,” Shane said firmly. “We’re going to Europe.”

“Okay, then we will retire here,” Ilya said.

“Omaha hockey is like legitimately cursed,” Shane said. “I couldn’t live somewhere like that.”

“We will save it,” Ilya said. “We will start new NHL team. They will build statues of us.”

“No honeymoon, no retirement,” Shane said, shaking his head.

“Fine,” Ilya said, and compromised further. “Maybe we pay for Hayden and his wife and children to stay in that house for two weeks sometime. Like for a birthday or something.”

“I don’t get Hayden birthday presents,” Shane said. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Ilya said. “Let’s come here on our ten year anniversary.”

Shane smiled. “Okay,” he said. "We'll go to the pumpkin patch." 

They kissed, and Ilya grabbed his bag and climbed out, Shane disappearing behind the black windows as soon as the door shut.

In the airport Ilya bought a bumper sticker, smiled at the thought of it on the back of a Porsche 911. Making Memories in Omaha!

Chapter End Notes

I usually really try to avoid company names in my writing but there just is no conversational generic term for an airbnb. i hate 'airbnb' being in dialogue or prose its so ugly to me but I couldn’t credibly have shane talk about booking them a short-term rental. altho idk maybe that's landlord lingo.

Chapter 8: summer (2)

Chapter Notes

The first game of the 2019 NHL finals was the most exciting game of hockey Ilya had ever played, and he had a feeling game two would top it. On the morning of game two he had the biggest fight he’d had with Svetlana since they were fourteen.

It would have been better suited to fourteen year olds too, frantic and dramatic and bordering on incoherent. On its face the subject of it cast Ilya in a bad light, which was that Svetlana hadn’t watched game one, had gone out instead. That was a hurt Ilya understood he should rightly nurse privately, because she wasn’t actually beholden to him, but he thought it was fair to get pissed when she followed the revelation with, “Why would I care about you playing good hockey if you are choosing to never play good hockey again in your life?”

It devolved from there, passing in a haze. She threw a high heel at the ground, Ilya called her a fucking nightmare. She left and he felt like he’d just woken from a confusing dream, his head cloudy. He wanted to talk to Shane but they weren’t talking during the finals, their roles as opposing captains looming larger than that of boyfriends right now, and anyway he wasn’t sure what he would say.

More details filtered in. Svetlana looking upset even before he’d asked her about the game, last night’s makeup still on her face, something she was usually conscientious about. Every nerve in his body alight the way it was during any deep play off run, a constant flow of adrenaline that wore him down more than the bruises and sprains. The shared sense that this was a last time, that Svetlana wouldn’t make this trip when he was in Ottawa, and regardless, who knew when he’d be able to drag Ottawa to the playoffs. The shared sense that maybe it was something they should outgrow, anyway.

He’d never had anything to contrast his and Svetlana’s friendship with before, and now he did, and the ways they’d grown slanted were more obvious. But he couldn’t dissect it any further when he was up one with another game that night, a chance to freshen the adrenaline.

His heart beat had barely steadied by the time he had to leave for the arena, nominated for the pre-game press and preemptively impatient with it. He knew the teammates who liked to arrive early would already be in the locker room, sinking into their rituals, but he didn’t get to join them, was instead led to the plain boxy windowless room with rows of folding chairs already filled with reporters. He sat at the table up front and made a hand gesture for a question. Over the course of a long regular season he could appreciate press as a stage for showboating and provocation, but during the playoffs the only source of entertainment he was interested in was winning hockey games.

“Ilya, obviously a strong start to the series two nights ago,” someone said. “What do you think the secret was to that success, and how will you replicate it tonight?”

Ilya scrubbed a hand down his face. There’d been a month or so early in his career when his English was strong enough to understand the questions but he’d still had his interpreter, and he’d liked that, the buffer, the built in time to work through his response. “There is no secret,” he said. “We trust each other, we don’t get scared. We know what works and we don’t let them take it. We do what we have been doing all year. No secret.”

He imagined Svetlana laughing at him for saying nothing really about hockey, but the question wasn’t really about hockey and of course Svetlana wouldn’t be watching.

“Ilya, you and Shane Hollander have been matching up since before you even joined the league,” said the next voice. “You’ve both taken your wins and your losses. This is the biggest arena you’ve ever gone against each other in, how would it feel to lose to Hollander on home ice in a finals game?”

Ilya stared in the general direction it had come from, reassured in his opinion that it was one of the more ludicrous questions he’d ever been asked by the tittering of the surrounding journalists. It wasn’t even a question it had ever occurred to him could be asked before a game, how it would feel to lose.

“You think we will lose tonight?” he asked.

“No, no. But if you do, how would it feel? Like in the context of...”

“We will not lose,” Ilya said, and called for another question.

“Ilya, there’s a real sense of hope after that opening victory, among fans and in LA at large. Maybe some optimism about proving this is a hockey city, that Montreal doesn’t have a monopoly on that culture, that this a team with history and legacy that should be taken seriously. What do you have to say to those fans?”

Even following one of the more obnoxious questions he’d ever received Ilya knew he hated these questions most of all, the ones that herded him toward a very specific answer, the journalist not looking for information but trying to make him say what they thought people wanted to hear.

“This is not my city, I do not feel this way, I do not think about this,” Ilya said, lighting the script on fire.

A minor pause, and then another voice, hungrier, jumping in. “You don’t think about the fans?”

“They are easy not to think about here, not like in Boston or Moscow,” Ilya said. “I was not drafted here, do not have ties here. I am rental. This is my job, is not what you talk about.”

It took Ilya that long to realize he was fucking up, which wasn’t the same thing as stopping.

“Do the front office know you feel this way?”

“I have been saying since I got here,” Ilya said, and then the team PR rep who Ilya judged to be as negligent as him for having let that go on so long was stepping in and shutting it down.

Ilya felt in a daze walking away, much like how he’d felt in the aftermath of the fight with Svetlana. There was truth to this, he knew, the fuck ups in the final minutes of a game you thought you were winning, how people could get reckless with the end in sight, relax before they were actually all the way home. For almost two years he’d navigated those questions carefully. He could talk happily about loving playing on this team and respecting his coach, but he was asked about the city, too, the fans, what it was like living here and if it felt like home. Ilya didn’t mind withholding so he’d withheld, but he forgot that the story of him effortlessly withholding usually ended with him suddenly not, with it suddenly coming out of him anyway.

