Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady & Ilya Rozanov, Eric Bennett & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Maria Villanueva, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, New York Admirals Player Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), New York Admirals (Game Changers), Getting Together, Coming Out, but not Shane. not yet, Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Eric Bennett, Yuna collects hockey players like shiny pokemons, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Protective Shane Hollander, Good Friend Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Racism, Homophobia, BAMF Shane Hollander, BAMF Ilya Rozanov, HEA, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The King and the King Maker

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-30 Completed: 2026-08-10 Words: 67,885 Chapters: 8/8

Don't Look Down

Summary

The day after the CCM shoot, and for the 2nd time in 24 hours, Yuna bumps into Ilya in the elevators and decides then and there that he and her son should be friends.

5 years later, Ilya gets traded to the New York Admirals a year after winning the cup. Luckily, the Hollanders are there to help him out, no matter how undefined his relationship with Shane is.

Notes

So... uh... this idea admittedly got out of hand. Don't be fooled by the word count of this first chapter, this thing is a good 50k+ long.

I essentially want to give Ilya the Carlos Sainz treatment and somehow ended up with this monster. The alternate synopsis for this was "Shane rules dynasties, Ilya builds them." Can you tell I suck at summaries?

Extra note: How I refer to characters will depend on the POV and how they view these characters in their minds.

Anywho, I'm sure I'm forgetting a couple tags. Nothing big, don't worry. I'll be sure to add them as the story progresses

Chapter 1: Up This High We'll Never Hit the Ground

Vancouver, February 2010: Olympic Quarterfinals

17,700 people sat at the edge of their seats as Russia and Canada came head to head at the in Roger’s Arena. A gold-medal-worthy match-up that would soon be regarded as one of the most celebrated games in modern-hockey.

On each side of the rink, 20 players prepared themselves for the match up of their lifetime. Amongst them, two teenagers sat quietly on their side of the benches, waiting for their turn. One drafted by Montreal, the other by Boston.

But what happened 6 months prior in a hotel in Los Angeles ceases to matter when the whole world has their eyes on this game. Canada versus Russia. White versus Red. Crosby versus Ovechkin.

A place where titans come to clash.

Here, on Olympic ice, history is being written. The legends that used to exist only in posters and hockey cards come to life. Rivalries that only exist in articles and sound bites played out in real time. Real, tangible, mortal.

On team Canada’s bench, Number 24 looks across the ice to find Number 81 already staring back.

A new generation of legends are born.

Toronto, July 2010

Shane slept better the night of his CCM shoot than he had in any other hotel room he had been in for the past 18 years of his life. In fact, he slept so well he found himself waking up in a position he hadn’t found himself in since he was a kid. On his stomach.

The sheets wrapped loosely around him were barely soiled from his late night activities and Rozanov’s cologne stuck to the pillow he ended up pulling close to his chest and pressed against his cheek before drifting away into a dreamless slumber.

Shane wakes up to the sound of his alarm blaring from the bedside table and groans. He had expected his biological clock to wake him up earlier but between the black out curtains and the adrenaline of last night, the tiredness had won out. Thankfully, the only thing on his agenda today was to spend time with his mom.

The elevator doors open and his heart nearly stops in his chest as he sees Rozanov sitting right next to his mom in the hotel foyer. The blonde Russian was sitting ramrod straight, his posture stiff, mouth a thin line as he listened keenly to whatever it was that Yuna was saying. Every so often, he nods and a stray curl bounces across his eyes as he does. He looks cute like he is being held hostage.

Fuck. Does his mom know what they did last night?

Each step closer brought on another layer of dread. He knew it was a bad idea. He said as much last night, but damn was it good. Well, it was fun while it lasted. Nice knowing you all.

“Oh, Shane. There you are!” His mother smiles at him.

She looked remarkably calm for someone who just discovered her son was gay and sucked off the guy the NHL has designated as his rival.

He walks towards them with his hands in his pocket, clenching and unclenching them. At least Rozanov looks equally unnerved by all this.

“Morning, mom. Rozanov,” he greets with a nod that the other returns.

“I was just telling Ilya here about the NHL Hall of Fame a few blocks away. You remember that place, Shane?”

Ilya? He’s just Ilya now?

“Of course.”

“I will go later,” Rozanov promises, his accent a little rougher than it was last night. It made something warm ripple in Shane’s chest.

“Nonesense. We can head over there together after brunch, right Shane?”

“Right,” Shane replies before her words fully catch up to him. “Sorry, did you say ‘together’?”

Wait. They’re bringing Rozanov with them?

“Yes,” Yuna replies easily. “What kind of Canadians would we be if all we let him eat is hotel food and Timmies every time he visits.” Her phone rings and she clicks her teeth as she sees the caller ID. “Ugh. It’s work. Be right back.”

Her kitten heels click against the hotel’s stone floor. Once she was out of earshot, Shane whips towards Rozanov.

“What are you doing here?” Shane grits.

“What? You think I want to be here?” Ilya whispers back. “Your mom found me in elevator then asked me to join you for breakfast.”

“You could have said no.”

“You think I have death wish?” He raises his brows. “You do not say no when elder offers you something. We do not do this. Is rude.”

“Does she know about… you know?”

It takes a couple seconds for understanding to dawn on Rozanov’s face. “Ah, that. No, I don’t think so.”

“What did she even say to you?”

“Well…”

30 minutes ago

Ilya walks into the elevator on the way down to breakfast. He wasn’t a big fan of hotel foods but hey, it’s free and he isn’t in the mood to embarrass himself ordering from a menu he doesn’t understand. Translating cyrilic to latin alphabets to then deciphering the words in English took a lot of mental energy he didn’t have without the assistance of coffee. The door opens at one or the lower floors and Ilya freezes as he comes face to face with Yuna Hollander.

“Ah, Rozanov,” she smiles and jumps into the elevator. “I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself when we bumped into each other last night. Yuna Hollander. I’m Shane’s mom.”

I know, he almost wants to say as he shakes her outstretched hand. I had your son’s dick in my mouth last night and it's the best thing to happen to me all year.

“Ilya Rozanov,” he says instead.

Ilya suddenly curses at his less than put together appearance. If he had known this conversation was about to happen he would have tried to at least tame his hair a little more. It wasn’t disheveled, his mother didn’t raise a heathen, but his father always said his hair looked messy, even when it wasn’t. And maybe he should have worn a nicer shirt…

“Well, nice to finally meet you, Ilya,” she tried to follow his pronunciation as best she could. “I watched you play in Vancouver. You played so brilliantly. It’s hard to hate someone that plays that well.”

“Thank you,” this he can say honestly. He wasn’t expecting such praise from Hollander’s mom of all people. Not even his own father had watched his Olympic debut. 2 shifts on the ice wasn’t worth the effort to find a broadcaster to put the games on.

He supposes he should offer a compliment for Hollander in return. Would that be weird? Wouldn’t be the strangest thing he had done to her son in the past 12 hours.

“Are you here with your family?” Yuna adds before he could make up his mind. “Your father was with you at the drafts wasn’t he? I’m sorry I didn’t get the opportunity to say hi.”

Ilya’s mood soured slightly at the mention of his father. “Ah, no. I am alone.”

“Oh.”

They step out of the elevator and Ilya isn’t sure how to feel about the look on Yuna’s face.

“He is busy,” he tries to add to save face. It does no good to make his family look like they neglected him. “I am old enough to go on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yuna waves off playfully. “A son is a son, no matter how old they get.”

Her words do a funny little trick in his stomach. Enough that it starts making a sound loud enough to colour his cheeks. Amusement blooms on Yuna’s face.

“I’m sorry. You must be starving. Were you heading out to breakfast? Toronto is filled with really great brunch spots.”

What the fuck is a ‘brunch’?

“Uhhm, no. I am eating here. At hotel.”

“Oh… well, that's… Sure I guess,” Yuna frowns. “Ooh! I have an idea. Why don’t you join me and Shane for breakfast. He should be down here any second now.”

The sudden mention of the younger Hollander is enough to make him panic slightly. His mind supplying him with mental images from the night before certainly doesn’t help.

“No, it’s fine.”

“I insist,” Yuna pushes.

“I don’t want to disturb you.”

“You won’t,” she promises. “Come. Consider it a part of Canadian hospitality.”

At this point, Ilya knew it was pointless to resist, and turning her down would just be rude. That, and the prospect of seeing Hollander’s pretty face and scrunchy nose again was all too tempting.

“... okay.”

Present

Shane followed his mother into the CN tower. He was pretty sure they were supposed to be having a simple brunch on Richmond street but apparently plans change when you’re bringing a tourist. The way his breath hitches is definitely a result of gravity pushing against the high speed elevator and not the odd buzzing up his arm where Rozanov’s hoodie brushes against his quarter zip. The elevator doors open at one of the highest points in the western hemisphere to reveal a 360 view of Toronto, spinning incrementally on its axis. It was a bit disorienting, but seemingly worth the way Rozanov’s eyes widened at the sight.

It was a powerful feeling, having the whole world beneath your feet, and Shane himself feels enraptured by it, stomach dropping when he got close to the edge even if he has seen it a dozen times by now.

He sits across from his mother out of habit, not realising that would mean Rozanov had to sit next to him because the other option was for him to sit next to Yuna.

Rozanov looks at him with raised brows. A look that says ‘what?’

Shane returns it with a cock of his head meaning ‘go sit there’.

The other shakes his head and repeats the motion. ‘No, you sit there’, it seems to say, resulting in the pair looking at each other through narrowed eyes.

“Ah, now lets see,” she picks up the menu calmly, oblivious to the silent argument the two boys across from her were having. “Are you boys looking to share? Or do you want to get something on your own?”

She lowers the menu slightly and the boys jerk still.

“Uhm, I’m fine with sharing,” Shane says.

“Same,” Rozanov says, because he doesn’t want to be the odd one out. He picks up the menu to actually see what this place serves and slides it a little closer to Shane for them to share.

“Ok. Then how about-,” Yuna starts to think out loud as she starts picking out their food.

Beneath the table, Shane’s knees had knocked against Rozanov’s, pressing them flush against each other from the knee down. The contact soothes his nerves for reasons he doesn’t care to explore right now, and he goes back to half-heartedly studying the menu.

Beside him, Rozanov’s brain had completely blanked out and all the words on the menu looked like a blur. His head hurts from mentally translating from latin to cyrilic alphabets and every so often, he comes across words he hasn’t heard before.

“Is this misspell?” he leans closer and points out the word ‘flambe’. Surely they mean flame. But what the fuck is a flame chicken?

“Flambé,” Shane corrects, moving back a little because the scent of Rozanov’s cologne is sending his brain into a tailspin. “It means they pour alcohol on it and light it on fire.”

Rozanov’s head whips towards him and he smiles with such delight at the idea. Shane’s heart stutters a little at the sight.

“Can we?” he asks.

“Maybe for dessert, honey. Not for brunch,” Yuna chuckles.

They end up ordering several things off the menu and for dessert, Yuna had ordered them something called a crepe suzette.

The first dish comes on a hotplate, sizzling on the heated stone and Rozanov turns to Shane with furrowed brows.

“Why is my food angry at me?”

It pulls a laugh out of Yuna and a reluctant smile out of Shane.

Afterwards, the waiter brings over a plate of crepes, pours a sweet citrus smelling syrup over it and with the flick of a lighter, the plate is engulfed with a pale blue flame.

Rozanov’s eyes light up as he watches the fire dance blue and orange across the crepes, the dessert beneath it seemingly untouched by fire. Theatric, for 11 in the morning but none of them seem to care.

“Is like molotov cocktail dessert,” Rozanov giggles. He was enjoying himself way too much for what was supposed to be a simple, awkward meal with the guy he hooked up with and his mother.

As promised, they make the trip down to the Hall of Fame after their meal. Yuna pays for the tickets, brushing off Ilya’s attempts to pay her back.

“It’s free for BMO employees,” she cites, which was a lie but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

Rozanov walks through the halls with a great amount of awe as he tries to take in every single piece of information. This place is a temple to the world of ice hockey. Every dynasty, every trophy, every jersey of the world’s greatest players were hung on those walls, enshrined for the world to see.

And at the center of the Great Hall, was the Stanley Cup itself.

Yuna watches silently as the two boys stand side by side in front of the cup, their reflections distorted by the polished silver.

‘One day, this will be ours,’ their eyes seem to say, and one day, their names will be inscribed here alongside all the greats.

Silently, as their eyes remain on the cup, Yuna pulls out her small digital camera and snaps a few photos. The two of them, side by side, backs turned with their eyes on the cup. The beginning of their road to greatness.

Hockey has a funny way of bringing people together, and she hopes that one day, they will both look back at this picture and remember where it all began.

Chapter 2: Change My Mind So Much It's Exhaustin'

Chapter Summary

Ilya spends Christmas with the Hollanders before the Sochi Olympics and despite having regular contact with his mother, whatever he has with Shane is still on the rocks.

Chapter Notes

Title from Tate McRae's Revolving Doors, which I listened to on loop while writing this

So fun fact, apparently players are only eligible for no trade clauses once they're 27 or they've done 7 years in the NHL. Who knew? Teams get to trade players anytime before the trade deadline, which is typically in March before the playoffs begin. Then the roster is locked in till July 1st, then its free-agency season which is... now. Damn.

CW:
- Homophobic language
- Dallas Kent (he is his own content warning)
- Racist language
- Homophobic language

Ottawa, December 2013

In the 3 years that Yuna has known Ilya, there are a few things she has come to know, either because he told her directly, or from context clues.

1. Ilya flies to and from Russia each summer

That's a roughly 30 hour flight from Boston. One flight to Barcelona, then another to Doha before landing in Moscow. Too far for a 19 year old to be flying alone, no matter how self-sufficient they claim to be. Not when Yuna’s own mother had held her hand and flown with her from Vancouver despite her fear of flying.

2. He has a terse relationship with his family.

Terse is a nice way of putting it. If you were to ask for her honest opinion, she would use the word ‘shit’. She parses this over the way his mood sullens when he speaks about his father or brother. Having grown up in a conservative family herself, Yuna knows the hallmarks of a strict family household when she sees one.

He was near militant in the way he held himself the first time he met her. Polite, even more than Shane was. Short, bland answers, like he had been trained to word his answers based on what she wanted to hear, even in his second language. Anything to save face and not stand out.

For that reason, Yuna knew she could never get along with Grigori Rozanov and selfishly wanted to keep Ilya for herself. Who cares if he’s 22? Adult adoptions exist! Anything to keep him from making that guarded expression he seems to carry every time his father calls to berate him.

She doesn’t tell him ‘he does that because he cares’ like his brother had told her once, or force him to talk about it like her nosy cousin had. She gives him the space to come to her if he wants to, and cursed at Grigori from her beautiful home in Ottawa.

He calls him ‘oтец’ instead of ‘papa’ for god sake. Yeah, she looked it up!

And god help her son, he always tries to get him to open up but can’t seem to get the memo that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Then there’s the brother. Yeah, no, don’t get her started on that one. Never in her life has she ever heard of a ‘traditional’ family where the younger sibling has to send their first paycheck to their older sibling. She supposes it’s traditional only as long as it serves them.

None of this applies to his mother, however. He clearly loved her, the cross around his neck served as a clear reminder of that despite not being religious himself. Which brings her to her third point.

3. Ilya’s mother died when he was pretty young

He never actually talked about her, not unprompted, but the way he speaks about her and the turmoil that followed him into his teens tells Yuna all she needs to know. He took after her, she reckoned. The brightness in his eyes when he smiled, the playfulness he exudes when cameras weren’t pointed at him. His eagerness to help where he can.

How could she not adore this kid?

4. Ilya doesn’t celebrate Christmas

Or well, he does, just not in December. And the idea of Ilya, who is her son’s age, spending Christmas alone in a foreign country while all their other teammates go home to the warmth of their families felt unacceptable.

He has been spending Christmas with the Hollanders in Ottawa ever since.

5. He and her son have… chemistry

Now before you all get in a tizzy, she didn’t say what kind of chemistry. Chemical reactions can range from a beautiful calm change in colour to a sharp hot reaction with toxic smoke leaking out of it. All this to say, she doesn’t know. Shane’s reactions to Ilya have been paradoxical.

On the ice, the competitive edge of Shane’s personality sharpens exponentially in Ilya’s presence, turning an unassuming letter opener into one of those $1000 japanese kitchen knives that slices through paper like butter. Enough to fuel the media narrative of them being rivals and enough for other teams to lament their draft lottery spots that year.

Off it, Shane is always a strange mix of anxious but excited to see him whenever Yuna brings the both of them out for a rare dinner together. Like he is looking forward to it but is simultaneously dreading it.

Even now, as he paces nervously across their Ottawa home, he still volunteers to pick Ilya up from the airport.

Something is clearly going on between those two, and Yuna for the life of her can’t figure out what it is or whether she even wants to know in the first place. Because Shane shoves his shoulder roughly as they enter the house but looks at him with such an open expression.

Ok, now that’s new.

“Yuna,” Ilya greets, pressing la brise onto her cheek as she usually does for him. “Hi David,” he calls out into the kitchen.

“Ilya,” David says brightly. “How was your flight?”

“Annoying. Guy next to me smelled really bad.”

“Oh you poor thing,” Yuna cooes playfully, patting his cheek. “Go wash up. You can help set up for dinner afterwards. Oh, maybe take the guest bedroom downstairs instead.”

Shane frowns at her words. Ilya had always stayed in the room across his for Christmas.

“Why?”

“His legs,” she cocks her head towards the blonde. “I’d rather you rest them than make the extra effort to go up and down the stairs.”

Shane turns to Ilya. “Legs? Plural?”

“They’re fine,” Ilya dismisses.

“IT Band syndrome on his left, swollen MCL on his right,” Yuna calls out.

“Yuna! How could you divulge my secrets like this! To my enemy as well,” Ilya whines.

Shane swears his mom talks to him more than he does.

“Does this mean I have a better shot at the cup this year,” Shane says.

Ilya looks at him with raised brows. “What? You cannot beat Boston unless I am scratched?”

“Says the guy who only beat us because I wasn’t on shift.”

“Maybe if your D-men actually defended, would not be as humiliating.”

“Oh, so Connors tripping over air and taking out Stedlund was, what, a strategy?”

“Boys!” Yuna calls out, shutting them up immediately. “Save the hockey for the ice.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Sorry, Yuna.”

Good. Order restored.