He was left at the door to the locker room, and Ilya landed back in himself with a jolt. Most of his teammates would be there by now, and at some point what he’d said or opinions about what he’d said would be filtering in too.

He came up with a semi-plausible lie almost immediately, which was that it was a contract negotiation tactic to keep LA on its toes. He imagined there were fans online already positing that. But most of the team would only be pretending to believe that, and if any of them did believe it then when he did leave he’d feel like an asshole. There weren’t the same expectations on him here as in Boston. People wouldn’t view his leaving as betrayal, not when he’d never made any promises or let them claim him as their own. He walked into the room and clapped.

“Early speech before main big speech,” he said, and everyone looked at him. “I am in shit mood today so I said shitty things to media. If any of you complain or get your feelings hurt I will be shitty to you too. If you want me to stop being asshole then win the game tonight. Okay?”

There was some laughter and mostly silent acquiescence, which was what Ilya wanted. A quiet room before a big game was good, no matter how much he hated quiet. Focus was good.

They didn’t win, but he hit twenty six minutes of otherworldly hockey, so his mood was temporarily improved anyway, the glorious self-righteous rage and upset far preferable to the confused discomfort of earlier in the day. He’d never had a real game against this version of Montreal, Shane missing the first match up in the season and the both of them being out of their heads in the second, and anyway, Montreal had made big moves at the deadline. Ilya was still learning them, and nothing he’d learned scared him yet.

The role of captain hadn’t entirely eclipsed the role of boyfriend, and he was studying two subjects. As well as game planning he was trying to work out just how Shane’s team treated him, up close and personal. Across those two first games, a win and a loss, he noticed nothing amiss. They passed to him when they should, protected him when they should, celebrated with him when they should. Shane was still a little off the way he had been all season, jagged and forceful, but the new level of brutal intensity was more fitting to the finals anyway and nobody seemed to take issue with it.

Ilya didn’t want to go back to his empty house once the locker room cleared, so he spent an hour in the tape room watching the night back. Unsurprisingly he hadn’t been asked to do a post game presser. He’d find it far harder to regret his conduct pre-game if it got him out of media for the rest of the series.

But, he thought, Shane hadn’t said anything stupid yet. Montreal was surely still lining him up. He pulled out his phone and found the video that had gone up only ten minutes previously, Shane with the defenceman, Brennan, who’d killed Ilya’s last minute attempt at an equalizer. Proudest moment of his career, probably.

Ilya watched just to watch Shane, not really caring what was said. He was staring into the middle distance, except for the beautiful five seconds that he was gulping down the sports drink, neck elongated, label facing out and unimpeded by fingers so the sponsor got their money’s worth. Otherwise his hands stayed under the desk, and Ilya thought maybe the right one was stiff and he was flexing it, because the muscles in his arm were tensing and relaxing over and over. And then Brennan got asked what it was like playing alongside a future hall of famer and how much easier Shane made the game for him. And Ilya zoomed in and rewatched the flinch of displeasure on Brennan’s face, cold fear pouring into him.

“Shane’s crazy talented, one of the best players in the world,” Brennan said, and Ilya mouthed, one of. “He’s a big part of why we win.”

Shane, who presumably largely tuned out during these things, had no visible reaction. Ilya felt like smashing his phone, the fear since Shane had come out to his locker room finally taking shape, becoming specific. Shane’s strategy for keeping his team on side by continuously improving himself was fundamentally flawed. Their dependence and indebtedness didn’t counter the resentment, it fed it, because they didn’t want to owe this much to someone who sucked dick. If Shane wanted to make them happy, which Ilya knew he did, he’d have to fall from grace.

The suspicion filled Ilya with urgency, like he had to intervene right then, show up at the hotel where the Metros were staying and take Shane away. It took him about twenty minutes to talk himself down. It wasn’t urgent, it had been on a simmer for two years. He remembered the genuine cooperation and solidarity out on the ice, the team still doing what was needed to win. That bitterness wasn’t the only feeling they harbored for their captain, and it may not have been the dominant one. He and Shane had time to plan before it got there.

They hadn’t made plans yet, though. Shane had come to visit before the first round started, two days together ostensibly allotted to figuring out how they’d handle the distance going forward, and Ilya had pussied out. It seemed like bad luck to make plans for next season before this season had ended, logic Shane accepted surprisingly easily. Ilya only felt half bad about it because what he’d gotten instead was so fucking good, Shane back in his bed, hearing his voice untainted by phone lines, doing all the things to each other they’d talked about wanting to do. Ilya had noticed something, over these two seasons in LA, which was that the feeling of Shane stayed long after he left. Loneliness seeped back in slowly, not all at once, Ilya continuing to bask in contented rightness for a day or two in Shane’s absence. It was a striking contrast to how it felt with so many others, friends and lovers, the thought he’d had that as soon as the door closed behind them it was like they’d never been there at all.

He was about run out of that good feeling now, though, antsy and missing Shane painfully, a sensation as impossible to ignore as thirst. The loss tonight meant LA couldn’t sweep Montreal, which meant this series going for at least another week. Playing against each other, of course, was consolation, even as they said nothing that indicated they’d ever had a conversation off the ice, and every touch was watched by thousands and buffered by thick padding.

He made his way back home slowly, and as he approached his front door nearly screamed when Shane stepped out of the shadows of his porch.

“What the fuck,” he said, gasping, and Shane smiled.

“I knew you were bad with the media, but holy shit,” he said, and then nothing else because Ilya was kissing him, pressing him back against the door. He felt new all over again, the ache and exhaustion of the game dropping out of his body.

Shane laughed, pulled away, petted at Ilya’s cheek. “Hi,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” Ilya asked, refusing to pull more than an inch away from Shane’s mouth.

“I saw the press. It seemed like something was off with you,” Shane said, like that was enough explanation. For a moment Ilya basked in Shane’s attention and care, so cautiously allotted and now unthinkingly funneled into Ilya.

“We said no contact during finals,” Ilya said.

“I know, but I’m your boyfriend, so I’m here,” Shane said, firm. He seemed to know what that word meant in a way Ilya sometimes didn’t. After so long without any words at all for what Shane was to him, even two years in boyfriend could still sound like a joke, like a trap door, something he couldn’t quite trust. But Shane made big things sound plain and simple, and so what they were was boyfriends. Ilya dropped his head onto Shane’s shoulder, bit a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Surprising you is fun,” Shane said, with a shrug that jostled Ilya.

Ilya smiled. “You do not like surprises.”

“I don’t like being surprised,” Shane said, and repeated himself. “Surprising you is fun.”

Ilya squeezed him tight, then pressed him flush against the door to begin unlocking it.

“Is Svetlana here?” Shane asked, glancing at the door like she was about to throw it open.

“No,” Ilya said. “We had little fight.”

Shane looked at him, and Ilya could tell he didn’t believe ‘little’. “Oh,” Shane said. “Is that why you lost your mind before the game? LA fans are freaking out, by the way.”

“Probably yes,” Ilya said, and opened the door. As he walked through he said, voice deliberately light, “So know this is why you won. Because my oldest friend called me a bitch.”

“Was it serious?” Shane asked.

“No,” Ilya said, because by certain scales it wasn’t. By the scale of lasting impact it wasn’t; he already knew he and Svetlana would be acting like it had never happened within a week.

“Was it about me?” Shane asked, and Ilya turned, grinning wide.

“Cocky,” he said.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Shane said, flush visible even in the low light. “I just meant…”

“You just are used to everything being about you,” Ilya said, stepping closer. “It is not your fault. Golden boy.”

Shane shook his head and Ilya stilled the movement with his hand, squishing Shane’s lips up a little. “I was asked about you before game, did you hear that too?” he asked.

Shane nodded.

“Everyone wants to know about you,” Ilya said. “Impossible not to think about you, not to imagine…” He leaned in for a kiss, dirty straight away, and Shane surprised him by pulling back.

“We can’t,” he said. “That was the rule, no sex when we’re playing against each other.”

Ilya frowned, confused. “But you broke the rules,” he said.

“I broke one rule,” Shane said. “Not seeing each other. We can still not fuck each other.”

“Oh my God,” Ilya said. “You came here to make me feel better—”

“I came here to make sure you were okay,” Shane said, and smiled slightly. “I think you’re okay.”

Ilya was about to protest and found he couldn’t. He was okay, so much healed over, calmed down, just by having Shane in front of him again.

Still, he was also turned on. “With no sex,” he said, making his voice the way Shane liked. “Have you been touching yourself?”

Shane’s gaze dropped almost instantly. “Yeah,” he said, quiet, barely a sound.

“Every day?”

“Most days,” Shane said.

“Me too,” Ilya said. “Every day for me.”

Shane swallowed.

“Have you today?”

Shane shook his head.

“Me neither, not yet,” Ilya said. “You do it at night, right? In bed?”

“The shower,” Shane said, still low, confiding. “Usually. But yeah, at night.”

“Fuck,” Ilya said, and squeezed Shane’s waist. “It is getting late and you still have not. You must be worked up after big game. Being so close to me and not taking what you want.”

He expected Shane to require more, was opening his mouth to provide more, and then Shane was slipping out from Ilya and settling himself in the corner of Ilya’s couch. He looked up at Ilya, expectantly. Ilya settled himself in the opposite corner, rested his hand over his dick, watched Shane home in on it. They were still for a few moments and then moving frantically, lifting their hips to drag their pants down, both of them already fully hard. Ilya gripped himself as he watched Shane do the same, reached carelessly behind him to switch another lamp on, light Shane up a little better. Shane’s strokes always started out so even, measured, like the stride of a run or heave of a weight, and Ilya loved watching it break down. He was ruthless on his own dick, quick, no desire to draw it out when it was already necessarily less than what he wanted.

“You’re so—” Shane said.

Ilya pitched forward. “Yeah?”

Shane shook his head, his eyes clenching closed for a long moment before fixing on Ilya again. “Can you take your top off?”

Ilya tightened his grip before releasing, obliged, put his shoulders back to show off, flexed as he picked his stroke back up, and Shane made a noise like frustration. Ilya could almost read his mind, could almost see what Shane was picturing. “Love your hands on me,” Ilya said, and Shane gasped, the lamp light catching a glint of spit.

“Can’t wait to touch you again,” Shane said, and Ilya knew that was more for himself than Ilya, the kind of thing that worked him up, the waiting and denial.

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “Show me your mouth.”

Shane let his jaw drop, red and wet, tongue pressed against teeth. “Insane that you’re real,” Ilya said, words punched out of him, and it was less at Shane opening his mouth than at how he kept it open, spit pooling at the corners. Ilya hunched over, spoiling Shane’s view, and came. He took a breath and grabbed his t-shirt to wipe himself down but Shane said, “No, don’t.”

His eyes were fixed on the come on Ilya’s chest, the view apparently not ruined, and then he was coming too, a soft pained noise like it was somehow a surprise. He slumped back into the corner of the couch, and after a moment said, “You should’ve told me to get topless too,” presumably with reference to his now ruined hoodie. Ilya laughed. Shane kicked his knee.

“I will send you to your hotel in something clean,” Ilya said, liking the thought, as he finally wiped down his chest.

“Uhuh,” Shane said. His eyes had closed and Ilya watched him. He was waiting for Shane to make moves to leave, but Shane didn’t.

“You are sleeping okay?” Ilya asked.

“Kind of,” Shane said.

“You are okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and sat up straight. His eyes locked on Ilya. It seemed to take guts to say what he said next. “If I lose I don’t want it to feel like the end of the world.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. An acknowledgment of the prospect of losing was even more shocking coming from Shane than it had been from that clueless reporter.

“It probably will feel that way,” Ilya said. “But it is not really that.”

“What I mean is…” Shane swallowed, moved closer to Ilya on the couch, their knees touching. “You said it would be bad luck to make plans before the playoffs for next year. What if it was good luck? What if I wanted to know there was something that came after?”

Shane was the most monomaniacal person Ilya had ever known, and he didn’t entertain defeat. The only explanation for this that Ilya could think of was that what Shane was going through right now already felt like defeat, already felt somehow wrong.

“Okay,” Ilya said, and watched tension leave Shane’s body. “Big part of the plan is the same, is what it always was. I go to Ottawa, we start charity, we are best friends.”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“I have other plan for you,” Ilya said. “But I do not know what you will think.”

Shane nodded, wide eyed. “Tell me,” he said.

“You need to get your shitty teammates traded,” Ilya said.

“We’re a really deep team, I don’t have any bad teammates that matter,” Shane said, frowning.

“I don’t mean bad at hockey, I mean bad people,” Ilya said. “Players you don’t trust, they should not be there.”

“Like who?”

“Like Comeau,” Ilya said. “But I don’t know exactly, we can work it out, maybe talk to Hayden too. I have ideas.”

“Comeau is really talented,” Shane said.

“Which makes him good trade piece,” Ilya said, shrugging.