“Now go help Ilya settle in. I think David might have bitten off more than he can chew with that turkey.”

Yuna watches as the boys nudge each other playful as they head towards the guest bedroom. Ilya’s expression was warmer than it was before, an open tenderness to his touch as he let Shane lead the way. In return, her son holds a hand in the air, careful and bordering on protective now that he is aware of Ilya’s injuries.

Something had clearly shifted in the weeks before the Christmas break. And Yuna doesn’t even try to figure out what their chemistry might mean for the both of them.

That night, hours after his parents have gone to bed, Shane sneaks down the stairs towards the guest bedroom. He stepped closer to the banister, hoping it would bear his weight so the stairs didn’t creak and slipped into the door left unlocked for him.

He finds Ilya sitting on the edge of the bed, chest bare and sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“Can I help you?” Ilya drawls cheekily.

Ever since that odd summer before their rookie season, they had settled into a friendship of sorts. Your mom brings them out for lunch before a game. Your dad helps them file their taxes.

You meet up for a fuck or two after a game in the same city.

You know, normal friendships.

They talked shit about each other on camera, chased each other down on the ice like men possessed, but behind closed doors, that fire translated into mind-blowing sex, fueled by post-game adrenaline and a bone deep attraction to a worthy opponent and a challenge well met.

Call it a competency kink. He doesn’t care.

“Your ribs still sore?” Shane asks, still fully clothed, feeling a little guilty about the injury from a particularly hard check.

“Depends. How’s the shoulder?” Ilya returns, because Shane had caught the end of Carmichael’s stick towards the end of the second shift and hissed every time he rolled it back. It was black and blue and sore all over when they went over to Shane’s little sex condo afterwards.

Shane finally steps closer, dropping a knee on the bed beside Ilya’s hip and hovering over him.

“Wanna check it yourself?” He says with a quirk of his lips. His fingers barely graze the small trail of hair above his waistband, leaving a trail of goosebumps up Ilya’s chest.

Christmas was an odd time for them. 3 days away from the crazy sport they play for work. It was weird, being in Shane’s childhood home, surrounded by a world of memories and having this person from his new life at the center of it. They didn’t dare do anything while they were here, maybe a little frotting in the shower while his parents went on a last minute grocery run, but that’s about it.

The guest bedroom, however, was new territory. It was a whole floor away from the master bedroom. It was dangerous, the thrill of it charging the air between them.

Shane feels Ilya’s hands creep up the back of his thigh as he pulls his jumper over his head. There’s K-tape on his shoulder, intersecting colourful lines wrapped around the muscle to stabilise it while it heals. Shane folds the jumper haphazardly and twists to the side to toss it onto the nearest chair.

His silhouette was seductive beneath the dim lights and Ilya felt a familiar hunger stir beneath the surface. Their bodies were a mottled painting of blues, yellows, greens and purples, painted like watercolour across rippling muscles.

“So pretty,” Ilya purrs against his chest, he palms the hard lines of his ribs, gripping his pecs and grazing around the coarse adhesive on his skin. He thumbs one of his nipples and delights in the way the man above him inhales sharply.

He presses one last kiss onto his sternum before patting Shane’s hip. “Lie down.”

Shane follows him eagerly, backing himself against pillows. He helps Ilya pull his pants off, frowning as they get tossed aside. The instinctive way his legs part to welcome Ilya between them should concern him but his blood is too buzzed with excitement to care.

Ilya kisses his way up his powerful thighs, hands splayed across the tiger stripes on his sides. His teeth nip against Shane’s inner thigh as he looks up at him expectantly. His stubble is rough against the sensitive skin.

“Can I?” He asks, his voice a low treble.

Shane swallows, nodding.

5 days. No locker rooms, no curious eyes. Just enough time for marks to heal or blur out enough they could excuse it as a game injury.

Blue eyes sparkled with delight as his mouth latched onto the crease of his thigh and sucked. Shane’s hand flies up to his mouth as he keens, the other tangling in blonde curls.

Ilya's arms wrap around Shane’s legs and licks a broad stripe up his inner thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin. The fine hairs on his thighs graze against his hand, the thick muscle tensing beneath his touch.

“Ilya,” he pants. He was teasing, not touching him where he wanted, but sue him, they never had this much time to themselves.

Shane hears the click of a bottle and thinks finally. He really should have thought about it more because there was a reason Ilya was often labelled a menace.

Ilya swallows his cock down to the base and presses a finger in without warning. If Shane’s hand wasn’t covering his mouth his scream would have been heard halfway across the house. Ilya flattens his tongue and drags it over his shaft with practiced ease. Beneath his fingers, Shane’s powerful thighs ripple with effort to keep still.

It was just on the edge of too much. The fluttering of his throat, the brush of his stubble against his sensitive skin, the fingers working him open. He shivers as Ilya’s fingers find his prostate.

“Enjoying yourself?" Ilya says smugly, 3 fingers deep.

“Fuck you,” Shane pants.

He was such a lovely sight, the flush of his cheeks bringing out his freckles and his jaw tensing as he tried to keep the noise down. Ilya would have loved for him to scream as freely as he wanted. Maybe they will go to his house outside Boston next time.

He doesn’t use it as often as he should, but at least there were no neighbours or parents to worry about.

“No, that’s my job,” Ilya retorts. “Get up. I want to try something.”

Shane looks up at him curiously, pulling himself up to his elbows. He frowns at the loss of his fingers and lets Ilya flip their positions, making him straddle his hips.

Oh.

He looks down and sees Ilya’s pupils dilate, black swallowing his blue eyes as he takes on Shane’s full weight in his hips. He feels Ilya’s cock press insistently against his ass.

Ilya tries to get up and Shane pushes him back down with a hand to his chest. He follows easily and oh does Shane enjoy this new-found power.

“I’ll do it,” he insists.

He grabs the condom, rolls it down on Ilya’s cock and coats it in lube. With his gaze locked onto Ilya’s, he sinks down on his cock and marvels at the fullness he feels.

Shane’s eyes flutter close as he sinks down inch by inch. Was it this big the last time? Was it as deep? They’ve only done this once before so he doesn’t know. He feels speared open, pressure pushing on all sides and filling him up to his lungs.

Beneath him, Ilya’s hand grabs his wrist as he bottoms out, knees bent to help Shane feel a little more stable.

“Fuck,” Shane pants as he does an experimental circle of his hips. He feels a little lost, having only seen this in the porn videos some of the guys showed him during away games. What was that trick that he read online? The one they said drove their men insane? What was it he was supposed to spell again?

He starts with the first letter.

C.

Ilya groans and it spurs him on.

O.

He moans as it bumps against his prostate.

C.

“Are you trying to spell ‘coconut’?” Ilya breaks his concentration.

His silence is an answer in itself and Ilya breaks into a fit of laughter. God, this boring Canadian was amazing.

Shane looks down at him, clearly mortified at being figured out so easily. “Shut up! Don’t laugh with your dick inside me.”

“No, it’s cute. Good technique for first try.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Once his laughter had subsided, Ilya tapped Shane’s hips apologetically. “Don’t listen to them. Is good trick, but you think too much, Hollander.”

Shane bites his lip. Rough hands wrap more firmly around his hips, pushing him into an arch to encourage a roll from him. The slow rocking of his hips causes a steady flow of sensations. The stimulation against his rim was driving him insane. It made his nerves light up all the way down to his fingertips and had him raking his fingers down Ilya’s chest. The skin beneath his fingertips shivers to his touch.

Shane straddles him more steadily, not unlike the frog stretches he would do on the ice, and bites his lip as he moves on his own.

“That’s it. Just like that. Take what you want, Hollander.”

Ilya was hardening back up inside him and letting him take control once more. For all his jokes and teasing about Shane getting sex tips from the internet, his little stunt earlier taught him something useful.

It’s minute, and it could be nothing, but Ilya’s breath hitched a little more when Shane drew an O, hands gripping a little tighter and raking down his thighs. And for someone with such remarkable self control in bed, that’s not nothing.

So Shane repeats the motion again and watches with rapt attention and endless fascination at the man slowly unravelling beneath him.

“Fuck, Hollander,” his voice was faltering with each grind.

Shane lifted his hips experimentally before dropping back down. The deep and guttural moan he hears emboldens him to do it again as he works himself into a steady pace.

Shane tries to find the best angle to hit that spot inside him and when he does, the feeling makes him gasp, clenching down on Ilya’s cock so tightly it reduces him to a jumble of Russian profanities. He has been told to take what he wants and he does just that. He steadies himself on that angle and fucks himself, the sounds of skin on skin working him up even more.

Beneath him, Ilya is content to simply watch this awkward creature come to life. Shane is beautiful when he is selfish and he finds himself enraptured by the sight. He bucks up to meet his thrusts and Shane’s mouth drops open, head thrown back as he gets lost in his own pleasure.

Shane cums with a gasp and the tightness of him sends Ilya over the edge as well, spilling into the condom until both of them are spent. With a sated groan, Shane slumps onto his chest.

“Good?” Ilya asks, fingers brushing the sweat soaked locks on Shane’s nape.

The other hums in satisfaction, happy to let Ilya take over now. He mouths his collarbone as Ilya cleans them both up, teeth worrying the thin skin mindlessly.

“Not too high, Hollander,” Ilya warns him.

His tiny marks have made their way up to the hollow of his throat. Any higher and his regular shirts won’t be able to cover it.

“When do you fly out?” Shane asks as his breath slows.

“To Boston?”

“To Sochi,” he corrects.

Ilya presses his cheek to the crown of his head. “End of January. There are people that want to see me before opening ceremony.”

Shane hums in understanding. He himself has a whole laundry list of people to meet before the team flies out and he isn’t even the captain.

“Hey,” Ilya tilts his chin to meet his eyes.

Shane had never been comfortable looking people in the eye. It was intense, uncomfortable. But with Ilya, it felt near second nature to search his eyes. They held more truths than his words ever did.

“We cannot see each other in Sochi,” Ilya says, his voice stern.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Shane tries to look away but Ilya holds his face firmly. “They introduced anti-gay law in June. You understand? There will be people watching and listening everywhere.”

He take in the trepidation in Ilya’s face as it clouds the orgasm tinted haze around them. He might not understand Russia, but he understands fear, and he’s pretty sure he’s got enough fear for the both of them.

“Ok,” he says.

The day after Boxing Day, it was time for them to finally leave. Shane had left just a few hours prior, leaving Ilya to his parents’ fussing.

“You packed your presents?” she asked.

Ever since he joined them for Christmas, the Hollanders have always insisted on giving him presents to open the Orthodox Christmas in January. Something simple, a smaller set of presents for the Russian Holiday despite his insistence that it wasn’t necessary. The Hollanders were not Christmas people. They didn’t do gift exchanges or turkey dinners. Hell, Shane didn’t even believe in Santa as a child. No whimsy, that one.

But with Ilya around, they found it in themselves to try.

Maybe the Hollanders just like spending money.

“Yes, Yuna,” he answers anyways, because that is the polite thing to do.

Yuna dusts the non-existent lint off of Ilya’s shoulders and holds his arms.

“All set?” she says.

Ilya nods with a small smile and lets himself be pulled into a warm hug. “Thank you. For another lovely Christmas.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. It’s only lively when you’re in it.” Yuna sounds like she’s exaggerating but she isn’t.

Without him, the Hollander household is quiet, peaceful. It held a calmness that was soothing and a quiet that bred safety. Ilya breathes a liveliness into it that is different, but no less appreciated.

She takes a step back and settles into David’s side as Ilya puts on his shoes.

“Now. We won’t be able to see you before the Olympics so we want you to know, we will be rooting for you, but not for Russia.”

“You specifically,” David smiles.

“Yes. Of course.”

“And no matter the results, we are proud of you, okay?”

A sharp juxtaposition to the expectations of his own birth father. There was no way they actually thought that, despite how it makes Ilya’s chest tighten. Ilya and Shane were 1 and 2. They probably expect them to be just that. Them on the podium, silver and gold. Though the Hollanders probably prefer a Canadian gold and a Russian silver.

He gives them both one final hug before getting into the Uber.

“Have a safe trip!” David calls out on their porch as the car pulls away from the house.

Yuna and David stay by their doorstep until the uber is nothing more than a dot in the sea of grey and white.

Las Vegas, June 2014: NHL Awards

Shane hasn’t seen Ilya since that tense exchange in Sochi, hasn’t even gotten a text from the guy confirming if he is alive or not and suddenly he is expected to present an award with him and the guy is late. What a joke.

Ilya finally shows up 25 seconds before their cue.

“You’re late,” Shane says in lieu of a greeting.

“I was busy,” Ilya responds dismissively.

“With who?” he snaps.

The other doesn’t get to respond before they are being ushered on stage. Little to no acting was required on their parts to play the role of awkward rivals, paraded like prized animals for the whole league to see.

Ilya puts a hand around his waist, his touch a searing brand even through the 3 layers of clothes and he lets him take the stupid pictures. He’s sure his mother would love to have a copy of them once this is all over.

He wants to laugh at the stupidity of all this. Ilya loses at the Olympics, only to win the cup. Shane wins a medal but Ilya doesn’t talk to him for 6 months and he feels like shit. But somehow he texts his mother regularly.

He looks stupid. He feels stupid. Fuck, maybe he’s taken one too many hits on the head and he has actually become stupid.

He hides in the bathroom, staring down at the disgusting floor as he tries to get his breathing back in check. For a moment, he was hoping Ilya might walk in and pull him out of it, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. They were nothing to each other, he made that very clear.

Tears cling to his lashes as he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down. He can do this. He can go out there and pretend they’re not friends. Like his indifference doesn’t sting. Like his silence after winning the cup doesn’t bruise something tender in him that thought he was worth at least a text.

When he rejoins the ceremony, Ilya is nowhere in sight. Not in his seat, not with his parents. Not even with Marleau, who is slowly dozing off next to the Bears’ goalie.

“Hey, Hollander,” one of the producers rushes to him in a panic. “Have you seen Rozanov?”

“No?”

The producer curses. “Negative,” she says into her headpiece. “Thank you,” she tells him with a tense smile and runs off.

Ilya is nominated for a whole host of awards, soon to be announced, and he is nowhere to be found. Perhaps it’s the post-panic clarity, or his internal exhaustion taking over, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about the Russian’s disappearance.

He is suddenly reminded of when Ilya disappeared from the awards on the last night of their rookie season. A rooftop, a cigarette. A dark figure leaning a bit too close to the railings, a cigarette forgotten between his fingers. ‘Not everything is about you, Hollander’. It had hurt then, but he had also been angry, and maybe on the wrong edge of drunk. He understands that now.

And maybe that is why he lets his feet guide him to the emergency stairwell without any rhyme or reason. He makes the climb up to the rooftop of the hotel.

The door creaks when he pushes it open and he sees a familiar figure sitting with his back against the railings, a hand covering his mouth.

“They’re looking for you downstairs,” Shane tells him.

Ilya doesn’t even look up at him, his eyes blank and distant.

Worry overrides his logic, just as it had in Sochi, and he tests the waters once again.

“Are you okay?” He tries.

Ilya doesn’t cry when he is upset, but he shuts down, closing off from the outside into a cold and carefully curated mask. Shane can only think of one thing that would upset him this much.

The way he squeezes his eyes and shakes his head isn’t too dissimilar to what Shane had done just minutes prior in the bathroom several floors below. He waits for Ilya to send him away, a repeat performance of their tragic dance in Sochi, except it never comes.

“I go back to Russia in 3 days,” Ilya says after a long silence.

He had said something similar a few years prior.

“So soon?”

“My father… is sick, I think,” he finally admits.

“Sick as in… pneumonia?”

“I don’t know. He’s not, I don’t know English word. Old people sickness. Not fully there.”

He remembers Ilya telling him that his father is old, much older than his own parents. “Dementia? Parkinsons?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya shakes his head in frustration. “He will not see a doctor, and Alexei is,” he waves his hand dismissively. A bone deep sigh leaves his chest and he thumps his head against the glass barrier behind him. “I will take him when I get back.”

His expression darkens at the thought of flying back, at going back to a place he no longer considered home. Cold even in the summer, lonely despite the eyes on him. It’s easier, he thinks, to stay here and spend the summer in Ottawa, finally see the cottage Yuna had gushed about and swim in the lake Shane had spent many summers exploring.

But if he did, the guilt would eat him alive.

“I never got to congratulate you on the cup, by the way,” Shane says bashfully. He couldn’t help the envy that bleeds into his voice.

Some of the mirth returns to Ilya’s eyes as he huffs in amusement. “Want me to tell you how it feels, lifting it?”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh my god, Hollander, it felt so good,” he moans exaggeratedly.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?” Shane laughs, shoving Ilya’s arm. He pretends the raspiness of his voice doesn’t do anything to him.

“Ah, but at least I am asshole with a cup.”

“Ugh.”

It doesn't make the situation any better, but at least it chases some of the ghosts away from Ilya's expression.

“I’ll send you printed photo during cup day. I’ll even sign it, for my biggest fan.”

“Who? Me?” Shane deadpans incredulously.

“No. Yuna, obviously.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

“Maybe I will bring the cup to your house for cup day.”

“I’ll do it myself next year,” he swears.

“Okay,” Ilya rolls his eyes a little too fondly.

The silence between them becomes less stifling, less like a window about to shatter and more like a familiar presence.

“Let’s head back down,” Shane dusts off. “They’re about to announce our awards soon. My mom will kill us if we miss it.”

He offers Ilya his hand, just as he had 3 summers ago. And just as he did in their rookie season, he pulls Ilya away from the ledge.

Ottawa, February 2015

Yuna walks into the restaurant with her hands in her trench coat. She tells the waiter someone is already waiting for her inside and she ventures deeper into the store. There, in a corner booth, she sees Ilya scribbling on a napkin while scrolling through his phone, a serious look on his face.

She opts for sitting across from him, just to see how long she could get away with being there before he notices. Alas, Ilya’s spatial awareness wins over and his head whips up to see the newcomer.

“Ilya,” she smiles.

The blonde stands up to greet her and presses a kiss to his cheeks. “Yuna.”

“What are you working on?” She asks curiously.

“Watching rally car explanation video,” he turns the napkin towards her. It was covered in curved lines, his neat cyrillic cursive filling up the space. He was drawing race lines, trying to determine the quickest way to get from point A to B with the least amount of energy, comparing drifting to braking on ice. “On ice, we have no race lines, but if we imagine way around defenseman as moving apex… I don’t know how to explain. It makes half sense in my brain.”

An extrapolation of techniques from one sport to another. Not unusual, but impressive nonetheless. It fills Yuna with a sense of amazement at just how brilliant Ilya could be at times, determined and strategic when no one else is looking.

“Ah, don’t tell Shane, though,” he amends.

“Of course not,” she chuckles, because as loyal as she is to her son and her favourite team, integrity was important.

Yuna loves these small moments with just the two of them, where she gets to see Ilya honest and unguarded, even with the secrets he insists on keeping. It was always either in Boston or Ottawa, not Montreal. Never in Montreal.

Because Montreal is the cathedral of hockey and Shane was their king. Even if Yuna was barely recognised outside of a hockey arena, she was stopped near daily whenever she visited her son. It was one of the many reasons she rarely frequented the city.

And while Boston clearly loved Ilya, he wasn’t worshipped there. People tended to keep their distance from him, either due to respect or reverence of his reputation as the Russian Menace who flirted with danger as much as he did with women.

“How was meeting?” he asks as they ate.

“Good,” Yuna says simply. “Reebok is looking to extend the sponsorship to 2019 to match his contract extension."

Ilya hums in understanding. The Voyagers were eager to re-sign Shane, looking him into a 5 year contract the moment silly season hits.

“They’re planning to shoot an ad sometime around Good Friday weekend. Water resistant sneakers,” she adds.

Ilya raises his brows. “So he will be in wet shirt again?”

“Yes.”

The blonde is uncharacteristically silent afterwards.

“You don’t approve,” she observes. More of a observation than a question.

Ilya seems to consider this for a moment. “Is not a bad idea.”

“But?” she urges.

“... I don’t want to sound rude, and I do not speak for him,” he starts carefully and Yuna nods. “But cold wet clothes is, what do you call it, too many senses.”

“Overstimulating,” Yuna provides.

“Da. And Good Friday is before playoff start, yes?”

Yuna frowns as she tries to read between the lines. “You think it’s too much?”

Ilya tilts his head like he is inclined to say yes. “I think he feels responsibility to say yes.”

This, Yuna seems to take into consideration. Her son has never been very forthcoming about voicing his discomfort, a trait she wishes she blames herself less for, so she tries to listen when he does. Ilya provides a strangely thoughtful perspective she seems to miss at times. It’s part of the reason she adores him so much, despite the abhorrent symbol he wears on his chest for work.

“Alright. I’ll reconsider it.”

Ilya nods, seemingly satisfied with just that.

“What about you, honey? Heard back about your extension yet?”

“No. Patrice is very busy right now, but contract should be sent soon.”

“That’s good. They’re really pushing it till the last minute, aren’t they? That’s a little strange.”

He tries not to let the anxious tone beneath her words affect him. They are really coming down to the wire here. In a matter of weeks, the draft lottery was going to be announced. There was no way he was being traded, was there? He had just won him a cup, and was projected to win the conference final the year after.

“My agent isn’t worried yet. He says we still have time.” Ilya isn’t sure who he was trying to convince. Their silence was strange, and it simmered low and insistent beneath his thoughts.

Seeing his concern, Yuna pats his hand across the table. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Okay?”

The touch pulls him away from his thoughts. There was truly nothing he could do in this situation. He just had to wait and see where the cards fell. Until then, he’ll be sure to fight like hell to prove he could put his money where his mouth was.

“Okay.”

Let it be known that despite their inexperience, Ilya loves rookies. They’re determined, tenacious and have a complete disregard for personal safety. He loves their hunger, their drive, their desire to prove themselves. His own rookie was a fire cracker.

He was like that once, a puck hogger, swiping it from another team and breaking away from his own. There was a certain buzz he got from feeling cornered, alone and surrounded behind enemy lines, and Ilya lived for it.

Troy Barrett, however, was a fucking pest.

He chased Ilya down the ice, nipping on his heels even when he wasn’t in possession of the puck. Ilya fakes a turn, spinning on his heel to shake the kid off when his skate catches on Barret’s stick. He passes the puck to Marley, right as he falls, and grunts as Barrett lands on top of him. Marley takes it to the goal only to be checked by a Guardian and he loses the puck.

They were still trying to fill the hole in their defenses left by Ryan Price and nothing seems to be clicking.

The buzzer rings and the Guardians cheer. A referee comes over to check on them for tripping and Ilya shakes his head. He was fine, if not a little miffed.

“Wow, that was amazing,” Barrett tells him with a hand over his shoulder.

Ilya isn’t sure how he feels about his overly familiar attitude. “Yes.”

Barrett had this manic energy that reminded Ilya of frat bros in what Americans called ‘greek life’. He doesn't know what's so greek it.

“Ey! Rozanov! Fucking legend dude,” Kent skates over and Ilya tries not to sulk internally.

He has heard about Kent and Barrett. Or well, they make themselves heard. Loud and clear. Like a party bus parked in the quiet zone, or a guy bringing a boombox onto the metro.

Fuck, are these the type of kids that look up to him? Maybe he should start to reevaluate his image like Yuna says, get a publicist maybe.

“Hey, come out with us for drinks after the game. There’s a club downtown with sick vibes.”

“Oh, man. We’re going to be drowning in pussy tonight, boys. Whoooh!” Kent hollered.

For once, Ilya was tempted to take a page out of Shane’s book and stay in.

“Kent! Barrett! Get your asses over here,” Brady calls across the ice.

“Ugh. Fuckin’ retard,” Barrett rolls his eyes.

“Wish you were our captain, Roz. All the other captains suuuuuck.”

“God, can you imagine playing under fairy-Hollander?”

Ilya’s eyes darken as he tries to shrug off them off. If they had any survival instincts whatsoever, they would have sensed the anger rolling off him in waves.

“Bro, did you hear? They’re giving the A to fuckin’ Vaughn next year,” Kent laughs.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, that fuckin’ ni-”

Ilya yanks his skate with a jerk of his stick before he finishes his sentence and watches with some small satisfaction as he hits the ice with a crack. He skates away before Kent could regain his bearings.

“What the fuck man?! Hey! Come back here you fucking cunt!” Kent is yelling at him, red faced and obviously rattled. His fall obviously chipped a tooth on the way down, if the blood dripping from his mouth was any indication.

“Dude! What the hell?! We were just jo-” Barret grabs his arm and flinches as Ilya’s cold gaze settles on him.

“Say that shit again and I’m feeding you your teeth for dinner,” he says lowly. Barrett releases his arm and Ilya skates towards Brady. They might be divisional rivals, but he still has a working relationship with most captains in the league. They even have their own group chat!

He’ll accept whatever penalty they hand him.

“Not sorry,” Ilya tells Brady.

“Yeah, no. They probably deserved it,” the captain sighs. “Don’t know what they said but sorry on their behalf.”

Ilya shakes his head and heads over to his own bench.

“Racist assholes,” was all he needed to say for Leclaire to nod and dismiss him for intermission.

Ilya promises to make their defeat embarrassing in the next period. He steals the puck from Barrett before he even makes it past the blue line and tears away in the opposite direction. They could barely catch up to him, helpless to watch as their defensive lines collapsed in real time. Kent tries to check him, and Ilya watches with a wide grin on his face as he spins on his heels and Kent doesn’t brake on time, sending him sliding on his ass towards the boards.

A minute later, Ilya fakes a pass, right as Kent passes and does a no-look pass backwards towards Hammersmith.

Ilya makes sure to at least end the game with a hat-trick. He smirks as he buries the puck into the goal. They won the game 5-2 and Ilya can’t even bring himself to be happy about it. He spits onto the ice for good measure.

They lose the next game against Colorado. The team there has always been good, more stable than they have been this year, Ilya admits.

He has tried to build a team that isn’t too dependent on him, one that could stand on its own two feet, but it’s hard to do that when management insists on moving pieces he thought were important.

“We will get them next time, ok boys?”

“Yeah!” They all pump their fists and slowly make their way back to Boston.

The plane touches down in Logan some time after 8 and by the time they are back in the city, they were all dead on their feet.

Ilya is first off the bus, giving them all a fist bump as they pass.

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” he says with each player. Some stop to clap him on the shoulder, other giving him a hug and telling him they’ll see him next season and a small minority of them roll their eyes at him as they disembark.

“See you at practice, cap!” Cadyn jumps off the bus and runs towards his car.

“Drive safe, child,” Ilya calls out to his rookie.

He thanks the coaches and the staff before heading home himself. He looks at the calendar on his phone and sighs.

21.08, 1st March 2015. A few more hours till the trade deadline.

He counts down the minutes till midnight as he drives himself home. Spring is right around the corner and with that, building management has decided that stairwell heating wasn’t a necessity.

So Ilya trudges through the cold steps and waits for the elevator. Tiredly, he thumbs through the updates of the Montreal-Buffalo game. They should be in their 3rd period by now.

Shane scored a couple goals himself, with one assist for Boizau. Ilya smiles to himself and walks into the elevator.

The signal in there has always been pretty shitty but the trip up the few floors is too short for him to bother putting his phone down. Once he reaches his hallway, the signal kicks back in and past his door, the wifi automatically reconnects.

He sees the post seconds after it goes live and in a matter of seconds, the life he had built for himself shatters into pieces.

2 hours before the trade deadline, Ilya had been traded to the New York Admirals.

Chapter End Notes

Kudos and comments appreciated

Chapter 3: I'm More Hurt than I Would Admit

Chapter Summary

Change my mind so much it's exhausting
I still think about that night out in Boston

I'm more hurt than I would admit
S'pposed to be an adult but fuck it

I need a minute

- Revolving Doors by Tate McRae

Ilya gets traded to New York hours before the trade deadline and he isn't the only one struggling with the change. With a personality larger than life and a cup win behind him, Scott wonders if his newest teammate could threaten everything he had been working for.

Chapter Notes

We're back! With a long one as well. Welcome to New York :D

On the trade. Disclaimer, I don't understand how they're done (i.e. the flow, signing, etc) I just know the deadline and a couple limitations.

CW:
- Misogynistic language
- Implied infantilisation (micro-agression)

Buffalo, March 2015

Shane steps off the ice high on his most recent win and doesn’t try to fight the smile on his face or the congratulatory claps on the back his team gives him. Buffalo sucked, but they always put up a good fight. He respected that at least.

“Hollander! Media,” Thierault calls out.

He made quick work of his gear and stepped into the press scrum and immediately got bombarded by a million questions.

“Hollander! How do you think the team did tonight?” One reporter asked.

A typical question, one he gets almost 82 times a year.

“Well, I think we did pretty well. We worked hard to get where we are and didn’t leave anything on the ice.”

“What does this mean for your chances against Pittsburg?”

“We have a good shot, I think. We just have to keep at it and make sure we take full advantage of every opportunity opened to us.”

“Hollander! What does Rozanov being traded to the Admirals mean for your playoff chances this year?”

The question brings his brain to a screeching halt. The smile drops off his face and a pit drops in his stomach.

“What?”

“Boston just announced the trade an hour ago. Rozanov to Admirals, effective immediately,” another report clarifies.

“Uhm.” Panic seizes his throat, overwhelming him and he is suddenly reminded of how bright the lights are, the flashes of the cameras, the microphones shoved in his face, the room shrinking exponentially. He doesn’t register the press officer stepping in and thanking them for their time and is grateful for her guiding hand.

Back in the locker room, it’s all anyone could talk about. Shane couldn’t blame them. Rozanov was a name none of them could keep out of their mouth on a good day. News like this generated noise, lots of it.

“Rozanov to the Admirals. Can you believe it?” Miitka says.

“Didn’t see that one coming,” Gagnon says.

“By the sound of it, neither did the Bears,” Stedlund scrolls his phone. “They’re all going insane online. Nothing from Rozanov though.”

Ilya, Shane suddenly thinks and starts stuffing his things into his bag in a hurry. He needs to get to Boston.

“Whoah, captaine, what is the rush?” JJ raises his hands when he nearly runs into him.

“Sorry. My mom just called. Our aunt is in the hospital,” he winces as he lies. “Uhm… can you tell coach? I’ll see you guys back in Montreal.”

“Sure thing, bud,” Hayden gives him a thumbs up and he rushes out of the arena with his bag in tow.

He buys a ticket and makes it to the airport 3 minutes before check-in closes and arrives in Logan some time past midnight. He loathes to admit it but Boston is beautiful as it comes alive. He had never actually stopped to look at the city, always running towards something else, someone else. But maybe now he can get the chance to appreciate the city, away from hockey and sex-drunk nights in hotel rooms and downtown apartments.

The alleyway leading up to Ilya’s apartment lights up the moment Shane steps in front of it. All around him, the city has winded down, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the seismic shift that just occurred hours prior. It’s a crime, Shane thinks, an affront to the achievements of the man that his own city had burnt effigies for.

Shane tries to call Ilya to open the door, only for his call to go straight into voicemail.

“Come on, Ilya, pick up,” he looks down at his screen.

“Hollander?”

Shane whips around and finds himself face to face with Cliff Marleau.

Fuck.

“What are you doing here?” He eyes Shane suspiciously.

Shane takes a deep breath despite the panicked thump of his heart in his throat. “Same as you, I suppose.”

“Right.” Marleau looks at him skeptically. He looked exhausted, still dressed in a wrinkled Bears hoodie and a comfortable pair of jeans.

‘They’re all going insane online,’ Stedlund had said.

The worn look in his eyes tells him Marleau has barely grappled with the new reality, still drained from their away game.

He isn’t hostile, which Shane initially expected, but he didn’t seem to trust him either. He could work with that.

“Mind telling me how you know where Roz lives?”

His voice is patient, closer to what Shane imagines is his alternative captain tone than his real one.

“We’re… friends. Believe it or not.”

The call goes through to voicemail again and Shane curses. Marleau looks down at the phone in his hand. They have found themselves in uncharted waters here and it was driving Shane insane.

But worry overpowers panic at the moment and he swipes away his mother’s questioning text as he dials again.

“Friends,” he says in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

They were sort of neutral acquaintances in public, ones that never talked to each other, or were ever seen around each other, but got along just fine when paired together for press conferences and outreach events. Civil. Professional. Not the type to show up right after their own game hours after an unexpected trade announcement was made.

Marleau crossed his arms and held himself to full height. “Tell me something only a friend would know then.”

Shane thinks about it for a moment before settling on something harmless. “In his Russian ID, his eye colour is listed as ‘other’ because it changes colour depending on the lighting. Sometimes blue, sometimes green.”

It was enough to leave Marleau stunned. It’s a strange detail, but it stuck with Shane regardless. He remembers asking about it when they were 20 and the bartender had asked them for their ID.

“What about the Montreal-Boston rivalry thing?”

Shane’s hand freezes before he lowers his phone. “It doesn’t matter anymore now, does it?”

“I guess not.”

It feels like a stalemate, one Shane doesn’t know how to break. In the end, the need to see Ilya wins out and he pockets his phone with a sigh.

“Fuck it,” Shane curses and pulls out his spare access key Ilya had given him.

Marleau is suspiciously silent as he watches Shane swipe the key across the scanner and the door opens up for them. He looked like he was holding back a million questions as he followed Shane across the apartment foyer and into the elevator, all of which he kept to himself as they reached the right floor and headed towards Ilya’s apartment.

He reaches the door with too much familiarity for someone who is supposedly just a friend, too comfortable looking for keys that don’t belong to him and taking off his shoes in a place even Marley has only been to a handful of times.

Ilya has two homes in Boston. One apartment in the city proper and a house just outside of it. Most of the Bears have been to his house. It was big, grand. Abstract paintings decorating the walls and large floor to ceiling windows made lighting the halls. Impersonal. The apartment, in contrast, is cozy. Two bedrooms. An open plan living room. High security, advanced sound proofing, located in the corner of the building. One window facing bay and the other facing TD Gardens in the distance.

It was a place Ilya ran to when he wanted to be alone. Not a place someone like Shane Hollander should even know about.

“Ilya?” Shane calls out and Marley follows behind him mutely.

Silence greets them as they step deeper into the apartment, the emptiness yawning and stretching painfully. The silence was eerie. Shane wasn’t used to feeling unwelcomed in this space. Not here.

“I’ll check the kitchen," Marleau tells him and Shane nods in thanks.

Ilya isn’t in the study. The bathroom doors are all opened and each one is empty. Unless Ilya was purposefully hiding from him, that left one last room for him to check.

Shane finds him with his back against the bed in the silence of his room. He expected rage, destruction even. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

Instead, he finds defeat, a dull numbness he isn’t used to seeing on Ilya, his red eyes wet cheeks the only sign of his distress. It unsettles him more than he thought it would, the sight of someone with so much fight drained out of them.

“Hey,” he says softly, like he would to a wounded animal.

“Go away, Hollander,” Ilya croaks.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Ilya was too tired to scoff. Too burnt down to resist as Shane steps closer and lowers himself across from him.

“How are you?” Shane asks.

“Not good. Maybe bad,” Ilya admits. “I just,” his breath shudders around a sob before he squashes the impulse. “I’m okay.”

Shane doesn’t know who he is trying to convince.

“I’m okay,” Ilya repeats, like a prayer, begging for it to be true. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the pain in his chest to stop. “I just need a minute.”

Ilya always seemed like someone who would go down kicking and screaming. He was never one to confess his weaknesses so easily. The resignation in his voice made Shane’s chest ache with concern.

“Can I touch you?” He asks.

Dried tears cling to his lashes as he blinks, nodding slowly and Shane puts his hand on his knee. It’s a small point of contact, but the buzzing in Ilya’s blood slows, settling into a more tolerable hum. His fingers eased the white-knuckled grip wrapped around his thumbs. Something he did when things got too much.

Shane lets Ilya breathe for a moment, rubbing mindless patterns onto his knee and taking the time to come back to himself.

“Marleau is here,” Ilya seems to blink up at that. “Sorry. He just bumped into me and followed me up. Do you want me to get him?”

Marleau is to Ilya, who Hayden is to Shane. And as much as he wants to be there for Ilya, sometimes he thinks he might not be the right person.

Ilya shakes his head. “I do not want him to see me like this.”

He hates himself for the relief he feels at hearing those words. Now that he’s a lot closer, he can see the dried tear tracks on his face.

“Do you want me to go?”

He needs to hear it. He needs to know that he is wanted here, that Ilya doesn’t want to lick his wounds alone.

Another shake of his head and Shane sighs. “Ok. Can you text him that or something? I don’t think he’ll believe me if I told him.”