“He’s good—”

“They are not good teammates,” Ilya said. “You will not win cup this year anyway because it is my destiny, but maybe you would not lose so hard if you had better teammates. Get rid of them.”

“Players don’t make those calls,” Shane said. “You play with the team you get, you make them good.”

“Maybe some players, but you are Shane Hollander,” Ilya said. It made him kind of sad, how hard Shane was trying to get a grip on the situation but as though he only had one tool at his disposal, as though the only thing that would make it better or worse was the hockey he played. Shane didn’t know the power he held. “And Montreal should do whatever the fuck you ask to keep you happy.”

“It’d give me a bad reputation,” Shane said. “If it got out. And these things do.”

“A scary reputation,” Ilya said. “You don’t let people away with bullshit. This is good.”

Shane swallowed. “Who would I ask? Is this why you were brought up the owner?”

Ilya nodded. “What do you think he cares about? Is he just money or does he like to get involved with sport?”

“I guess both,” Shane said. “Our last GM got fired for trying to go against him in the draft selection, and it’s not like that had financial implications. But he’s concerned with profitability above everything else.”

“So it doesn’t even matter if he hates gays if you’re winning him games,” Ilya said. “You sell tickets, sell merch, you make post season go long, this is what matters.”

Shane flexed his jaw, considering. “And you think that’d fix things?” he asked. “Getting rid of the worst guys?”

“Maybe,” Ilya said. “It could keep things from getting worse. People like having people to follow, so we can take away the leaders. We can keep eye on it, you tell me if there are issues and we will figure it out. It’s your locker room, you get to decide what happens in it.”

Shane’s face worked for another few moments, and then he said, “Okay.”

“Yes?” Ilya said, smiling.

“I’ll think about it,” Shane said, a little haughty just because. “I, um, I had a plan too.”

Ilya nodded, requesting more.

“It wouldn’t be for this season,” Shane said. “And maybe it’s crazy and there are reasons not to do it, but just… Keep an open mind, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya said.

Shane still didn’t say it outright, like he was working himself up to something. “I keep thinking about you in Ottawa and me in Montreal. It just feels like we keep trading in different kinds of sacrifices, and I want all of you, all of us.”

“I think we get all of us when we retire,” Ilya said, gently. “You know this.” It was part of the deal. They belonged to the league as much as they belonged to each other, and would until they stopped playing. There was a reason Ilya was in LA, that the scale of their heartbreak hadn’t been part of the arithmetic of the trade.

Shane shook his head. “We can get it sooner,” he said. “If I go to Ottawa too.”

Ilya’s eyes widened, and he said nothing.

“Not straight away,” Shane said, hasty as though Ilya had protested. “I’d wait until I was a free agent, because fuck trade requests.” Ilya smiled a little, and Shane smiled back. “But, yeah. In a couple seasons. I could join you.”

Ilya didn’t know what to say. After a while he landed on, “You mean this?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I even mentioned it to my mom. I’d be the hometown hero, she said. So.”

“Shane,” Ilya said, tears creeping up on him. He wondered how long Shane had been thinking about it, if he’d talked about it with his mom.

“I mean, it depends on what kind of state the team is in when I hit free agency, but if you’ve made them at least semi-respectable…” Shane’s lip tilted up, an attempt to lighten the mood.

“I will have two more cups by then,” Ilya said, and Shane rolled his eyes.

“It wouldn’t have to be Ottawa,” he said. “If there are reasons – that’s what makes sense to me, but I don’t know. I guess what I’m really saying is, however it works out, however we make it possible, I want to play on the same team as you. I want to live with you and travel with you and win with you. I don’t want to keep accepting less.”

“So greedy,” Ilya said, still unable to string a coherent thought together.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Are you greedy too?”

Ilya lunged for him, pressing him into the back of the couch and kissing him hard. When Shane turned away, laughing, Ilya kissed his jaw. “So, yes?” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

The next morning Ilya flew to Montreal for games three and four, game three the following night. The adrenaline that the fight with Svetlana had turned spiky and unbalanced had again been transformed, Shane’s visit making it smooth and directed and untouchable. They won the game decisively, Ilya taking over just like he’d been training his body and mind for all season, not letting anything stop him or slow him down. Moran played beautifully and Marly played beautifully and their goalie, Larkin, was a wall, and then Larkin was tissue paper in game four and the offensive might of the forwards was for nothing, Montreal taking the shoot out.

Montreal took game five back in LA, too, in double over time, leading the series for the first time, but it didn’t discourage Ilya. They had been right there with them until the end, he was playing possibly the best hockey of his career, and still nothing about Montreal scared him. They humiliated Montreal in game six. Moran had a had trick, Ilya had scored twice, and their call up rookie who was getting one shift per game scored on a nutmeg pass from a veteran who’d already announced it was his last season.

Game seven was back in LA, and to make amends for his comments to the media and to compensate for the usually lackluster atmosphere, Ilya bought a bunch of good seats and gave them to fans who’d booked the upper stands. For the first time the screams were loud enough to hurt his ears when he was coming out of the tunnel.

Ilya thought a lot of things about Montreal, but not that they were psychologically weak. It was a surprise to realize in the opening shift of the game that they’d let themselves get shaken by a bad loss. Ilya’s goading and posturing was getting under skin quicker than ever. It was a reversal of his expectations, Montreal with the reputation of a well-oiled machine, every player knowing and embracing their roles. Now gears were jamming.

Not Shane, obviously, but he was breaking down in his own way too. Ilya wasn’t sure if anyone else was noticing. He still skated like breathing and scored like he was taking practice shots, but the few parts of hockey that weren’t automatic had slowed, the decisions that were more about people than ice, what angle Moran would take on a pass or which defencemen he could fake out. During the course of the game Ilya didn’t let himself enjoy the fact that this didn’t apply to him, that Shane read him and kept up with him the same as ever. He didn’t let it make him feel attended to, the subject of attention and care, again. And while Shane was a fraction of a percentage worse than his usual Ilya was a fraction of a percentage better, and that made the difference.

Winning was as surreal this time as it was the first time, loud and crowded and impossible, suddenly having no idea what to do with himself or his body, what to say other than shout. He could lie down on the ice and people would let him; his job was done. As Montreal swiftly headed down the tunnel Ilya caught Shane’s eye glancing back, and Shane didn’t smile, but whatever was on his face was enough to tuck itself into Ilya’s heart. Ilya felt in a moment that every part of the last two seasons had been worth it, and would have been even if Montreal had won this game, because it was the only way that he and Shane would have ever ended up playing each other in the finals, and there would never be anything like that again. Hockey might have peaked. If it had, he was entirely okay with it.