Ilya snorts mirthlessly. “Give me my phone,” he makes a grabby motion.

“Where is it?”

“On the bed.”

Shane grabs his phone and hands it to him, watching as he texts Marleau before tossing the phone across the floor haphazardly. The next few minutes he tentatively waits for the sound of Marleau leaving the apartment with a click of the door.

A sigh bleeds out of him now that they’re alone.

Shane slumps beside Ilya and presses against him, shoulder to shoulder, all the way down to his calves. The warm steady presence calms him more than he was willing to admit.

“How did you find out?” Shane asks.

Because there was no way Ilya could have found out about this and not tell Yuna or him about it. They had been so sure he would get re-signed, so sure he had done more than enough to prove his worth.

“The post,” Ilya says simply and Shane curses.

That’s a fucking shitty way to find out.

“Fucking hell, Ilya,” Shane sighs, head thumping back against the bed.

A franchise cornerstone and a cup winning captain. Traded for 2 defensemen from their third line and a back up goalie. Peanut shells in the grand scheme of things.

In Shane’s mind, Ilya was the type of captain any GM could dream of. He played well. He had full control of the locker room. He was deeply respected and endlessly loved by both his team and his fans. Hell, he won Boston a cup just the year before.

The idea that it wasn’t enough, that nothing he did could ever satisfy them terrified Shane. They traded their captain, for fuck sake. Pushed him into another division without having the decency to say it to his face, or to let him walk as a free agent. If someone like Ilya could be tossed aside so easily, what did that mean for him?

“There must be something we can do,” Shane mumbles.

“Hollander-”

“No, really. It doesn’t make sense. No warning, no waivers, no explanations. There must be something.”

Ilya sighs. Shame. He thought he had escaped that emotion the moment he left Russia, but tonight, he was cruelly reminded that it disregarded national borders. They had beaten him while he was down and tired and thrown him out without a single notice. He doesn’t have the energy to rationalise any of this.

“I don’t want to do anything, ok? I don’t want to be somewhere I’m not wanted.”

“But they do want you. I don’t know about your coaches but your team looks about ready to go to war for you. I swear, it’s all over social media. Your PR person is in for one hell of a week.”

It soothes some or the sting of rejection Ilya feels at least, knowing his boys have his back. But it doesn’t change the fact that the deal is done. The trade has been signed.

“I can have my legal team contact yours. I’m sure my mom is looking into it as we speak. We can force them to back out of the deal.”

It finally earns him a smile, even if it is mirthless by nature.

“You would do that? Send your mom and your legal team to fight my team?”

“Well yeah, I’m pretty sure my mom’s about ready to go anyways,” Shane rolls his eyes. Yuna loves him too much to let something like this go unnoticed. “Just say the word, and we’ll get it done.”

It's a tempting thought, a battle Ilya has no energy to fight. He loved his team, and he loved this city, but that announcement showed him how little any of that mattered. How little they cared about him.

“No,” he sighs. “No, I’ll move to New York.”

“Okay then,” Shane nods, even though he has a thousand different arguments to choose from. Because it isn’t his place for him to fight a battle he doesn’t want fought. All he can do right now is be his friend. “How long did they give you?”

“A week? I need to move but not today.”

Shane concedes. Not now. But now is a good time for him to put his real estate expertise to work.

“Okay. In the meantime, I’ll contact my realtor and try to narrow down some options for you.”

Ilya huffs in amusement, letting his head fall against his shoulder. Typical Hollander, Ilya thinks fondly. Always thinking about a plan.

“You’re in the middle of playoffs,” he tries to remind him.

“Oh please. You know I love a good logistical puzzle,” Shane wraps his arm around Ilya’s shoulder, letting the other melt against him as he begins making a mental list of things he needs to do. “It’ll probably be good for me anyways. So I don’t overthink so much.”

Ilya hums in understanding, relaxing into the warmth of Shane’s hold while cursing his luck. He presses his cheek against Shane’s neck and fights back another wave of tears.

“Fuck, this sucks,” he spits out.

“It does. But the Admirals are still an Original 6. And they’re not much worse than the Bears were when we started out. They’ve got good players, they just don’t know how to use them.”

He doesn’t mention the fact they won’t be in the same division anymore. Or that Montreal’s rivalry with New York is nowhere near as intense as the one with Boston.

Shane admires the way Ilya’s hair curls around his fingers, wraps them in gold thread.

“Well figure it out, ok?” he says softly against his temple and Ilya’s eyes squeeze shut, blinking away tears he thought he was done shedding.

Shane grasps his face firmly, hands splayed across his jaw and kisses him hard and brief enough to shake him out of his stupor. It worked stupidly well and Ilya finds himself holding back a smile.

Forgive me, Yuna. I think I’m in love with your son.

Ilya has stifled many of his feelings throughout the years. This one felt like something he was too tired to fight. It felt like an inevitability, a realisation that landed softly against his heart just as it was starting to break and he was hopeless against its warmth.

“Okay,” is all he manages to say, cradled into the hard lines of Shane’s neck, and for the first time since he read that damn announcement, he felt like he could breathe.

Once they got over the shock, the Hollanders helped the best way they knew how. They fussed.

True to his word, Shane sent him a pre-screened list of properties available along with a table with the pros and cons of each listing. How he manages to do this mid-playoff run is beyond him.

He realised, after the dust settled a little, that he wanted nothing more than to distance himself from Boston. The city he once called home, the place he had come to love and the people he held close became unrecognisable.

His team had been undeniably shocked, but their anger barely soothed the hurt he felt.

So he and Svetlana went through the comprehensive moving checklist Yuna had given him weeks ago and packed his life into boxes, set to be picked up by the moving company David recommended. He would keep the house in his portfolio like Yuna said, and hand over a large portion of his cars to Sveta.

God, he had to give them up too.

It felt so strange, packing 5 years of his life into a few measly boxes and giving away the rest. He had both more and less stuff than he thought he would have and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. He was mostly done with packing when he heard a knock on his door. Ilya frowns as he walks towards his entryway. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he certainly isn’t in any mood to see anyone, but the moment he peeks through the peakhole, he gasps and swings the door open.

“Yuna,” he says in disbelief.

Yuna had heard the news the same way everyone else did, from the internet. Her first reaction was anger. She was so angry on his behalf. Blindsided by the carelessness of it all. A captain. A Stanley Cup winning captain. Too young to be protected by a no-trade clause, traded hours before the deadline.

Her second reaction was concern. She called him over and over again, only for her calls to go straight to voicemail. She had half the mind to fly down to Boston herself first thing in the morning when she got a text from Shane saying he was already there. He moves quick, her boy, and the concern settles into a gentle murmur.

She made the trip down once the moving date was clear.

“Wow, this place is truly beautiful,” she says as she takes in the now-empty space. She laments having never had the chance to appreciate its warmth.

“Yes,” Ilya admits. It held a lot of precious memories for him, and now he would have to let it go. “But Yuna, what are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, I’m here to make the drive down with you.”

Ilya looks at her incredulously. “You didn’t have to.”

“I want to,” she insists, just as she had the first time they met that one summer many years ago. “David wanted to be here as well but he’s caught up with work, at the moment.”

“It’s a 4 hour drive.”

Yuna shrugs. “That’s not too bad.”

She helps him fold the fitted sheets into a neat square.

“My mother sent me off on my first day of kindergarten,” she tells him as she zips up the last of the luggages. He tries to tell her not to bother but she waves him off. “And on my first day of elementary school. Then middle school. Then high school. Then again when I got into McGill. She even made the trip up from Vancouver even though she hated flying, just so she could be there for me on my first week in a new city. I did the same for Shane when he went to Kingston, and again when he moved to Montreal.”

Yuna turns to him and puts a hand on his arm, a small comforting smile on her face. “So let me do this for you too, okay?”

After all this time, Ilya still looked at kindness with caution. And while the wariness had tapered down over time, recent life-altering changes have brought them back to the surface.

They load the remainder of Ilya’s things into his Jeep Wrangler, a car Yuna is sure he bought as some sort of dig against her son’s more sensible automobile choices.

‘It’s good in the snow,’ is all he said with a snicker when he first bought it.

They make the drive out of the city and the familiar skyline disappears in the rear mirror. Yuna spends the time telling him stories about David's hockey years and it was a welcomed distraction from the monotony of the drive.

After a restless 4 hours, they make it past state lines and into Manhattan. The city was suffocatingly urban, with skyscrapers kissing the sky like it dared to challenge the gods. Ilya thinks Shane would hate it here.

Or maybe not, he had a strange habit of surprising him.

The part that stood out to Ilya the most were the array of colourful flags scattered across the city.

“Must be prepping for the pride parade,” Yuna says, as they stop at a red-light. “I heard it’s going to be huge this year. What with the government legalising same-sex marriage this year and all that.”

Canada, of course, had legalised it years prior.

Ilya stares distantly at the large rainbow flags. This is his new home, 4 hours from Boston and a damn far cry from Russia. It was so surreal it almost feels like a dream.

“I’m bisexual,” he finds himself admitting quietly to Yuna.

“Oh,” she says in mild surprise. “Well, thank you for telling me, Ilya.”

A simple acceptance, no push back or questions about how he knew or if he was sure. It emboldened him.

“No one in Boston knew. But here… I think I want to… lie less.”

The car stops at another red light and Yuna turns to Ilya with wide eyes. “You want to come out?”

“No, no,” Ilya shakes his head urgently. “No. Not for very long time, I think. It’s not safe, with Russia.”

Yuna hums in agreement. “That’s true.”

It’s a shame he didn’t get traded into a Canadian team. Yuna would have had him apply for citizenship, maybe even adopt him, just for some peace of mind.

“I think there’s no harm to living a little more authentically,” Yuna says honestly. “The Admirals are a pretty good bunch. I’ve only ever heard good things about their rooms. And Carter Vaughn is pretty active in a lot of outreach circles.”

It’s true. Ilya himself has seen the guy reposting articles from all over the place, gay rights included.

“And I talked to Eric Bennet at the awards a couple years ago. He seems really nice.”

He hums in agreement. Ilya has done his own cursory breakdown of the Admirals roster. They were a pretty talented bunch, if only they knew how to connect their plays better. For the most part, the guys on the team were pretty nice.

There are a few bad eggs here and there but it isn’t like he plans on coming out to the whole team. He just doesn’t feel like hiding so adamantly anymore.

“Does Shane know?” Yuna asks.

Ilya shrugs. Not entirely sure. He knows he’s attracted to men, sure. But he has never explicitly told Shane that.

They arrive in a small private neighbourhood in Gramercy, with a park only residents could access and top of the line security.

“Wow, Shane has really outdone himself,” Yuna notes.

It’s a beautiful 3 bedroom apartment. Clean lines, double glassed windows and a stunning view of the city. A corner apartment, just like the one he had in Boston. Slate grey marble islands and warm wood coffee tables. It was far enough from Madison Square Gardens that you couldn’t hear the noise, but you could see the way it lights up at night. Off to the side, Yuna could spot the Flatiron building and she was struck with an odd sense of nostalgia. It looked just like the Gooderham Building in Toronto. She briefly wonders if Shane chose this place on purpose.

It had the bones of his old apartment but none of its intricacies, the familiarity a mercy in this new city.

Yuna turns around and sees Ilya still standing by the door, looking out into his new home. He has been quiet the whole journey here, still in shock as his mind tries to catch up with reality and her heart aches for him. And now that he was here, he looked so small, almost lost in the sea of changes.

He had moved countries, learned a new language, forced himself to become an adult all on his own.

No, she corrects. Not on her own. She and David had been there for bits and pieces of it, and she is glad she is here for him now.

“Come here,” she urges softly.

Ilya carefully toes off his shoes and lets her pull him into a strong hug.

“You did nothing wrong, okay?” She tells him adamantly. “You were a great captain, an amazing teammate and an infuriatingly brilliant hockey player. Second only to my son.”

Ilya laughs wetly as she squeezes his ribs. He doesn’t remember the last time someone held him so securely.

“You dragged a team up from 6th to first. You did it once, and you will do it again. That, I am sure,” she continues. “You are allowed to be sad about what they did to you. You are allowed to be angry, but don’t let that stop you from being here. From starting this new life.”

He nods against her shoulder. Yuna steps back and cradles his face in her hands with a reassuring smile.

“We’re here for you. That doesn’t change. If you need to rant to someone, talk about nothing, complain about a teammate or a leaky faucet. Anything. Whatever you need, just let me know. Okay?”

The smile he gives her doesn’t reach his eyes, but it isn’t fake either. This part of his life has changed, but none of the other bits have.

Manhattan, April 2015

The doors to Straw+berry chime as a customer walks in and Maria puts on her best customer service voice.

“Welcome to Strawberry, what can I get for you today?”

The man stands with his hands in his hoodie, eyes narrowed as he mouths the mess of words describing their signature smoothies. A mess of blonde curls peek out of his hood. He clearly just came in from a run, his skin glistening from the early summer heat as he reaches up to run his hand through his hair. God those arms. Bless sleeveless hoodies.

“Sorry, can you just recommend something?” she doesn't expect the sharp Russian accent that hits her ears.

“Sure. Are you looking for something sweet or sour?”

The blonde frowns. “Sweet. No banana.”

“Alright, not a problem. Something healthy?”

The man seems to consider this for a while before settling on an answer. “No. Anything with protein?”

“I can make you a high protein milkshake?” she suggests.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Strawberry?”

“Sorry. We’re out of strawberries at the moment. Shipment delays,” she says apologetically.

He looks at her like she is out of her mind. “Your store name is strawberry but you’re out of stock?”

“Dramatic irony, I know,” she laughs. “We have every other type of berry though. And every drink comes with a straw, so that counts right? How does blueberry sound?”

“Sure.”

He settles on a blueberry oreo milkshake with added protein and sits in the corner glaring at his phone. Maria tries not to let her eyes keep wandering to him, both out of caution and because, wow is he a sight for sore eyes.

Still, something about him looks familiar. A model? Actor? Athlete?

Whatever.

She settles back onto her stool and flips through the spanish novela her cousin had lent her the other day.

A slap rings outside the store and Maria jumps in her seat. There is a couple yelling outside with an older lady beside them.

They speak in rapidfire Spanish and Maria winces. It’s far too early for this.

The blonde customer from earlier leans closer to the counter, casually sipping his drink while his eyes remain on the commotion outside.

“You speak spanish, yes?” The blonde asks.

Maria looks at him with narrowed eyes, almost defensive. “What makes you say that?”

He raises his brows and points at the book on her lap, the title clearly in Spanish. Right.

She clears her throat. “Fine. Yes, I speak Spanish.”

“Can you translate?” He asks cheekily. His smile was incredibly disarming.

She returns the mischievous look and leans forward against the counter. “It’s going to cost you.”

The blonde rolls his eyes and passes a 20. Amazing.

“Ok, so that girl is his wife, the woman next to him is his mom. She’s saying he went out with his sister.”

“Ooohhh,” the blonde wiggles in his seat, leaning closer. “Go on.”

“His mom is trying to take this somewhere more private and oh wait,” she pauses to listen some more. “She’s saying the mom is supportive of him cheating?”

“No,” blonde guys gasps and urges her to continue.

“And now the mom is saying it’s because she’s infertile.”

Now the blonde’s brows furrow. “Are they married?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Then how does she know that?”

“Beats me,” Maria shrugs. Damn, they’re finally taking this to somewhere more private. Shame.

She turns to the blonde with a smile. “You new around here?”

He nods. “Just moved here.”

Maria holds out her hand. “Maria Vasquez. I think we’re going to be good friends.

“Ilya,” the blonde returns the smile. First name only. But something about it was enough to jolt her memory.

“Oh my god, you’re that guy everyone’s been talking about. Ice hockey, right?”

He looks slightly tenser at the idea of being recognised. “Yes. You follow?”

“Nah. Just saw the announcement. You were trending everywhere,” Maria emphasises the last word.

“Trust me. Not my choice,” his smile quirks.

“Single?” she asks hopefully.

“Not looking.”

That’s code speak for ‘it’s complicated’.

“Damn,” she says casually. “Well, welcome to New York. Concrete jungle wet dream tomato and all that.”

It earns her a small laugh out of the blonde. “Thank you.”

“I swear it’s not always this dramatic here.”

“As long as it is not me, I don’t mind,” Ilya shrugs.

Not my circus, not my monkeys and all that.

“I’ll be sure to keep you updated if they come back.”

“Do I have to pay translation fee every time?”

“Eh, maybe we can work on a customer loyalty system,” she jokes.

“I will come back next time then. Bye, Maria.”

“Have a nice day, Ilya.”

The blonde leaves the store and Maria settles back behind the counter. She still has a couple more hours before Kip clocks in.

Scott got the announcement the morning after Boston’s press statement went live. It was so unexpected he had to sit with it for a while before heading out to practice.

Within minutes, his phone lit up so often he just turned it off and tossed onto his couch. He’ll think about it later.

Ilya fucking Rozanov, an Admiral.

Coach Murdock had reassured him that he was keeping the C, but whether or not Rozanov was going to be taking an A remained to be seen.

Scott learns, once he finally has the mental energy to dip back into social media, that Ilya Rozanov is loved deeply, by both the team and their fans. Boston fans all over the internet and stuck between cursing the Admirals for taking him, demanding the resignation of their GM and lamenting the sudden move. Understandably so. Rozanov had carried the franchise on his shoulders and gave them a cup, right off the back of a catastrophically short Olympic run. He had a personality the size of his mouth and enough skill to shut all his critics up. He was annoying, yes, but Scott has long learned that there were certain lines he didn’t cross.

He’s a generational talent. One of two kinds. One big enough to singlehandedly lead the biggest PR nightmare in the franchise’s history.

Public and uncontrollable, scathing words in defense of their captain, threats and raised fists, taken down within the hour by the Bears’ PR team. But the damage was already done. The room was divisive, it was management vs. players, all laid out for the fans to watch like a bloodsport.

So Scott was understandably nervous about having him as a teammate. So much so he woke up one night in cold sweat thinking Rozanov would win his team over and turn them against him. He’s already taken every other record Scott has set, with Hollander taking the remainder of them.

Like the two 2010 rookies have made it their personal mission to demolish his hard earned legacy piece by piece.