Nobody felt their injuries, piling into each other, grabbing each other, and after a few minutes of mindless celebration some bittersweetness slipped in. It would be his last game with this team, in this jersey. That hadn’t crossed his mind even once coming into the night, too focused on the prospect of winning the cup, but when the cup was being shoved into his hands he had the thought that all of this, now, was a memory, all of it, this team and this championship and the parties and the fights and the heat and the long drives, that it was over, that he was through it, and it ended with a trophy in his hands, sweat and tears blurring his vision and his ears ringing with the cheers of thousands.

Ilya didn’t get home for more than twenty four hours. They finally let him do media again and he did it drunk, but far happier, so it evened out. When he’d been asked about his comments he’d said, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I love LA, these are my people. He’d been getting a lot of free alcohol wherever he went.

In Boston the high had taken a week to drop below hysteria; Ilya had very few memories from that week. It didn’t last as long this time. The celebrations were incredibly fun, but only for a while. Company without intimacy had been his recipe for years and in LA it was failing him. He wanted to get home to Shane.

He made that decision at three in the morning but it took him another few hours to actually complete the journey. The sun was coming up when he pushed his front door open, and Shane wasn’t there but Svetlana was. “Hello,” she said, and then looked at him and laughed.

“Cruel,” he said.

“Yes, maybe,” she said. “Sorry.”

Ilya shrugged and collapsed beside her on the couch. Being the nearest by the door, it was the one he now exclusively associated with watching Shane jerk off. “Me too,” he said, as in he was cruel too, and sorry too.

“Yes, maybe,” she said again.

Ilya settled deeper in the couch, pulling a cushion under his head.

“It was the best finals in years,” Svetlana said. “Very exciting.”

He nodded into the cushion. “Did something happen to you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You were upset even before I was cruel, that day,” he said.

“Yes, something happened,” she said, after a pause. “A small, stupid thing.”

“What?”

“There was drama with Annabel,” she said.

“Fuck Annabel,” Ilya said, but it didn’t draw the laugh it usually did.

“She’s my friend,” Svetlana said.

Ilya manfully turned himself over. He didn’t know what to say; he still didn’t really understand what had gone down. It was so unlike them. They would push each other’s buttons but it was always deliberate, calculated, something they could only do because of how well they knew each other. This had been the opposite; they’d been out of control and in the dark. “Am I different?” he asked. “Is that why we got each other mad like that?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Svetlana said. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Ilya nodded. Not a bad thing, but still a little unsettling. He hadn’t noticed changing. Maybe it was harder to notice changes inside when external conditions were changing so radically too.

“But I don’t know if I taught you any of the right lessons,” she said.

“It wasn’t your job,” Ilya said, and then considered. “You taught me how to get vomit out of silk.”

Svetlana laughed, quieted. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” he said.

She stood. “I slept here last night, I knew it would be empty,” she said. “But where’s Hollander?”

Ilya smiled at the ceiling. “On his way,” he said.

Ilya didn’t remember falling asleep but when Shane knocked on his door it woke him up. Shane had the code to just walk in but he was too polite; Ilya would have to get that out of him when he moved to Ottawa.

Ilya had a decent idea of how Shane had spent his time since the loss; with Rose, and with his parents who’d flown out for game seven, and doing exit interviews with the team. When Ilya opened the door to him his heart ratcheted like it was another surprise visit, like he hadn’t sent Shane ten texts about it before falling asleep. It was somehow unbelievable. He’d felt it at the airport in Nebraska too, when the car Shane had said would be waiting for him had actually been there, waiting for him. It wasn’t that he thought in any real sense that Shane would suddenly start breaking promises and walk out of his life; it was just that sometimes he was struck by the absurdity of that, that Shane wasn’t leaving, that in fact Shane was showing up, again and again and again.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Shane said, smiling. And then, only somewhat begrudgingly: “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, and looked him up and down, skeptical. “No jersey?”

“No fucking chance,” Shane said, and pushed his way inside, turned to Ilya as Ilya closed the door. “But I do have a camera, and the last blank DVD.”

“Holy shit,” Ilya said, and laughed when Shane started heading toward the bedroom. “So much better than my jersey.”

“I guess you better start brainstorming what to get me next time I win,” Shane said, and Ilya laughed again, crowded up behind Shane and hurried him along to his room. They fell onto the bed together, kissing, and Ilya wasn’t dialed to take things slow, squeezed Shane’s ass and slid around front to feel his growing hardness.

“Okay,” Shane said. “You always get mad when the video doesn’t include the foreplay.”

Ilya immediately retreated, getting off Shane and raising himself on his elbows to watch Shane climb off the bed and start figuring out the best placement for the camera, which was clunky and old-fashioned, a detail Ilya wished he’d known before because it made everything about those videos more endearing. Shane constructed a pile of books on a cabinet in front of the bed to rest it on.

“You are sure about this?” Ilya asked. “It is…”

“It’s never gonna leave the safe unless you want to watch it,” Shane said, and Ilya couldn’t protest; Shane had watched his solo shows along with Ilya when Ilya had asked, but he seemed to view it as an academic exercise that happened to also be arousing rather than an intensified means of getting off. Visuals didn’t mean as much to him as they did to Ilya, and so this continued to be, primarily, for Ilya’s sake.

“I mean, more, doing it today,” Ilya said. “You are okay, you are feeling okay?”

Shane nodded, turned to look at Ilya. “I was dealing with the loss yesterday,” he said. “Today I just want to get fucked by a winner.”

“Fuck, baby,” Ilya said, and then his eyes went wide. “Why did you say that before turning the camera on?”

“Fine,” Shane said, smiling a little, and started recording right then. “In case I accidentally say anything else hot with all my clothes still on.”

“That was not an accident,” Ilya said. “You planned that. Could you say it again for the camera?”

“Make me,” Shane said, and Ilya dragged him back to the bed. It filled him with love how happy Shane seemed to be; Ilya had never lost in the finals before, and it was the first time for Shane, and it had to be a heightened version of losing in an earlier round, which was already rough. But Ilya had lost to the Metros one year, and even back then, before they were together, a part of him had been able to admire Shane, enjoy it for him, and be glad that he had lost to such a worthy opponent rather than anyone he didn’t respect.