He would be stupid to not think it was possible. Ilya Rozanov is a controversial character, but Boston’s affection for him is unanimous. None of his teammates spoke a bad word against him. Not the rookies, the coaches, not even the damn PR lady. Even Ryan Price defended him. And the guy had only played with him for one season! Every fan encounter, every hospital visit, every hockey camp. They all had nothing but good things to say about him.

Scott bumps into Hollander at a fundraiser hoping he could get some dirt on the guy completely forgetting that despite being bitter divisional rivals, Hollander was one of the only handful of people Rozanov genuinely respected.

“Oh, he’s fuuucking annoying,” Hollander says, sounding a little too fond. “But he’s not a bad guy,” is what he got out of him.

Huh. Looks like Scott was going to have to form his own judgements about the kid.

Rozanov arrives to practice before he does with Vaughny already laughing at his jokes and Benny shaking his head and clapping him on the back. Beside them, the rookies were looking at them with awe in their eyes.

“Eyyy! Look who's here!” Vaughny calls out.

“Sup.” Scott claps him on the back. He greets Benny with the same casual clap on the back before finally turning to Rozanov.

The Russian menace looks at him with a knowing smirk, his self-assured nature tapered down into something more controlled. He was quiet, and Scott didn’t know what to do with a quiet Rozanov. It was unnerving.

“Roz,” he greets.

“Hunter,” Rozanov nods.

“Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks. Always wanted to know what it’s like to play with Big 6’s founding father.”

Ah, there’s the pesky Russian he knows.

“Seriously dude? We’re on the same team now.”

The blonde shrugs. “Doesn’t make you any younger.”

“For fuck sake,” Scott snorts. “Alright. Get out there before coach comes after both of us.”

Rozanov slides beside the younger players doing off-ice drills like he wasn’t a Stanley Cup winning captain. He followed along without a single chirp like hockey was an unfamiliar game, as though the rink wasn’t his domain.

Scott had played against the Russian for almost his entire senior career and all the signs pointed to a boisterous, loud, arrogant asshole with a nasty wrist shot that had goalies sweating in their sleep. That is to say nothing prepared him for the quiet confidence he had in his own skills, or the easy gait and casual drawl that charmed and intrigued people in equal measure.

The moment his skates hit the ice, that all changed. Even when he was silent, his presence was hard to ignore. It commanded attention, a king in his court. He took to the ice like he was born with blades tied to his feet, cutting patterns into the ice as he crisscrossed the circumference of the practice rink like he was trying to memorise its intricacies.

You can’t fake that sort of ease.

Halfway through his 3rd lap, the younger players start to follow his lead as well. They were nowhere near his speed, struggling to keep up with him as they rounded the corners, but each lap got easier and Murdock was content to watch.

Boston might have injured his pride, but it did nothing to dim his light. It took a certain type of support system to maintain that edge of confidence.

“Coach?” Scott looks at him expectantly.

Murdock watches as the group passes the red line and Rozanov does a textbook 3 turn and switches to backward skates.

“He’s not what I expected,” he says with a smile.

“Is that a good thing?”

One of the guys from the younger guys takes a tumble after imitating his turns and laughs it off. He doesn’t notice Ilya slowing just a little as he waits for him to rejoin the group.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a letter on his chest, or that he didn’t invite anyone to join him. The younger players followed him like ducks, a natural leader.

“Very.” Murdock finally turns to Scott. “If he wants the rookie treatment, we’ll give it to him. Pair him with one of the veterans.”

Scott’s brows raise. “You want someone to ‘buddy’ Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yea. Put him in with Bennett. They look like they’d fit.”

“Whatever you say, coach.”

With a sharp whistle, Murdock finally starts the on ice practice.

“Rozanov!”

The blonde turns and sees the GM waving at him, cocking his head towards his office. Looks like he wanted a word with their new forward.

Rozanov looked at Scott in question, to which he shrugs. After dumping all his gear into his locker and changing into a hoodie the Russian squares his shoulders and walks into a GM’s office.

Time to see what all this is about.

“Rozanov! Welcome. Please, have a seat.”

Ilya takes a seat at the table and watches carefully as DiMarco makes himself a cup of tea.

“Sorry we haven’t been able to chat before this. The trade caused a lot of noise, as you can probably tell.”

Ilya nods mutedly, still trying to gauge the direction of the conversation.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” he says in a friendly tone. Seems like it is going to be a friendly chat.

“A coffee, please,” he asks politely. He doesn’t need the extra caffeine, but he needs something to hold on to if they were going to be having this conversation.

DiMarco hands him a cup of coffee with some creamer and sugar on the side and sits across from him.

“Coach Murdock will be joining us shortly. In the meantime, I’m happy to answer you must have,” he laces his fingers together.

Ilya’s thumbs fiddle with the smooth surface of the paper cup. He can’t say he has that many at the moment. He is sure he has a list of them once his mind fully wraps around this new reality, but there was one that stood out to him.

“How?”

The GM blinks calmly. “How what?”

“How did this happen?”

“Ah,” DiMarco nods in understanding. “Well, we asked for you and they gave you to us. It was a pretty expensive trade, I’ll tell you that. Your contract wasn’t cheap and we had to make up a lot of cap space just to have you on board,” he laughs.

Ilya simply smiles of courtesy. This is his GM now, might as well maintain a good image.

“Do you know why? On their side?” Ilya asks, just for closure. To find out what he did that wronged them so badly they weren’t willing to let him walk as a free agent.

DiMarco shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. But we’re grateful to have you here.”

It occurred to him, then, that New York had asked for him before even knowing if he was going to re-sign. It gnaws on the corners of his curiosity.

“You asked for me?” He asks finally, just as Murdock walks in.

“Ah! Harv! Right on time,” DiMarco says. He greets the coach with a clap on the back and they both take a seat.

“So, Rozanov, to answer your question, yes. We did ask for you. For a couple years actually,” DiMarco continues. “We would have drafted you if we could’ve, but alas,” he throws his hands wide. “Our draft spot that year was horrible.”

Ilya vaguely remembers this. New York was, what, 17th that year? They managed to negotiate a 6th place but that was nowhere near 1st. And Boston was eager to get their hands on him. Oh how the tables have turned.

“Why?” he finally asks.

This time, Murdock answers. “Well, Rozanov, we’ve followed your progress since World Juniors. Then again in the Vancouver Olympics. You’re adaptable, quick thinking, resourceful. We need someone like that on our team.”

It pains him that English chooses to fail him at this time. He recognises the tone, but not the adjectives.

“For what?”

DiMarco looks a little sheepish at this. “Well, truth be told, we’re a little… stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Yes. See, we know we have a lot of very good players on our hands, and they get along pretty well, but there seems to be some sort of wall we can’t break past. We’re strong contenders for the playoffs but we never actually make it past the conference finals.”

“So… you want me to fix the problem?”

“Well, that would be nice,” Murdock starts. “But we figured we’d start by figuring out what the problem is in the first place.”

Because Ilya has proven time and time again that he knows how to read a room, when to push and pull and where all the sore spots are. He knows the best way to chirp without using hateful rhetoric and has an iron grip on his locker rooms. Every player is heard and accounted for. He can read a play before it even starts to unfold and watches teams with a careful eye.

“Krylya Sovetov. 18th place when you started, won the Kharlamov cup in 2009. Russian U19, 3rd place in 2008, gold in 2009. Silver in 2010, lost to Canada,” a sparkle of mischief gleamed in Murdock’s eyes. “Boston Bears. Haven't been to the playoffs in a decade when you were drafted, won the cup in 2014.”

Having his team history being read out to him feels a little surreal. It seemed like an indirect complement he didn’t know how to receive. “But I lost in the Olympics.”

To which DiMarco snorts. “You’re a generational talent, not a miracle worker. I doubt you even knew half the players on that roster. When was the last time you played at Worlds?”

That’s a rhetorical question, Ilya thinks. He hasn’t been to Worlds since 2011, what with the way they overlapped with the playoffs.

“Look,” DiMarco leans forward. “We’re not looking to rebuild the franchise, and we neither have the time nor money to restructure it. We’re looking for a wrench in our gears or a splinter in our foot. I don’t know. But we’re confident you’re up to the task. Let us know what you think of the team, where you think the problems are and we will do our best to help.”

Some of the pressure eases off his chest. It doesn’t answer all his questions but lessens the ambiguity of his circumstance. He is wanted here, not thrown to the wolves, and for now that is enough.

“Okay,” he nods.

A smile breaks across DiMarco’s face. “Great,” he stands up to shake his hand. “Pleasure to be working with you Rozanov.”

Ilya shakes his hand firmly. “Same.”

“Oh, and Rozanov,” Murdock calls out before he stands. “Last question. Do you want the A?”

He considers it for a moment and shakes his head.

“No. Let me earn it,” he says, and the coach nods in satisfaction.

A month later, Ilya finds himself laying on the couch alone watching Shane lift the cup high above his head. The Admirals had been knocked out before Ilya could properly integrate into the team. He finds he isn’t all that upset over it. Not when Shane’s joy is so contagious, his brown eyes sparkling. Ilya smiles to himself, endlessly proud, but infinitely fond.

“Lucky,” he had sent in lieu of a congratulations.

He gets a reply almost immediately and tries not to think too much about how warm he feels that Shane is texting him when he should be celebrating.

“The luckiest.”

He reads the reply over and over again and looks out at the city that never sleeps.

And just like that, the score board is now even.

It took a while for Ilya to finally start feeling like himself. He decides to go for a drink at a bar a couple blocks from his apartment. The light in the bar was warm, a variety of tournaments playing on the multitude of TV screens.

Great, a sports bar.

Ilya decides to take a seat between the screen playing the Boston Pride’s first game against the New York Riveters and… some European volleyball tournament? Sure, why not.

The bartender looks at him cautiously but passes him the beer he orders. He was 2 periods into the women’s hockey game when a woman with long dark hair, warm tanned skin and an aura not unlike Sveta walks up to him.

“Ilya Rozanov. Didn’t expect to see you at a gay bar.”

His hand pauses as he lifts the beer to his lips. “This is gay bar?”

“Did you not see the big rainbow flag outside?"

The blonde shrugs. “Thought it was just queer friendly.”

Fair enough. With a tilt of her head, Elena Rygg looks at Rozanov carefully.

“Are you?” she asks.

“Am I what? Queer or friendly?”

“Either or.”

He doesn’t give her answer, instead opting to take a swig of his beer and winking at her. He drains the rest of his bottle and lays down a few bills on the bar.

“See you around,” he says and waves off.

What an odd guy.

Montreal, September 2015

Montreal Management had brought in a couple new guys from the CHL. This in itself isn’t new. Training camp is always flooded with players up and down the talent pool.

Shane has always paid more attention to these. New blood, no matter how old, can change the dynamic of the team. Like adding salt to a polymer, either it gels more, or the structure you worked so hard to set up collapses into a watery mess.

There is a defenseman from Ontario laughing in the corner. His eyes flick to Shane for a fraction of a second and his smirk grows. Call it instinct, experience or paranoia, when you’ve spent more than half your life being othered, you learn the signs.

Maybe it’s newbie nerves, maybe Shane really is paranoid. Either way, he has to be a captain now, and he hopes this doesn’t come bite him in the ass.

Boston, September 2015

The air in Boston had a familiar scent, one that wrapped around Ilya like a nostalgic blanket. It feels odd, walking into the guest locker rooms of TD Garden, and as much as he loathes it, he had to admit Diaz was right.

Boston’s guest locker rooms were a form of psychological warfare. Cold, drafty, filled with stale air. Feels weird being on the receiving end of it after 5 years on the other side.

“Ilya!” He heard his name called out, and a whole line of staff were there to greet him.

“Rebecca,” he laughs as the old receptionist gives him a hug.

“Aww,” she squeezes him tightly.

“We missed you, bud,” the sound guy pats him on the back.

“Yeah. If we’d known that was your last day, we would’ve thrown a whole party! Center ice!” Derek, the equipment manager tells us.

“Jared wanted to be here, but you know how security is on game day,” one of the ushers said.

“Yes. Don’t want anyone to be fired for not doing their job,” Ilya shakes his head.

The staff laugh as they corral him into a group photo.

Scott watches mutedly as he passes. He walks into the locker room and watches as the younger players laughed to themselves, their voice carried above Burke’s pre-game playlist.

“Dude. She’s so hot,” Muller laughs as he looks at Leberg’s phone. “I mean look at that rack.”

“Right? With a dress like that, she’s just asking for it.”

“Dude!” Carter walks in with his arms in the air. “What the fuck? That’s creepy as shit.”

“What are you talking about Vaughn?” Leberg laughs.

“‘Asking for it’? That’s some fucked up shit you’re talking about.”

“He’s right, Bergy,” Scott tosses his clothes into his bag. “That’s pretty messed up.”

He feels the weight of Rozanov’s gaze heavy on his shoulders as he walks into the room. The Russian menace is strangely quiet for once, looking a little paler than he did in the hallway but perhaps that’s just the terrible lighting in here.

“Let up, cap,” Zullo jumps in. “He’s just a kid.”

“Yeah, man, relax. I was just talking shit,” Leberg laughs awkwardly.

“Shit is right,” Rozanov finally jumps in.

“Aww, not you too, Roz,” Zullo laughs.

“If women want something from me, they come to me,” he says without any humour.

“Alright. We get it. You’re hot. Women love you,” Leberg laughs.

“Maybe you should take some notes, Bergy,” Vaughn laughs. “Might learn a thing or two about how to properly pick up women.”

Scott would’ve pushed back against that, yet every time he has seen Rozanov with a woman, they seem relaxed around him, like they knew they could trust him.

“Maybe after the game,” Scott finally ends the conversation. “Now get out there and let's win this thing.”

The boys cheered and travelled their way down the corridor.

Even before they entered the tunnels, they could hear it, the cheers or the crowd ringing vibrant in TD Gardens. And if you strain enough, you could hear it.

“Rozanov! Rozanov!”

One of the TVs was streaming the live coverage and you could see hand made signs all across the crowd.

‘We miss you’

‘O Captain, My Captain’

‘Come home!’

‘Once a Bear, Always a Bear ❤️’

Beside him, Rozanov smiles to himself. That’s right, this was his home for 5 years, the team that drafted him and the fans who vehemently defended him. Boston loved Rozanov and his departure was like a heartache, ever persistent and unresolved.

“One hell of a homecoming, huh?” Vaughny claps the Russian on the back.

“Yes,” he answers simply. “Let’s give them a good show then.”

New York floods the ice with their white and red uniforms and Boston greets them with a playful challenge. 

It feels odd, seeing Rozanov on his right instead of his front. His presence is made to be known, a large personality even in his silence. Even after a scant month with the new team, Scott could see his fingerprints everywhere. In their new drills, their new line ups, strategies. All of it.

Despite not having a letter on his chest, Coach Murdock asked him for his opinion constantly and valued his input greatly.

“Fancy seeing you here, Roz,” Hammersmith slides beside him, anticipating the puck drop. “You come here often?”

“Meh, used to. Got tired of smelling your nasty feet,” he responds with a smirk.

The Boston forward laughs and misses when Marleau wins the face-off. Rozanov skates off with the puck, going wide and leaning hard on his edges as he dodges his old teammates’ checks and passes the puck to Vaughny.

By then, Scott has managed to catch up to them right ahead of the goal. He catches the puck but has nowhere to go so he passes the puck back to Rozanov, who flicks his stick and buries it in the goal.

“Wooh!” Rozanov howls.

“Good one Rozy,” Vaughny pats him on the shoulder.

“Show off,” Carmichael laughs.

“Eyy, make sure to pass to me next, yeah?” Connors digs, hoping the old familiar uniform might cause Rozanov to slip up.

“No chance, Conny,” he shakes his head.

It irked Scott just how easy this all was for him, how well loved he was by his old team and quickly getting used to his new one when Scott himself had taken months to feel like he even belonged in the team.

His aggressive plays got them 2 points in the first quarter, one assist for Vaughny.

“How you like them apples,” Ilya chirps with a smile.

None from Scott. The team all cheer as they reach out to hi-five Rozanov after the goal and he feels like he is slowly being robbed of his team, replaced, maybe not in name, but in spirit. By someone with a louder personality, someone who fits in easier, someone with genuine talent.

The moment they call for intermission, Scott steps off the ice and looks for a place to be alone.

The guest area in TD Gardens was not unfamiliar to him, yet beyond that, all the hallways looked identical. He takes a right, passing the equipment room then a left down the hall before hitting a dead end. Cursing, he traces back his steps, turns left and enters some sort of unfamiliar hallway. Maybe he should have just gone into the equipment room and bore with the smell of rancid gear.

“You’re going to get lost.”

The voice shocks him and he spins around to find Rozanov looking at him with a neutral expression.

“Shut up. I’m… just… fuck, I don’t know.” This seems like as good a place as any to have a breakdown.

Scott slides down the wall and onto his ass as his breath quickens.

“Whoah, whoah, hey,” Rozanov’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle as he slides down into a squat and rubs his hands up and down Scott’s back.

He’s unusually calm in the face of a panic attack, almost like he was used to seeing it.

“Hey. Breathe Hunter,” Rozanov says slowly. “Follow me, yes?”

Scott tries to follow the Russian’s exaggerated breaths, inhaling, holding his breath before exhaling. It takes a moment for him to reorient himself.

“Fuck, this place is like a maze.”

“Yes. Got lost here during first week.”

He doesn’t need to know just how direction blind Ilya can be. It takes a while for him to regain his bearings and Scott hides his face in his hands.

“Doesn’t it bother you? That you’re playing against your boys?”

“Not really. We do scrimmages all the time, yes? Feels like that.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t a scrimmage. This is a real game!”

Sort of. It’s pre-season. No one cares.

“Yes, but it's only game,” Ilya pitches his voice, exaggerating his accent. “Why you heff to be mad?”

Scott pauses in his panic to look up at the Russian incredulously. “Did you just quote Ilya Bryzgalov at me?”

The other shrugs with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. It pulls a reluctant laugh out of Scott, his breath slowly calming down.

“You were their captain,” he says.

“Yes, but. Now I’m not,” Ilya nods. “They will always be my brothers, but I cannot be their captain anymore.” His smile softens, a little sad but still proud at what he had accomplished in the past 5 years. “My boys. Not my team, yes?”

The distinction was small, but Scott understood it clearly and he hung his head with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Fuck. Can’t believe I got a pep talk from Ilya Rozanov.”

“Eh. Old people forget things all the time. Is normal for dinosaur like you.”

“And there it is,” Scott laughs.