They stripped each other and Ilya got Shane on his knees, length-ways on the bed so the camera would capture the arch of his back and shake of his arms and the line of his neck when his head dropped. Ilya got behind him and ate him out until Shane was stomach down on the sheets and keening.

“Please,” Shane said, with no real request attached to it.

“No,” Ilya said anyway. “I won, this is my prize.”

If Ilya had to hazard a guess Shane was asking if he could please get fucked, and Ilya didn’t actually make him wait all that long. He slicked himself up, half conscious of putting on a show but losing awareness of that the more Shane melted in front of him, and slid in.

“Have you wondered what we look like?” Ilya asked. “How I look when I fuck you from behind?”

Shane didn’t answer, just coughed out short moans with every thrust.

“I have wondered,” Ilya said, using his words to keep himself steady, not wanting to lose himself immediately. “We’re greedy, yes, we want it all. I want to see what faces you make when you’re pushing your face into a pillow, when I’m between your legs. You must look so fucking pretty when I eat you out and I don’t get to see it.”

“Now you do,” Shane said. “I’ll show you.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, for some reason edged toward his breaking point by those words. “Show me fucking everything.”

“I will,” Shane said, the words punched out of him. “I will, I will.”

Ilya hooked his arm around Shane’s chest and dragged him off his elbows, so they were both kneeling upright on the bed, Shane’s head against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya mouthed at his neck and his mind split in two, half of him imagining the view of the camera, picturing it so vividly it was like he was already watching it, the patches of red on Shane’s body from pressing into the bed, the heave of his chest, the bob of his heavy dick. He clutched at Shane’s pecs and pulled away, imagining the grow of his finger prints. He was saying things but he wasn’t even sure what, large sections of his brain cut off from the decision making process. It was so fucking special, unbelievable, and even though it was his prize he wanted to make it special for Shane too. In Shane’s ear he said, “I have never done this before, would never with anyone else, you are the first, only.”

Shane’s cry was strangled, Ilya’s hand immediately dropping to Shane’s dick, stripping it until Shane was falling forward again, but at an angle to ensure the camera caught him from the side, so fucking good, so attentive, and that was what made Ilya finish too, still seeing double, pressing Shane down at the neck and falling into his back. Shane gently extracted himself from under Ilya to go and turn the camera off. The last shot would be of Ilya lying on his back, sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling and thanking God.

Later, when they actually watched the video, they discovered that the angle was skewed and not all of their sounds, their words, had been picked up clearly. Ilya enthusiastically supported Shane’s plans for a remake, but found that he had an abiding love for rough drafts, too.

That afternoon Ilya awoke to a thud. He looked around and found Shane beside him, dozing peacefully. Ilya momentarily forgot the noise and smiled. Shane had encouraged him to try to get some sleep considering he’d been mostly awake since the win and was probably a little bit still drunk – a combination that had made some of the now immortalized dirty talk deranged – and Ilya had asked if Shane would be able to sleep too. He didn’t look like he’d gotten much more than Ilya. “Maybe,” Shane had said. “With you.”

Now Ilya pulled on shorts and wandered through the house. His body still felt wrecked, although at this point he couldn’t tell what was from the playoffs and what was from the subsequent celebration. He shuffled to the kitchen to get a glass of water and then put on sunglasses to step outside, seeking heat that his air conditioned house did not allow for. When he pulled open the glass doors, though, he belatedly discovered the source of the loud noise he’d forgotten about. A bird was lying on the step with one wing pulled awkwardly to its chest. It was small and brown, with a long tail and an orange face. Ilya could see the smudge lit up by the bright sun where it had hit the glass. It seemed still – Ilya was worried it had died – but when he knelt down in front of it he could see the tiny rapid heartbeat under the beak.

Ilya became selfish and careless of Shane’s sleep. He called his name, loudly, and moments later Shane was stumbling out to join him. “What’s up?” Shane asked.

Ilya pointed at his feet, waited for Shane to reach him. “Oh, shit,” Shane said. “Poor guy.”

“What bird is this?” Ilya asked.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I don’t know LA birds.”

“They are not dead,” Ilya said. “But the wing looks fucked up, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, still staring down at it. Ilya wondered if it was scared, if it registered the presence of two humans right beside it. It didn’t seem to be trying to get away. “We should call the authorities.”

“Cops?” Ilya said. “Cops for hurt bird?”

“No, like animal control, Ilya.” Shane’s voice went thoughtful. “Or maybe just a vet.”

“Animal control,” Ilya repeated. He wanted him and Shane to nurse the bird. “They will kill her.”

“Why would they kill her?” Shane asked, easily accepting the pronoun in a way that made Ilya happy.

“Like ET,” Ilya said.

“Does ET get killed?” Shane asked, frowning, then shook his head. “I’m looking this up.”

“Don’t spoil it if you have not seen it, is very good film,” Ilya said.

Shane raised his eyebrows as he pulled out his phone. “I’m not looking up ET, I’m looking up what to do with an injured bird.”

Shane was looking at his screen, so Ilya didn’t have to hide his smile.

“Okay,” Shane said, a few moments later. “So apparently it might be fine and just be in shock. We need to monitor it for a few hours to see if it recovers on its own.”

“A few hours?” Ilya repeated, turning to Shane with wide eyes. He wanted to do something now.

“Yeah,” Shane said, smiling. “Come on.” He took Ilya’s hand and slid the door open wider so they could get outside without having to step over the bird. They settled in two deck chairs, and Ilya handed over the glass of water he’d forgotten he was holding. Shane drank and put it on the grass and both of them stayed staring at the bird, like they expected its recovery to happen so abruptly they would miss it if they blinked.

“I’m calling her Shane Junior,” Ilya said.

Shane shook his head. “You’re not. That bird is not my successor. My successor would not fly into glass.”

“Fine,” Ilya said. “Ilya Junior.”

Shane smiled, and Ilya noticed he was squinting. “You want sunglasses?” he asked.

“Please,” Shane said. “And water with ice, we need something cold.”

Ilya nodded and went inside and gathered supplies. It felt weird walking by the bird and just ignoring it. On his way back to the deck chair Shane tracked his every step.

“What?” Ilya said.

Shane shook his head. “I hate how hot you look in LA.”

Ilya grinned, delighted, and leaned in to place the sunglasses on Shane himself, stealing a kiss as he did so. They settled down again with iced water and ice packs, Ilya having taken the liberty of assuming Shane would welcome one after as many hard games played as Ilya. More, even, because the route out of the east had been more brutal than what Ilya had faced in the west. Shane shuffled his chair closer to Ilya’s, so the arms were overlapping, and Ilya took Shane’s leg and hooked it over his own, the stretches where their skin touched burning hot. Shane took out his phone but Ilya didn’t. He leaned back and consciously relaxed his body, unfurling muscles one by one. It felt strange to be still and quiet after the fervor of the preceding weeks – or months, or years.

“I think it’s a California towhee,” Shane said, and tilted his screen to Ilya. The pictures on his phone did seem to match up. Ilya liked the ones where they were flying.

“California bird,” Ilya said.

“Yeah,” Shane said, with a small smile. “Fitting.”

Eventually the sky started to pink and while it was still bright they no longer needed their sunglasses. The bird hadn’t moved.

“I think it might really be hurt,” Ilya said.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Okay, get gloves and a towel.”

Ilya saluted him. The only gloves he had were hockey gloves and leather driving gloves, and he opted for the latter. He brought three towels out from a guest bathroom because he wasn’t sure what size would be best. As he knelt by the bird Shane said, “Don’t bring it close to your face, the beak and the talons could do some damage.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows at Shane, and Shane shrugged defensively. “I’m just reading what it says here,” he said. “And don’t act like you’re so above something like that.”

Ilya continued to follow Shane’s instructions, and it ended with him gently wrapping the bird in a hand towel and placing it in an empty shoe box.

“I think so long as we’re here we can leave the lid off,” Shane said. “I think the lid is to protect it from predators.” He was saying this as he was knifing holes into the lid in question. The bird looked very sweet all bundled up, only its orange face visible, and it had surprised Ilya how it had not struggled or demonstrated any distress at all, although perhaps that was just shock.

“I just sent you a list of centers to call,” Shane said. “Animal rescue places that might look after a hurt bird. Apparently they don’t always have a lot of availability so we might need to reach out to a lot of places before we find somewhere willing to take them.”

They sat back down on the deck chairs, the shoe box by their feet, and started on their respective lists. Ilya wasn’t sure he wanted to find somewhere; he knew it didn’t make sense – not with him shortly moving to Ottawa – but he wanted to keep this bird, look after it himself. The move to Ottawa was probably only one among many reasons that didn’t make sense. At least he wanted the experience to last longer than a few hours.

"Do you think Rose would like an injured bird?" Ilya asked, before giving in to making the calls. "I have always wanted to get her something. Something money cannot buy, you know." 

Shane didn't answer, just stared at Ilya as he pressed call on the first entry on his list. 

The third place Ilya called, an avian sanctuary, said they could take it, and that they didn’t do euthanasia – something Ilya had been horrified to hear Shane checking for on his own calls and started checking himself, too. He had been right about ET. This place let hurt birds live out the rest of their lives safely, and Ilya could drive over right now and Ilya Junior would have a new home by nightfall. Which reminded him.

“You guys don’t have a lot of money?” he asked.

“We rely on donations kindly made by members of the public,” the person he was talking to said.

“Okay,” Ilya said. “I will give you lots of money but you have to call this bird Ilya Junior. Deal?”

“Ilya,” Shane said, disbelieving. Ilya took the phone away from his mouth to look at Shane, confused.

“You do not want me to donate to sick little birds?” he asked.

“I don’t want you to be transactional about it,” Shane said. “That’s not how charity works.”

“I do not know that word,” Ilya said, turning back to the call. By the time he hung up, arrangements fully made, Shane was awkwardly saying the word transactional in Russian, staring at his phone screen.

“Your pronunciation is too bad, I don’t understand,” Ilya said, and Shane shoved him.

They stood up, and for a moment both of them paused, looking down at the box and the bird within. It was so still and silent. It was hard for Ilya to believe it would be okay, but Shane was acting like it would, like they’d be able to handle this.

“I like this,” Shane said, voice soft. “One last LA memory.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, and took his hand. “It’s a nice one.”

The center was on the outskirts of the city, over an hour’s drive, and Shane kept the box in his lap the entire way. At every red light Ilya leaned over to look in. A couple times it felt like the bird was looking back at him. About half way there Ilya said, “Maybe you could come in too.”

Shane turned to him, raised his eyebrows.

“Probably nobody will recognize us,” Ilya said. “But if they do, this is not…”

“Incriminating,” Shane said.

“We are going to start being friends soon,” Ilya said. “Maybe – I don’t know. You are in LA for your girlfriend Rose, I am secretly fucking Rose—”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, disbelieving but laughing still.

“We could come up with story,” Ilya said. “But I bet we do not need one.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, after a few moments. “Okay.”

Ilya smiled the rest of the way.

The volunteer they spoke to couldn’t determine whether the wing was broken, but there didn’t seem to be any doubt that it was hurt. Shane asked if they could get updates, and the volunteer said they wouldn’t have the capacity to do that for specific birds, but they did send a monthly newsletter to donors, which included pictures of the residents. Shane and Ilya filled out the forms that were slid their way.

“We can name a bird after you, too, if you’d like,” the volunteer said to Shane, after reviewing the amount Shane had committed.

“No thanks,” Shane said, looking unmoved.

They said goodbye to their bird, a little sadder than was probably warranted, and got brought through rooms of other birds awaiting treatment, Shane curling his nose at the smell the whole time. “Ilya Junior’s friends,” Shane said, and Ilya hated not being able to kiss him or squeeze his hand. They didn’t drive straight home, they took a coastal route. One last LA memory.

Commitments brought Shane back to Montreal a day later, including regarding sleep clinics Yuna had scoped out, and commitments kept Ilya in LA. There was the parade, which was fun, even with Ilya getting in trouble for throwing a puck into the crowd, and then exit interviews, which were less fun but gave him a chance to talk with his teammates. Nobody seemed that surprised that he wouldn’t be back next year, but Ilya was still glad he’d gotten to tell them, that it hadn’t broken in a group chat. He imagined he’d be signed with Ottawa within seventy two hours. Moran said, “It was good, man, I’ll see you in the finals next year.” Moran didn’t know that Ilya was signing to a team that hadn’t made the playoffs in a decade, but it was still a nice thought. Beating LA was something to look forward to. Ilya considered reaching out to Arcott or any of the other execs he’d interacted with in the past couple of months, more out of curiosity than anything, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. He’d brought them a cup, and that had to be sufficient comfort for their ruined plans, even as sympathetic as Ilya had become to people whose plans got ruined.