“You survived 6 mass extinctions. You can survive 1 hockey game with me.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.”

He followed Rozanov back into the locker room and no one seemed to notice they went missing in the first place.

Scott scores himself a goal in the 2nd period and assists Ilya in another in the 3rd, bringing them to a 4-2 the final countdown towards the end of the game.

The crowd comes alive as the buzzer reaches 00:00 and Ilya laughs as he spins in his spot, taking in the applause and the whistles. Flowers and plushies make their way onto the ice, as though he had just given them a performance rather than a game.

He picks up one of the teddy bears near his feet, wearing a mini Rozanov #81 jersey, and a plush wire rose, wrapping it around his wrist.

“Rozanov!” Ilya turns to the familiar voice from the bench.

Just as he had for the past 5 years, LeClaire beckons him over.

Ilya smiles as he skates up to Boston’s bench, never mind the rivaling jersey on his shoulders. The team taps their helmets together, gives him fist bumps and claps him on the back before he finally reaches the coach.

LeClaire wraps his arms around his shoulder tightly, an apology, a thanks and a farewell all in one.

“Proud of you, kid,” he says into his ear and Ilya has to resist the urge to cry. This man had mentored him through growing pains and language barriers. He owed more to this man than he knows how to repay.

Up on the stands, the fans have risen to their feet, their applause like static as Ilya skates back onto the ice.

He turns to the home crowd as they clap, raising one arm and another before taking a bow, pressing one hand to his chest. A laugh ripples through the crowd at the figure-skater’s bow.

One after another, the Bears start to skate over to him, knocking their helmets together and giving him one last hug. His laughter is wet but bright as it rings across the ice.

He understands it, he thinks. It’s a truce, a ceasefire for as long as the pre-season lasts, a farewell to their king.

Once points are on the table, he will be an Admiral in their eyes. They will call for his blood, and based on the wide smile on Ilya’s face, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

A small seed of envy worms its way into Scott’s chest. Ilya Rozanov will forever be remembered as the captain that gave Boston their cup.

Scott had been a captain just as long, and has nothing to show for it.

Lily

Can I call?

Shane near jumps from his seat when he sees the text. They almost never call, their rendezvous tucked exclusively into the simplicity of text chains and subtle looks across the ice. Calls were personal. There was no hiding a person’s tone when they spoke.

Jane

Sure

He waits with bated breath for the grey ticks to double, then turn blue and when his phone finally rings, he takes breath, lets it ring twice before picking it up.

“Hello?” he asks.

No sound comes out from the other end and Shane has to pull his phone away just to make sure the call went through.

“You answered,” Ilya states with some sense of wonder.

“You called,” Shane replied like it was that easy. “I watched the game earlier,” he says, just to fill the silence.

A tired laugh makes its way through. “Of course you did.”

“That goal in the second period was crazy.”

A laugh comes through the speakers, its sound distorted by signals and microphones. “But was cool shot, no?”

“Sure,” he returns the laugh. “If your only goal is to make it into the highlights reel.”

The awkwardness settled between them, an unsureness bleeding into their stilted words and hesitant admissions.

“I met the rink staff before the game,” Ilya finally says after a beat. “They gave me farewell gift.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was,” after a beat of silence he takes in an audible breath. “They figured out why I got traded.”

The air in the room thinned and Shane had to breathe slowly to stop himself from spiralling.

“Alright,” he prompts. On the other end of the line, Ilya takes a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start.

“Do you know Callie Schiff?” Ilya asks.

Shane frowns as he tries to recall the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Do we know her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Apparently that's Patrice Dupont’s latest girlfriend.”

“... okay?” The Boston director of hockey operations has a reputation for being allergic to commitment. It doesn’t stop him from bringing these women to NHL events. But why are they discussing his love life?

“She is also Dallas Kent’s cousin.”

Shane’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

“Turns out,” Ilya swallows as he continues. “I met her at a gala before the All Stars Game.”

“The one in January for cancer research,” Shane recalls.

“Yes. That one,” his breath distorts over the speaker. “She tried to flirt with me, and I turned her down. Patrice saw this.”

“You don’t think he…” Shane doesn’t dare continue. It was unfathomable to him that someone would discard a player like Ilya over something so insignificant.

“She told him I started it. Then told him about what I did to Kent. Then HR started interviewing staff. Ask them if I was ever bad to them. Shane he- he forced them to say I was bad,” his english got choppier and choppier as he spoke, their accent rounding his vowels. “They thought it was weird but didn’t know what was happening. Then after the trade announcement, they talked about it secretly. They wanted to tell me they were sorry, for saying yes. But I know they were afraid they would lose their jobs.”

“And management didn’t tell you any of it,” Shane concluded. Because the integrity of their argument would come apart the moment they scrutinized it. They wanted him gone and they did everything they could to get it done.

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t touch her. I was never bad to staff,” Ilya insists.

“I know. I believe you,” Shane says softly. He remembers the first time he went out with Ilya, that day in Toronto after the CCM shoot. Ilya had picked up all their finished plates and piled them up so the waiting staff didn’t have to and left a big fat tip just because he could.

The idea that that Ilya would treat his staff badly enough to warrant coerced statements and false testimonies was unthinkable.

“I tried so fucking hard,” his voice breaks. In his frustration, he subconsciously slipped into the ease of his mother tongue. “I did everything they asked. I gave them everything. Said yes to every press event and every media obligation even though I was so tired and I felt like shit and my legs were going to give out. I attended every practice and did every drill.

“Every fucking time. I skated when I was sick. I played through vertigo and broken ribs because the team needed me and I’m so sick and tired of people looking at me like I’m stupid when they can’t even collect enough brain cells to ask an original question.

I gave them everything and they threw me away for nothing. For nothing! 5 fucking years down the drain because of that asshole and his fucking inbred family.

Sometimes I wonder why I even play this sport, why I do this when it hurts so much. And I wish I could tell Svetlana. Or maybe even Marley, but they don’t even get it. Not even you get it, not really, and I wish you understood because I fucking hate it here.”

The weight of the anger and the grief he was carrying around finally subsides. Ilya’s chest was heaving by the time he was done. His eyes were wet, aching lungs racking with sobs.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He didn’t mean to unload so much of his burdens on him. He supposes it was pretty rude of him to switch to a language he didn’t understand either.

On the other end of the line, Shane had listened carefully, not knowing what he said, but he understood the heartbreak and the anger all the same.

“Do you want me to fly down to you?” Shane asks after a beat of silence and Ilya’ breath seizes in his throat as he wonders just how much he understood.

The soft and raw part of him wanted to say yes, wanted Shane to put the pieces of him back together before he lost them altogether.

But the logical part of him said “nyet”. He shook his head, took a deep breath and switched back to English. “No, you have game in 2 days.”

His accent clouded his words, more heavily than they have in these past couple years.

“Yeah, but that’s on Wednesday. I can fly in tomorrow morning and get to your apartment just before you do.”

It pulled a laugh out of Ilya, still wet and tender around the edges.

“Is okay. I’m okay, I think. Just… needed to tell someone. Is better now.”

Shane seems to hesitate for a second for a second. “If you say so.”

He sounded just as disappointed as he was, that he had taken the logical route.

“Tell me about your team,” Ilya sniffles. He needed a distraction and Shane could just about hear the plea in his voice to change the topic.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Rookies, new guys traded in, anything.”

“Well,” Shane licked his lips and filed through his memories for something, at the very least, entertaining. “The rookies are great. We got 2 of them this year and get this. They used to be rivals in the NCAA.”

He emphasized the word playfully, like it wasn’t something the press mentioned about them near daily.

“No,” Ilya gasps around a laugh. The ache in his chest has started to subside.

“They absolutely hated each other all pre-season. But now they’re roommates on roadies now and Andropov said he spotted them ordering cookies and milk through room service. They even started a whole spreadsheet reviewing the cookies in all the hotels we’ve been in.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, staving away the ache he feels in his chest. He envied their rivalry. Simple, warm, uncomplicated and private.

“You must love that.”

“Fuck off,” Shane smiles. “It’s a really detailed list. They’ve got crunch, sweetness and chewiness ratings as well.”

Even Ilya has to admit it's endearing. “We don’t have any rookies this year,” he tells him.

“I know.”

They traded their draft position just to take Ilya on board.

“I’m the only new kid here.”

Even if he isn’t the youngest. It’s its own special brand of embarrassing, going from Stanley Cup winning captain to the only new kid on the team.

“The veterans are nice, though,” Ilya finds himself admitting.

“That’s nice,” Shane sighs.

It’s only 2 words, two simple words, but Ilya has been around Shane enough to know the edges and corners of all his tones. “But?”

Out in Montreal, Shane looks over the skyline with dull eyes. “There’s this new goalie. Drapeau.”

“From Quebec league,” Ilya confirms.

“Yeah. He’s okay, I guess, but… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You have a feeling.”

Shane frowns at the assessment. “I mean, I know feelings are subjective, and they’re not the most reliable metric, but sometimes, I get the feeling that he doesn’t respect me all that much.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“It’s more frustrating if anything,” he sighs. Just last night, JJ had tried to invite him out for drinks, only for Drapeau to cut in and say something about Shane needing his beauty sleep. It was irritating. Even more so because Comeau laughed with him. Comeau already disrespects him on a good day, with the goalie beside him, Shane feels like control on the room slipping.

“Sometimes I get so worked up, I think I could punch something,”

“Wow, Canada’s Shane Hollander wants to fight,” Ilya says in false wonder.

“Shut up.”

The irritation was truly evident in Shane’s voice, and if it was this close to the surface, Ilya couldn’t imagine just how bad this impulse was.

“Have you tried kick boxing?” he asks.

“Fuck you, I know how to fight.”

He knows. He had been the one to teach Shane how to throw a proper punch.

“Not what I asked, Hollander.”

It gives Shane a pause. “Kick boxing?”

“Yes.”

“... why?”

“There is a cool dojo near my place. Vaughny told me about it. Had many types of classes. We can go.”

“We can?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know…”

“Aww, come on, Hollander. It will be fun!”

Part of him is intrigued, yet the other part was hesitant to try something new. But Ilya sounded so excited. Maybe if it makes him feel better…

“Fine.”

“Yes,” Ilya hisses in excitement. “You won’t regret it.”

“I already do,” Shane groans as he tries to fight off a smile.

“You’ll love it, Hollander. You’ll see.”

“Alright.”

They end the call and Shane feels lighter as he prepares for bed.

It’s a date.

Chapter End Notes

Shane's rookies are absolutely based on Will Smith and Macklin Celebrini. He deserves a couple wholesome kids on his team :)

With Scott, with the way he is so wrapped up in hiding himself, it would be hard not to feel inferior to the terror twins. He's canonically 3 years older but he debuted a year before they did. I'm just going to let them terrorize him even more for the heck of it ehehe.

Kudos & Comments appreciated.

Chapter 4: In Your Arms I'd Start A War

Chapter Summary

Ilya slowly finds his place with the Admirals, and makes a lot of new friends along the way.

Chapter Notes

Hello! We're back with a slightly shorter one since I am on vacation at the moment :D Happy Hollanov Anniversary to our favourite idiot lovers!

Las Vegas, NHL Awards: 4 years ago

He isn’t here.

Yuna’s eyes scour the room as she searches for the Russian teen she had met the summer prior. There was no way he would miss his own rookie award ceremony, not when he was nominated in so many categories, but she has yet to spot him.

“Looking for someone?” David asks beside her.

“Yeah, Ilya. I could have sworn I saw him at the ceremony.”

She expected to see him with the other players at the bar earlier, but he was nowhere to be found. Yuna sighs, maybe she should just retire for the night. Let Shane socialise with the others without his parents hovering in the same room.

The elevator doors open and there he was, standing stiff as his gaze drops to Yuna. Surprised to see her, he scrambled to put on a polite mask, just as he had last year.

“We must stop meeting like this,” she laughs gently, like she was trying not to spook a skittish animal.

“Yuna,” Ilya greets softly.

His voice had dropped incrementally over the season, the last vestiges of puberty making itself known. He steps out of the elevator and into the hallway, though he didn’t make any effort in joining the others down the hall, rooting himself in place with Yuna and David, away from the public eye.

He was hiding, she noticed.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he compliments her politely.

“Thank you,” she glows. “You’re not so bad yourself. This suit fits you handsomely.”

He looks put together, hair combed back carefully. An errant curl breaks out of its tight confines and falls beside his ear. It’s unbearably endearing.

“Congratulations over an amazing rookie season, kid,” David says.

Ilya shakes his head. “Shane was better.”

“Nonesense,” David waves off. “He might have gotten the award but you really made him work for it, put up a very good fight.”

It wasn’t the ‘could have gone to either of you’ that he probably heard the whole night, or the scalding disappointment from his own father, it was an acknowledgement, that they both worked really hard this season, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. It softened some of the hardness in Ilya’s eyes and Yuna smiled at him proudly.

“Any plans for the summer?” she asks.

“I go back to Russia in 3 days,” he says weakly, like he had explained this once before and was still reeling from the response.

“I see,” is all Yuna could offer. She got the feeling home wasn’t the warmest place for him to be in. So she defaults to the safest topic. “You must have a list of all the foods you miss. I can’t imagine the Russian food here being any good.”

“Is terrible,” Ilya admits. “The ingredients here are different.”

“True.”

“Vodka back home must be better as well, I suppose?” David adds.

“Of course.”

“Nothing beats the real thing, huh?” David laughs. “I try to buy the Russian stuff, but I’m never really sure if I’m getting the right ones.”

A glint of brightness flickers back in Ilya’s hazel eyes. Like he can finally be of use, offering something tangible.

“I can bring a bottle back for you,” Ilya offers.

“Oh, no. You don’t have to,” David waves him off politely.

“I insist.”

“Alright,” he caves in far quicker than Yuna thought he would. “But you have to help me drink it. Let’s crack it open together. Say, Christmas?”

He says it with a hint of playfulness and Yuna could kiss him for it. Ilya stiffens at the offer.

“Oh, I cannot interrupt."

After all, Christmas is a family holiday, an intimate celebration steeped in tradition.

“Nothing to interrupt," David waves off. “We don’t really do anything for Christmas, just sit around and play some games or so. If there’s something you want to do, we can do, but that aside, we never really have anything planned.”

Yuna nods in agreement. “We would love to have you there,” she pauses at the uncertain look on Ilya’s face. “Unless… you fly home for Christmas too?”

“No,” Ilya answers quickly. “Flight to Russia is very long and break is too short. If I flew back, would only have time to buy coffee at the airport then fly again.”

He winces, seemingly regretting letting his mouth run a little too comfortably but David laughs regardless.

“I can already imagine it. Get off, run to the kiosk, grab a coffee and hop back in,” he mimes and Ilya’s laugh loses some of its tension.

“I’ll… think about it.” He was clearly warming up to the idea.

Yuna beams at him regardless.

If he was going to hide, David and Yuna would ensure they were a safe place for him to do so.

New York, November 2015

The sound of the front door opening marks the entry of one of Kip’s most infuriating yet endearing regulars. Only this time, he’s glued to his phone screen.

He waits for Ilya to finish typing whatever it was he was sending before asking. “The usual?”

The blonde finally looks up with a frown on his face. “Do you have smoothie that looks like rabbit vomit?”

He had long gotten used to Ilya’s strange imageries. “You mean a green smoothie? Lots of kale, wheat grass and all that?”

“Yes.”

“Of course we do,” he pauses before looking at the blonde skeptically. “Are you being healthy for once?”

“Eh, no. Is for friend.”

“Alright. And the usual for you?”

Ilya seems to mull over this before asking. “Oreos have cocoa, right?”

“I… think so?” Kip responds.

“Then usual but no oreos.”

A basic milk shake with whatever berries they had in stock. The ‘surprise me’ berry oreo milkshake specially made for one Ilya Rozanov.

“Can I ask why?”

Ilya shrugs. “Friend is allergic to cocoa. Makes throat spikey.”

Kip raises his brow but doesn’t question it. Because what does your friend’s allergies have anything to do with your drink?

He adds it to the ever growing list of mysteries about Ilya and rings up the order. In the meantime, Ilya takes a seat beside the windows, which Maria told him to do because it's ‘good for business’.

Ilya takes a sip from his friend’s green smoothie and balks before washing it down with his own smoothie.

“Perfect,” he says and leaves with both drinks in hand.

Too bad Maria isn’t here, because then he would actually find out who he changes his order for and why he misses out on a night out at the Kingfisher after.

Shane ducks out of the locker room when he sees Yuna's called ID light up his screen.

"Hey mom," he answers.

"Hi, honey. Ready for tonight?"

"Always."

"Have a good one," he hears his dad's voice in the background.

"Will do, dad."

"We'll call you after, alright? Unless you and Ilya have got plans."

Shane bites his lip. He technically does have plans. Plans he's excited for, but the idea of them going out in public still terrifies him.

"Shane?" Yuna prompts.

He must have taken too long to answer.

"Sorry," he shakes his head. "Yeah, I mean, we made plans but..." he briefly turns the idea over in his head before asking his mom. "I don't know. Is it a good idea for us to be seen together?"

Lest it ruins their image.

"I mean, why not?"

"Mom, the whole league thinks we hate each other."

"Yeah, well, you haven't really done anything to prove them otherwise," she drawls. "How are they supposed to know you're friends if you've never spoken a word to each other off ice?"

He supposes that is true.

"Go hang out with him," she encourages. "Bring a couple other of the Admirals with you and we'll call you after you get back."

The call helped. Without it, Shane would've undoubtedly chickenes out of finding Ilya near the redline during warm ups. He skates up to center ice with a frown on his face.

“This feels familiar,” he says, eyes glued to Ilya’s red, white and blue jersey.

The blonde looks down and smirks, knowing exactly what it was Shane was referring to.

“Reminds you of the good old days?” Ilya smirks.

“Fuck off, we’re tied on that end,” he answer reflexively.

“Unfortunately,” Ilya laments. “Maybe we should have gone a year earlier. Made it best of 3.”

Somewhere to their side, Scott catches bits of their conversation and nearly slips mid frog-stretch. Those two were the sole reason he walked out of World Juniors with only one medal to show for. Which was from the year before they joined.

Were they really talking about retroactively robbing them of just that? To settle a score between them?

“Any Christmas plans?” Hollander asks, deep into a stretch.

“I don’t know. Ask your mom,” Rozanov says casually.

Scott rolls his eyes. Of course the guy would throw a ‘your mom’ joke.

“Anyways, still down for kickboxing later?”

“Sure.”

Kickboxing? After a game? Seriously? They were almost as bad as Carter, dragging him to the gym the morning after a game.

Then again, this isn’t the first time the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry baffled him. The friendship part wasn’t surprising. They’ve been trading good-natured chirps since their first All-Stars game back in 2011.

The jump from ‘he’s a friend from work’ to ‘we go kickboxing sometimes’ after a game, however, probably had more to do with the fact they no longer had a historic generational rivalry pushing them against each other like dogs in a fighting ring.

Hell, their names have been put side-by-side for so long they might as well be hyphenated. Permanently.

Maybe then they would stop terrorizing Scott in his dreams like a pair of fucked up sleep paralysis demons on skates. No such luck, considering one of them is now officially on his wing.

He thought playing more games with Rozanov would make him more comfortable around the Russian. That was his mistake. Ilya Rozanov is frighteningly perceptive. He has this look in his eye when he notices something, expression carefully neutral and uncharacteristically silent.

He knows, his brain tells him unhelpfully. Heknowsheknowsheknows.

Perhaps he needs to do more manly things during his free time. Maybe tag along with Thing 1 and Thing 2 in their violent hobbies when they’re not busy chucking curve-pucks at Benny and Miitka. Maybe then Rozanov would stop giving him that concerned look like he does now.

Well, if there was one thing he could get out of this, it’s that Rozanov seems to have a near encyclopedic knowledge of Hollander’s imperceivable tells. And now that his eyes aren’t anticipating the puck drop, he can predict the center’s moves far easier. It’s thanks to him that games against Montreal seem more bearable, even if a puck or two stray past Benny and into the back of the net.

Hollander skates back to his team, seemingly unaware of the sneer his back up goalie seems to be giving him. Quite the attitude for a bench warmer.

Rozanov skates by Scott and whispers under his breath. “Watch Berkes’ left.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate beyond that. Hollander himself seems to be almost ambidextrous, equally proficient in his left as his right passes. His right wing, however, is weaker than his left.

Scott waits for Carter to settle on his right, Rozanov on his left, right beside Berkes. He watches the ref’s hand. The puck drops, he sees a seam open up between Hollander and Boizau shoots. Rozanov catches the pass behind him and skates off.

He passes the puck to Carter with the flick of his wrist tenths of a second before he takes a check from Boizau and Carter sends it back to Scott right in front of the goal. The puck grazes Miitka’s glove before it hits the net and the siren rings.

Maybe having Rozanov on his team isn’t so bad afterall.

Later that night, once everyone had settled back into their rooms, Shane packs a gym bag and puts his shoes back on.

“Going somewhere?” Hayden asks knowingly.

“Yeah. Sorry, gonna go out and burn off some energy. Don’t wait up.”

“Sure. Have fun, bud,” he laughs.

Shane looks at his friend with furrowed brows. “I’m going kickboxing.”

Hayden snorts. “If you say so.”

“I’m serious.”

“Whatever. Go get laid, weirdo.”

Well, if Hayden insists.

With his roommate’s approval, Shane steps out into the cold New York night and calls ‘Lily’.

Philadelphia’s captain was a Danish guy named Larsen. Ilya doesn’t talk to the guy much, yet as he shakes his hand in the line up, the older captain reaches over for a half-hug and gives his shoulder a good squeeze.

A small act of solidarity, seen and appreciated nonetheless.

Ottawa, December 2015

Scott finds the Russian menace lounging alone in the hotel lobby the morning after their game against Ottawa. He sees Rozanov typing into his phone with admirable focus, the cup of coffee beside him going stale. It’s different from the other times he has caught Rozanov glued to his screen. Less smiley, more quiet.

“You going out,” Scott observes as he approaches the other.

“Yes,” is all he offers. No reassurance he will be back, no additional details.

Rozanov has a habit of disappearing at times. On one hand, he was an adult and he was entitled to do whatever he wanted outside of practice and before curfew. On the other hand, Scott was curious.

“Meeting someone?”

“Yes,” Ilya responds as a matter of fact.

“Is it someone we know?”

“.... Maybe?” he doesn’t sound too sure.

Now Scott is really curious.

“So… you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along?” He doesn’t know what possessed him to say such a thing.

Ilya looks up at him with an unreadable look, his brows furrow for a moment. It was partly a joke, so Scott fully expected Ilya to reject (as he should) but instead says, “Let me ask them.”

The Russian sends a text over, waiting for a moment before nodding.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says.

Scott blinks up at him. He had acquiesced too easily and now he’s suspicious.

“What?” Ilya raises his brows. “You asked. Too late to change your mind. Let’s go.”

Scott follows the Russian cautiously as they walk around the city. Ilya held a certain amount of familiarity navigating the Canadian capital and passed landmarks without blinking. He leads them towards a pretty decent looking restaurant with red and white checkered table clothes and warm wooden floors.

Fuck, was he interupting a date?

“Ah, I already have someone inside,” Ilya tells the staff and heads deeper into the restaurant.

Scott spots her from across the restaurant. Long dark hair and a familiar face.

Is that Hollander’s mom?

The stern woman’s face brightens as she spots Ilya and gets up to greet them.

“Hi, Ilya,” she half-hugs him and air-kisses his cheek.

“Hi, Yuna. Did you enjoy the game?” Ilya asks her.

Ok, so he isn’t dreaming. That really is Yuna Hollander.

“Of course. You made sure to put on a good show,” she says with such mirth. She turns to Scott and gives him a nod. “Hunter. Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too Mrs. Hollander,” is all he could say in his cloud of confusion. He shakes her hand hesitantly and waits for them to get seated to ask. “Does Hollander know about this?”

“Which Hollander?” Ilya asks, just to be an ass.

“About what?” Yuna asks at the same time.

“You two’s…,” he doesn’t complete the sentence.

Yuna looks between him and Ilya with furrowed brows, the blonde frowning in confusion he turns to Scott in offense.

“Hunter, do you think this is a date?” He glares at Scott in accusation.

His answer comes after a beat too long of silence. “No?”

“Oh my god, you think I am a home wrecker,” he drags his hand down his face dramatically.

“I mean, what other reason would there be?”

Ilya groans and drops his head onto the table dramatically.

“Ilya, honey, get your head off the table. It’s dirty. You’re gonna give yourself pimples,” Yuna admonishes calmly, her eyes brimming with amusement. “I’m his manager. For the time being, at least.”

“... I see.” That only made marginally more sense than his previous assumption. “Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“Oh no,” Yuna waves off casually. “I don’t handle any of the hockey stuff, just the brand deals. And the brands interested in Shane tend to be uninterested in Ilya, and vice versa.”

“... of course.”

“Unless it’s Canada Roots. If Roots wants a deal with Ilya but not Shane I’m going to lose it,” she says casually.

Scott looks at Ilya, who is now flipping through the menu like this conversation doesn’t bother him the slightest.

“Yes. Think of me as his billet parent,” she says, like Ilya isn’t 24 years old and 200 pounds of muscle.

“Ilya, have you booked your flight for Christmas?” Yuna asks, oblivious to Scott’s inner confusion.

“Yep. Will send you details later,” the blonde responds.

“Ok, good.”

The thought struck Scott like a whip. ‘Ask your mom’. Ilya wasn’t making a ‘yo mama’ joke. He was being serious.

“You spend Christmas with the Hollanders?” he hisses in a whisper.

Ilya shrugs unhelpfully.

“So, uhh, how did you guys meet?” Scott decides to ask.

“Oh, we bumped into each other during a photoshoot before Shane’s rookie season.”

“She kidnapped me from hotel and dragged me around Toronto,” Ilya pipes up.

“Yep. Picked him up like a shiny rare Pokemon,” Yuna jokes.

Scott turns to Ilya with a confused expression on his face. “What’s a pokemon?”

And the Russian gave him a look that said he was stupid.

“Boston seems to be doing well,” Yuna changes the topic. “Their new center isn’t as good, but Marleau seems to be making up for his lack of experience.”

“Yes. He is good at stabilising the center and the boys trust him,” Ilya adds casually.

“Giving Marleau the C was a good choice.”

“Of course. He was my A for years. Would be stupid to choose someone else.”

“Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be the stupidest thing they’ve done in the past year.”

Her flippant tone surprised Scott. Or maybe it shouldn’t. Yuna Hollander is rumoured to be a massive Habs fan. It should come to no surprise that she hated the Bears.

But if so, what was she doing having lunch with their ex-captain.

He doesn’t get an answer, even as Yuna and Ilya fight over the bill, and he doesn’t get any closer to understanding his new Russian teammate.

“Hollzy!”

Shane looks up and sees Cliff Marleau waving at him from across the parking lot. He hadn’t talked to the newly appointed captain since the trade announcement.

“Hey, Marley,” he greets. “Good game tonight.”

“You can be honest. We played like shit,” Marleau laughed scratching the back of his head. “Man, I knew being a captain is tough but damn Rozy made it look so easy.”

He did, maybe a little too well.

The late autumn chill began to seep into his clothes as Marleau shifted from one foot onto the other, his teammates seemingly loading onto the bus behind them.

“You, uh… needed something?” Shane prompted.

“Yeah, uhm. Can we talk? About… you know.”

Shane gripped the keys in his hand as the familiar jolt of anxiety filled him. “About what?”

“About what happened… in Boston,” the other says, equally nervous. “Nothing serious. I just wanted to thank you.”

Shane furrows his brows in confusion.

“Roz is my best friend,” Cliff explains. “But he doesn’t really let anyone in, you know? He doesn’t really open up when he’s upset, and I wasn’t sure he would talk to me, but he talked to you. And yeah, the fact you guys are friends really threw me off guard, and it took me a while to wrap my head around it, but… I’m just glad he has someone who gets it, you know?”

Something in Shane softens.

“Of course.”

“And look, I know a lot of the guys would probably give you shit for being friends with the ‘enemy’ or whatever, but I don’t care, alright? You’re a good guy, Hollander. If you ever need anything, I’ve got your back. The whole team does.”

“Oh,” Shane blinks. “Wow, uhm. Thank you. Right back at you.”

Marleau claps him on the back and smiles. “Let's go out for a drink next time you're in town. Just you and me. I'm buying.”

Shane blinks. "You don't have to..."

"Come on, Hollander," Marleau slumps dramatically.

Something about the Bears' dramatics not being limited to their ex-captain brings a surprising smile to his face.

“Sure,” Shane relents.

“Great! You got my number?”

“I can find it in the captain's chat.”

The players association had a separate group chat for the captains and alternates of all 32 teams, a space for them to communicate independently, should the situation require it. No one ever uses the chat unless they anticipate a lockout or a strike happening, but it exists nonetheless.

“Right. That will take some getting used to. See you around!”

With that, Marleau rejoins the rest of his team and boards the bus.

Hayden comes up to him with a frown. “What’s that about?”

“Oh, nothing,” he sweats. “He’s just… excited to be a captain, I guess.”

“Oh, right. Man, that’s going to take getting used to. Seeing Boston without Rozanov is weird.”

“Yeah,” Shane thinks wistfully. “It is.”

Buffalo, January 2016

Scott skates up to the face-off point with Carter on his right and Cale on his left.

“How the mighty have fallen, eh?” The Buffalo captain snickers. Scott follows his gaze to the bench, where Ilya was sitting, body coiled tightly, and says nothing.

The puck drops and Scott wins the face off. Wagner dashes off with the puck. He doesn’t have as much speed as Ilya does, but he is reliable. Predictable. He sends the puck to Carter.

Buffalo pinches him on both sides and Carter uses the curve of the rink to send the puck around the back of the goal and back to Wagner. It gets stopped by the goalie and the puck gets sent back to the opponents hands.

“Go,” Murdock barks, and Ilya is leaping the boards with Cameron and Burke on his tail.

Their mistake was thinking this was a demotion, not a strategy. To think that second line meant second place, not just shift order. Their mistake was thinking an Ilya away from the Bears had no teeth.

Ilya bursts onto the ice and steals the puck mid-pass. He dashes across the blue line, right into the offensive zone and punch turns away from a defenseman, barely holding his ground as he bides his time. Finally he sees Cameron closing in and passes.

It isn’t perfect, Cameron nearly loses the puck in a scramble but he dashes off towards the goal. One quick pass to Burke, a shot at the goal, blocked!

The goalie pokes the puck out of the crease and accidentally sends it to Ilya’s waiting hands. A flick of his stick and the horn blares through the speakers. A goal.

Ilya smiles wolfishly at his wings, patting them on the helmet as the camera zooms. When asked about it later, he suppresses the giddiness of having a well executed play.

“Was my idea,” he says confidently.

The press had to turn to Murdock for a more helpful explanation. “Yes. The Trojan Horse play was his idea.”

“Coach Murdock!” one reporter asks. “Does this mean Rozanov will stay in the 2nd line?”

“It means, all our players need to be playoff ready. All of them. More balanced depths across all our lines and training all of them like they’re on first. Whether we succeed or not is another question,” the coach laughs.

He wasn’t going to go out and reveal all their secrets ahead of the playoffs. They won’t let their opponents get a glimpse of all their extra practices, ensuring lines are inter-changable, players inter-changable, passes connecting.

The Admirals didn’t have a talent problem, or a chemistry problem. They had a consistency problem, and with the playoffs 2 months away and Rozanov in the mix, all the other teams in the Metropolitan division prepared themselves to deal with a team they didn’t recognise.

Toronto, January 2016

If Ilya had to pick one good thing to come out of the whole being traded thing, it would have to be the fact he doesn't have to travel to Toronto more than 3 times a year. Well, that's not fair to Toronto. The city itself was not bad. It's not their fault every team attached to the city was a steaming pile of garbage.

Ilya doesn't try to hide his distaste as he sees Dallas Kent skate towards him halfway through the 1st period. He had heard stories about Hunter slumping in the second half of the season, but he didn't really believe it himself. Alas, like clockwork, pucks started missing, staminas drop, shots get sloppier. Now, Ilya was being put in for a power play. Across the ice, Price gives him a concerned look.

"Having fun with sloppy seconds, Rozanov?" Kent says with a smug look.

Ilya raises a brow. "I don't know, shouldn't you ask Callie about that?" he bites back. The flinch Kent gives him in return satisfies the vindictive part of him. "Yeah, you think I don't know about that, fuck face? What? Patrice couldn't handle your angler-fish face so you asked your cousin to do it for you?"

Barrett comes up to them with pinched brows. "What?"

"I may not not make it past round 2 this year but at least I didn't send my cousin to do the dirty work for me," Ilya smiles, sardonic and on the edge of feral.

It was loud enough that the other Guardians had started giving at each other looks, each whisper making Kent's face redder and redder. "Shut the fuck up!"

"Or what? You'll send me to Pacific this time?" he sneers.

Price catches Kent before he could land a fist on Ilya. "Whoah, back up."

"You'll fucking pay for this Rozanov! I'll beat your face in!"

"Look forward to it."

"I should've sent you to fucking Vancouver! Cocksucker! Suck my dick!"

"Sounds gay," Ilya snickers.

Kent lets out an inhuman sound and finally a ref intervenes. "Alright! Knock it off! Rozanov, back to your bench!"

Ilya skates backwards with a grin. Fuck them. He was fine where he was.

Sometime after they’ve crossed state lines into Pennsylvania, the rookies have apparently come across the paparazzi photos of Vaughn and his celebrity girlfriend.

“Damn! Gloria Grey?” Gillis says loudly.

“Way to go, kid!” Huff claps him on the back.

“Happy for you, man,” Wagner tells him.

Ilya watches mutedly as half the team starts congratulating Vaughny one by one.

“Rowdy bunch, huh?” Bennett asks beside him. “Though this must be nothing compared to your boys.”

Ilya laughs quietly as he crosses his arms. “True.”

He liked sitting next to Bennett. The goaltender was quiet, social when he wanted to be, but he seemed to know when Ilya wasn’t in the mood to talk and when he needed someone to just say something to fill the space.

“I used to be like them. So loud and funny. Maybe I get boring old people disease from Hunter.”

“Hey! I’m older than Scotty,” Bennett shoves him playfully.

“Yes, but you don’t act ancient. Hunter acts like he was frozen in ice since the war.”

Benny was pretty sure the kid was referencing Captain America, but he liked to encourage his antics, if nothing else for entertainment.

“Which war?”

“Kain and Abel.”

It draws a snort out of him. How does this kid keep coming up with new ways to call Scott old is beyond him.

“Well, being captain will do that for ‘ya,” Eric drawls.

In the handful of months Eric has played with the kid, he had contradicted most, if not all, the rumours said about him. He was rowdy, yes. Rambunctious and mouthy, tongue as sharp as his shots, quick on his feet, unpredictable and wickedly smart.

He was a goalie’s biggest nightmare.

But he was also far more reserved than Eric had ever seen him whenever they were on the same ice. Ilya Rozanov was a wounded bear slowly learning to trust again, and Eric had been named his keeper.

Still, there was a side to Rozanov that he had been surprised to learn about. The one who knew how to energize a room, the one rookies looked up to, the one who celebrated loudly and distracted his opponents so his linesmen could steal the puck from right under their nose.

He went out for drinks, was the life of the party, but almost always went home alone, and not before making sure all the rookies were tucked safely into cabs. Took on blame that wasn’t all his to bear. Kept a keen eye on players on and off the ice.

This was Captain Ilya. An old habit that made itself known, even without a letter stitched onto his chest.

Maybe he was onto something when he said being a captain changed you. Or maybe, someone has tied down Boston’s most notorious bachelor.

It certainly seems like it, with the way he is always smiling at his phone.

“So, uh… you seeing anyone?” Eric tries to test the waters.

Rozanov’s fingers paused while he was typing and slowly looked up at him with faux dramatic concern, maybe a little horrified.

“No, not like that, asshole,” Eric shoves him. “I mean, are you still seeing that girl from Montreal.”

If he was any other person, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the sudden tension in Rozanov’s spine, but alas, he was a goalie with a degree from Harvard, and he can sense the anxiousness when Rozanov answers, “What girl?”

“Pricey told me you were seeing a girl. Someone named Jane.”

Rozanov barks out a laugh. “Pricey doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“So if I check your phone right now the name won’t make into your top 10 most recent contacts?” Eric teases.

The Russian pulls his phone far from Eric’s grasp just in case.

“Fine! Keep your secrets,” he laughs.

He’ll find out eventually. Goalies always notice.