That night he went for dinner at Nina and Marly’s and promised to continue doing so whenever he was in LA going forward. Ilya was relieved at how lighthearted and enjoyable the meal was, not that different from any of the ones that had come before it. He’d been worried it’d feel too much like a send off. When Marlow left to get some more zero percent beers, Nina said, “I’m really surprised he’s holding himself together.”

“What do you mean?” Ilya asked.

“About you leaving,” Nina said. “He’s devastated.”

Ilya snorted. He knew from the way she widened her eyes it was an exaggeration, but that Marlow would miss him at all was a little strange. He thought if he’d been traded from Boston without Marlow they’d have forgotten each other pretty quickly. This seemed like a concrete example of that nebulous change he’d undergone, and when he looked back, all the moments of their friendship that seemed to make it something other than what it had been before were marked by desperation, by necessity – coming out to Marly and being minded by him on a bad trip and spending time with him and Nina. Maybe that was what change was usually like, forced on a person by circumstance. Svetlana always said self help books were a scam.

Marlow returned, and as he sat down he said, utterly casual, “Should’ve brought your boyfriend.”

“Marlow, what the fuck,” Ilya said, more shocked than outraged.

Marlow shrugged. “You know Nina’s chill,” he said. “And I don’t like lying to her.”

“How often are you talking about my love life that it feels like lying?” Ilya asked, and threw a chicken bone at him.

“You have a boyfriend?” Nina asked, wide eyed.

“Yes,” Ilya said. At this stage he didn’t really mind her knowing, but he’d have liked it to be his and Shane’s choice. But this was the price of coming out to someone like Marlow, who was just never going to be all that sensitive. At least Marlow hadn’t said it was Shane Hollander. “But it is big secret, right?”

“Right,” Nina said. She adjusted quickly. “How are you gonna handle it when you leave LA? Long distance is so hard.”

Ilya smiled. “We will figure it out,” he said. “I do not worry.”

Forty eight hours later Ilya was an Ottawa Centaur, and nine hours after that he was at the cottage.

Shane threw the door open while Ilya was still climbing out of his car, talked as he walked up to him.

“The coverage is crazy,” Shane said, and the words didn’t slow as they hugged. “It’s actually kind of funny. Like, how little people know. Their theories are getting creative.”

Ilya kissed him on the cheek and pulled away. “Nobody has landed on secretly dating Shane Hollander yet?”

“No, not yet,” Shane said, and took his bag from him. “I think Boston fans are having the most fun. Like, mocking LA fans.”

“That’s nice,” Ilya said. “And Ottawa fans?”

“They’re freaking the fuck out, they don’t believe it,” Shane said.

“Think how they will feel when you sign,” Ilya said.

“Stop,” Shane said. “Don’t – jinx it, or whatever.”

Ilya glanced at him as they walked into the kitchen. He had a newspaper folded up on the inside pocket of his jacket, and he pulled it out in front of the fridge. He’d only ever bought two other newspapers in his life, in Boston and in LA, to cut out the front page after winning the city the cup. He’d had them framed, and right now they were packed away in the boxes waiting for a house in Ottawa to move into. It seemed likely that would be a major focus of his and Shane’s next few days.

“You are having second thoughts?” Ilya asked, as non-judgmentally as possible. They hadn’t talked about Shane joining Ottawa since Shane had initially brought it up, and as much as it moved Ilya he found it a little hard to believe. Shane had given so much to Montreal, and loyalty meant a lot to him. Not quitting meant a lot to him. Ilya didn’t believe Shane leaving would be quitting, but Shane had gotten upset when Ilya had wanted to get a new fancy tent to replace his childhood one for any camping trips they might take this summer. Shane probably thought of leaving Montreal as quitting. Then again, on their last phone call Shane had said that Ilya was the most important thing in his life. He’d said, “Which is crazy because for so long there’s been this other incredibly important thing in my life.”

“No,” Shane said now. Ilya rooted around in the drawers for scissors and gave Shane time to elaborate or not. “It’s just – it’s a long way away. Part of me feels a little crazy making plans for that long away.”

“Two years away,” Ilya said.

“Yeah,” Shane said.

Ilya found the scissors, and unfolded the paper. It was an Ottawa newspaper that he’d bought at a gas station on his way up. He cut out the top of the sports section and stuck it with magnets to Shane’s fridge. He’d get it framed eventually. Rozanov’s heart set on Ottawa all along.

“Oh,” Shane said, and came to look at it. Ilya took his hand.

“Most people wouldn’t have made it,” Shane said. “Do you agree? I think that most couples wouldn’t have survived this, especially when the relationship was so new.”

“Not new,” Ilya said. Not when his memories of Shane at seventeen still felt so momentous. It meant a lot to him, meant more every day, how long they'd managed to stay in each other's lives, in one form or another, bending and shifting to make sure they'd fit, never breaking despite that. “Not really.”

Shane knocked into him, and Ilya knocked back. The sun was pouring in through trees, the shadows of the leaves making shapes on the white walls in front of them. There was nowhere to look in this place that wasn’t beautiful. Shane said, “I just keep thinking, I guess – what if it doesn’t work? So many things could change, or go wrong. I keep thinking we should be doing something to prepare, to keep us safe, to make sure it goes how we want.”

“There are things you can control, things you can’t,” Ilya said. “Need to focus on the first kind. No coach ever told you about this?”

Shane shrugged and Ilya laughed. “This is the one thing you chose not to listen to,” he said.

“Shut up,” Shane said. “I just – it could go wrong.”

Ilya looked at him. He loved getting to look at him this close up, and in sunlight, the shadows of the leaves dancing over him, too. “Then we will make new plan,” he said.

“It’s going to be hard,” Shane said. “You in Ottawa and me in Montreal. I know I said I don’t feel stronger, and that’s still kind of true, but I was thinking – we did learn things. What not to do, you know. So even if I’m not stronger maybe we’ll be better at it anyway.”

Ilya nodded. “I think we will find a way to make it work,” he said. “No matter what. Even if Alaska gets a new team and I am traded there.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit Alaska,” Shane said, with a small upturn of his lips. “You’re not worried, then? About still being a city away from each other.”

Ilya looked back to the newspaper clipping. “It is just two years,” he said, and squeezed Shane’s hand, smiled. “Two years is nothing.”

Chapter End Notes

okay i hope people are happy and enjoyed that thank you so much for reading it was a blast <3 <3 <3 "two years is nothing" - mantra of someone who spent that long patiently sexting shane OR of someone who randomly inserted a two year break between hook ups. i have been thinking that since chapter one.