With each passing shift, Ilya finds his place on the team. Without the weight of a franchise on his shoulders, the pressure to be on the first line lessens as well. Lines were constantly shifting, plays alternating.

Some days, he was Scott’s left wing. Other days, he was the 2nd line’s center. It’s confusing for the best of them, but Ilya was nothing if not adaptable.

He was beginning to understand the team’s dynamic, subtly and overtly. He has enough sway in the room to shut down locker room jokes that go too far or make comments about lines falling apart, but sometimes, people’s true nature shines in the silence.

Winning makes people amenable. Some of them are assholes with dubious morales, and Ilya is eager to get rid of them, but sometimes, you need small fish to find the bigger ones.

He is waiting for a specific moment when pressure is applied and the illusion of peace begins to shatter.

Chicago, March 2016

Ilya has a smoking shirt. It’s a pretty self-explanatory concept. It’s a shirt that he smokes in. He doesn’t smoke as often as he used to, but sometimes, especially on the road, he feels the need to reach for that familiar buzz. He wears the shirt on top of his hoodie. It looks stupid as hell, but you know what isn’t stupid? That look Eric Bennet gives you when he is disappointed in you.

He gives Ilya that look when he can smell the smoke on him. Thus, the smoke shirt.

Ilya watches as the wind carries the smoke into the Chicago night. He scratches his brow as he thinks about the game they just had. Enforcers are a dying breed, but there were still plenty of them. Ryan Price was one, and Duncan Harvey was another. Clarke had threatened to send Harvey after them after Zullo hit Burke. Burke who was much smaller than him, and Zullo who wasn’t an enforcer but acted like one. It was a concerning pattern both on and off the ice.

Disruptions, angry outbursts, unprovoked shoving.

It troubled Ilya enough that he had to bring the smoke shirt out.

He crushes the stub under his feet and pulls the shirt over his head to stuff in a plastic bag.

Ilya is pretty sure Benny has figured it out by now, but he hasn’t gotten any complaints so far so something must be working. He might just test his luck and see if it works on Shane the next time they’re in the same town.

He walks through the hotel lobby after a blissfully silent smoke and finds Bresbois sitting alone on one of the lobby couches. It wasn’t unusual to see some of the younger players hang out in common areas like the hotel bar or the lobby, but the younger’s shivering form and his thin pajamas tells him this was either the Admirals a hazing ritual he wasn’t aware of or he can’t access his room. For one reason or another.

“Breezy?” he greets.

He isn’t a captain or an alternate, but the younger players still treated him with a great amount of request.

“Oh, Rozy!” Breezy jumps in his seat. “Hi.”

Still, Ilya tries to play a little dumb and approach the younger. “You lose your room key?”

“Ah, non. I just… didn’t want to be there,” he laughs nervously.

Ilya doesn’t return the smile. He tries to recall who the kid’s roommate was. It wasn’t difficult. 20 players, 10 rooms plus a couple extra for the staff. Room assignments tended to stay consistent once the season was underway.

“Why not?”

“I… didn’t want to intrude.”

Ilya raises his brows. “Intrude on your own room? This is possible?”

“Well, I mean… if you’re having… guests.”

It seems Ilya was right on the money. “So you offered to leave?”

Bresbois didn’t meet Ilya’s eye, seemingly convinced the older could tell when he was lying. “I walked out on my own,” he insisted.

God damn kids and their constant urges to look tough.

“Do you want me to come with you? Talk to him?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just wait here.”

How long? Ilya wonders. Until morning? Until he sees Frankie’s ‘guest’ walk past him in the lobby? Until he falls sick from shivering stubbornly on the lobby couch? No.

“You can wait in my room,” he says with a sense of finality.

“Quoi?”

“My room. You can wait there.”

“Oh, no. I can’t-”

Ilya raises his phone and takes a picture of the poor kid in his mismatched pajamas, flash on and all.

“Wha- Why did you do that?”

“Hmm?” Ilya pretends to type something in his phone. “Oh, nothing. Just telling coach you’re breaking curfew.”

Nevermind that he’s doing it himself.

“Hey!”

“In. The. Lobby,” he says slowly like he is dictating his own texts. In reality, he was texting Eric a summary of the situation, just as a heads up.

“Ok, fine! I’ll come along! Delete that picture please! And don’t tell coach.”

Ilya pockets his phone with a satisfied smile. I will delete once we get to my room.”

Breezy crosses his arms with a pout, hiding his cold hands in his pits. “Let’s go then.”

He makes a call the next morning to DiMarco, telling him to keep an eye out for any talented defensemen. And just like that, the first crack becomes visible.

Chapter End Notes

Kip definitely thinks something is up, he just can't figure out what it is ahahah. I enjoy toying with the idea that Hollanov aren't exactly very good at hiding but everyone is too oblivious to notice. Especially Scott :D

Kudos and Comments appreciated.

Chapter 5: We've Both Been Here Before

Chapter Summary

We've both been here before
Matter of fact, I caught you looking back
So let's go
- Bad Things by Cailin Russo

Chapter Notes

Ahh thank you for all the love last chapter! Here's a fatter one this week now that I'm back from my vacay.

From my understanding, in hockey, captains and alternates don't really dictate training/practice/schedules, etc. they mostly help with discussing calls with refs and setting the tone of the locker room. Here, obvs, Ilya is more involved than a normal Alt Cap.

CW:
- Implied substance abuse
- Misogyny

Toronto, NHL Hall of Fame: 7 years ago

Ilya waits until Yuna walks into another section of the hall to talk to Shane. His eyes follow her as she slowly walks out of sight before leaning towards him.

“Hollander,” he whispers sharply.

Shane’s focus was entirely captured by the biography written in vinyl.

“Hollander,” Ilya whispers harsher, nudging his arm.

“Huh? What?” Shane whispers back.

“Why is your mother doing this?” He speaks in a low tone.

“Hmm?” Shane turns away from the wall of text he was reading. “Oh. She thinks that seeing what we could achieve would give us a tangible goal. Seeing is believing, and all that.”

Ilya didn’t catch all the words but he got the gist of it and huh, that made sense.

“No, I mean, why is she making us hang out?”

“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe she wants us to be friends.”

Ilya raises his brows. “Friends?”

“Yeah?”

Ilya blinks.

“She knows I signed with Boston, yes?”

Now it’s Shane’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, she knows, Rozanov. She was there at the draft.”

“Then why? She is big Montreal fan. She knows Boston and Montreal are enemies, yes?”

“Sure, but she also knows that hockey isn’t real life. I mean, she gets really worked up in games but ‘is only hockey game, why you heff to be mad?’”

Ilya looks at him entirely unimpressed at the butchery of his accent.

“You know,” Shane tilts his head. “Ilya Bry-”

“Yes, I know Ilya Bryzgalov, Hollander. He came to my high school and gave a speech,” he interrupts dryly.

“Wait, really?”

“Focus, Hollander,” he snaps his fingers in his face. “Why does your mother want us to be friends?”

“I mean,... why not?”

“Because… our teams hate each other.”

“Okay? And?”

Ilya doesn’t have an answer.

“Do you… not want to?” Shane asks, a little crestfallen.

Ilya frowns. He finds that doesn’t hate the idea that much. Still, he couldn’t resist ribbing the other.

“Do you not have friends?”

Heat rises up Shane’s cheeks and oh, did he hit the jackpot?

“Shut up,” he snaps as he sees Ilya smile.

“Oh my god, you have no friends.”

“Not in the NHL!”

“Okay, Hollander.”

“Like you have friends in the NHL,” Shane grumbles.

“I don’t, but I am very quick in making friends,” Ilya smiles to himself.

“Fuck off,” he shoves the blonde.

“Don’t worry, Hollander. I’ll tell your mom you have at least one friend in the NHL.”

New York, October 2016

Jane

Hayd keeps staring at me

Shane frowns as he sends the text. He was supposed to slip out ages ago to meet Ilya in the parking lot. But with his best friend’s eyes trained on him, the chances of him leaving unnoticed dwindled rapidly.

Lily

Tell him to fuck off

Jane

🖕

He sighed as he lowered his phone. Montreal had lost the game tonight, no thanks to their goalie. You wouldn’t know it, though, with the way Drapeau was laughing at a joke Andropov made and clapping him on the back.

Call it Ilya’s bad influence, or his fraying control on his own emotions, but he needed to blow off some steam and get out of his own head. And nowadays, it feels like the only way he could do that was either through earth-shattering sex or  the feeling of his fists hitting pads.

He must be getting greedy because tonight, he was hoping for both.

His phone buzzes with another text and he frowns.

Lily

Do you want me to pick you up?

Jane

What?

Lily

Gimme sec

I need to talk to coaches

I can come to your locker room and ask to steal you

:D

Shane briefly entertains that thought. Of Ilya’s voice echoing through the guest locker room as he yells, ‘Hollander! What’s taking so long?’ and whisks him away for the night. He must have taken too long to answer because he gets another text from the opposing locker room.

Lily

Jk

Shane smiles to himself and was close to giving up and asking Ilya for a rain check, even if it meant he was going to bed restless, horny and pissed off. Just as he moves to stand, he gets another text.

Lily

You could invite them???

He doesn’t get the chance to answer before a familiar face appears in the guest locker room.

“Hollzy!” Carter’s voice booms across the empty room. “Is your team keeping you hostage or something? What’s the hold up?”

JJ and Hayden are frozen in front of their lockers, eyes wide at the New York alternate’s sudden appearance. Carter Vaughn had one of those personalities that seemed to disarm but surprise other players, making them forget whatever PR fueled hate juice they were fed just an hour ago.

“Sup, Pike, Boizau,” Carter didn’t even register their presence.

“Hey,” Hayden waves awkwardly. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, kickboxing,” Carter nods. “Better hurry up before Jesse strangles Rozanov for being late.”

“Rozanov?” JJ bristles.

Right. JJ doesn't know about their little secret friendship.

“Yeah,” the New York alternative says casually.

“Wait, so whenever you said you were going kickboxing, you were serious?” Hayden asks Shane with wide eyes. “That wasn’t some sort of code?”

“What was code?” Ilya’s head pokes into the room.

“Kickboxing.”

“Not code,” Scott confirms as he stops by. “Been there with them. Never again.”

“Aww come on, Scotty! It wasn’t that bad,” Carter claps him on the back.

“Hah! No,” Scott adjusts his bag. “I’m not going anywhere with those two,” he points to Shane and Ilya, “without Babson or Bulbul to wrangle them.”

One close call with a concussion was enough for him.

“Babson? As in Riveters Alternate Janelle Babson?” JJ looks at them with wide eyes.

“Yeah, she usually comes and hangs out with us after games but she’s on the roadie at the moment,” Scott shrugs.

“We could always just go for a couple beers if you guys are tired,” Carter offers.

“Why the fuck would we go out for drinks with Rozanov?” Hayden says pettily like a highschooler.

“Because he’s our friend?”

JJ and Hayden stare at him with some amount of disbelief.

Scott crosses his arms. “You know they don’t actually hate each other, right?”

Shane suppresses the urge to bolt at Scott’s words. What does he know?

Scott sighs at the lack of answer from the two alternates. “Genuine question. If I pointed at a random guy on the street and said ‘hate him’ would you do it?”

Hayden looked at him like it was absurd. “No?”

The silence and the look Scott gives him is enough to make him realise the flaw in his statement.

“Right. And what has he actually done to you? Like, really physically or emotionally done to you?” Scott needles. “Outside of pissing you off on ice?” Because he too had been a regular victim to Ilya's antics.

Hayden opens his mouth only to shut it when he draws a blank. Because he’s never really interacted with Ilya outside a rink. Not even in league-mandated events.

Scott turns to Ilya and Shane. “And remind me again how long you guys have known each other?”

“Since 2008 so… almost 8 years?” Shane looks to Ilya and the other nods.

Now it was JJ's turn to look at them with wide eyes. 2008 didn't feel like a long time ago but now that he looked back on it, that was just short of a decade.

“Yeah, long time to hate someone,” Scott snorts. “Whatever. Have fun boys. Vaughny! Make sure they all get home alive. Rozy, behave.” He looks at Ilya, points 2 fingers at his eyes then points them at him.

“I promise not to defenestrate anyone,” Ilya holds up his hand.

“Where the fuck did you learn that word?” Shane exclaims.

Well, Scott doesn’t look too surprised. The guy has Eric Bennet as a roommate after all.

“You got it cap.” Vaughny laughs.

“Goodnight, grandpa. Take care of your hip,” Ilya chirps.

Scott flips him off without turning back, leaving Shane with the 4 alternates.

“2008?” JJ questions, just to be sure.

“Since World Juniors, yeah,” Shane shrugs. His back starts to itch as he sweats nervously.

“... sure why not,” JJ shrugs.

“He’s staring at us,” Ilya whispers as he steadies the strike shields.

From the corner of his eye, he spots Hayden peering over at them while the instructor helps him wrap his hands for the nth time.

“Let him,” Shane says tiredly. He is in far too irritable of a mood to care. He does a test kick against the strike shields, his shin making contact with the pads. “Can’t believe he’s giving us-,” kick “-shit for being-,” kick “-friends.”

“We were rivals for too long, I think,” Ilya rationalises. “Bad habit.”

“Yeah, but Hunter and Vaughny never had a problem with it.” Shane switches to kicking using the pads of his feet.

“Vaughny is too nice. Hunter thinks it's stupid.”

“It is!” Shane kicks.

“Wait until they see the other type of sparing we do,” Ilya wiggles his brow.

“Keep talking and your shins are next.”

“Aww, don’t say that. I know you love me,” Ilya cooes.

Shane freezes, eyes wide at the other’s words. He would have freaked out if Ilya’s ringtone hadn’t cut through the panic.

He declines the call, though his eyes have hardened incrementally. His phone rings again and he scowls. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

“No, go ahead.”

Ilya looks at him apologetically and takes the call. Somewhere on the other side of the room, he hears Carter laughing with JJ.

“First rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club,” Carter says.

“Well I damn hope you do,” Jesse puts her hands on her hips. “Girls gotta keep the lights on somehow.”

JJ’s laughter eases something in Shane. These two worlds can exist. Shane and Ilya and a handful of alternate captains can exist and his world hasn’t imploded. No one has asked him anything weird, no one is giving him any weird looks (except Hayden), and no one is giving him a hard time.

Hayden will come around eventually. Marleau was surprisingly easy to talk to. JJ was a surprise.

Ilya comes back from the call with his hands in fists, trying to look at ease despite the tension in his jaw.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

He knows Ilya won’t answer. He never does when he is irate.

“My turn,” Ilya says unceremoniously.

Shane makes sure to hold onto the strike pad more tightly than usual.

Ilya gets the call close to 1AM. His ringtone grates at his nerves, shaking him out of a comfortable slumber.

“What?” he groans.

“Hi, uh, sorry. This is Craig & Donahue’s? Are you Frank’s friend?” the feminine voice on the other voice seemed nervous.

Ilya suddenly feels a lot more alert. “Yes?”

“Oh, good,” the person sighs in relief. “Your friend is very drunk. He passed out on the floor. We sat him down but he refused to move. Do you think you could…”

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose and suppresses the urge to sigh. “I’ll get him.”

“Thank you.”

He finds Frank slumped over a table. Ilya grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him to sit upright.

“You said you would quit,” Ilya says calmly.

“I know. Sorry,” Frank groans.

“Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to poor security carried you here.”

“I tried. I really did.”

In the past, Ilya would have felt some sort of sympathy for the guy, but after months of hearing the same thing, he slowly stopped giving him the benefit of the doubt. That and he didn’t look a single bit remorseful for what he did. It was starting to get out of hand. Out of Ilya's capabilities at least.

“Then maybe it’s time you talked to someone, yes?”

Frank lifts his eyes to look at Ilya. “Like you?”

“No,” Ilya grits his teeth. “Someone with an actual certificate in this shit.”

“A fucking shrink?” Frank scoffs.

“If it helps,” he shrugs.

“Fuck you! I’m not crazy.”

“Yes. Getting black out drunk in Jersey before game night is definitely not crazy behaviour.”

“Shut your mouth, pretty boy.”

“Awe, you think I’m pretty?” Ilya cooes mockingly.

“I’ll fuck you up right now.”

“Not interested.”

Anger surges through the defenseman and he reaches up to punch Ilya. Fortunately or unfortunately, the alcohol in his system decided to make its presence known and he loses balance.

Ilya grabs him by the collar and drags him out the bar, to the relief of all the staff.

Frank stumbles after him, cursing him every step of the way. He gets pulled onto the side of the building, shoved against the wall and he groans as his head hits the wall.

“This will not happen again,” Ilya says sternly.

“I didn’t fucking ask you to help me.”

“I know. I didn’t do it for you.”

He did it for the team, to give him a chance to be better. But talking and picking someone up can only get you so far. And Ilya might be kind, but he never said he was nice.

He grabs Frank’s phone, calls him a cab home, shares the ride tracker and shoves the phone into his hands. “Try not to vomit in the car. Remember to give a big tip.”

Ilya leaves Frank in the freezing cold night and the moment he makes sure the defenseman is back home safely, he blocks his number and goes back to sleep.

The next morning, Ilya walks to Straw+berry with bags under his eyes.

“Tough night?” Kip asks him, ringing up his usual order.

The Russian simply hums in reply, handing over his card and running a hand down his face. “Just stupid teammate. You try help them then they try to punch you.”

“The drunk guy with anger issues?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

“Hmmm.”

Ilya sips his drink slowly as he searches Kip’s face. Something is different. He looks more… chipper.

“You are happy,” he says around his straw. “Why?”

“Excuse you, I’m always happy!”

“Lies. Tell him, Maria!”

“He’s right,” she says without looking up.

Ilya snaps his fingers and points a double finger gun at her in thanks as he sips his milkshake.

“Come on,” she eggs Kip. “Tell him!”

“Tell me what?” Ilya raises his brow.

“There was a… customer the other day,” Kip starts carefully.

“Was he hot?” Ilya asks by default.

Maria jumps in. “He’s-”

“-Very!” Kip cuts her off.

“Talking over women. Very rude, Kip,” Ilya tuts.

“Yeah, Kip!”

Kip lets out a long dramatic sigh. “Yeah, go ahead. Gang up on me, will you?”

A customer enters through the front door and they table the interrogation for now. It takes some of the edge off of Ilya’s horrible night but he knows it will only be a matter of time before it all implodes in their face.

“Alright boys. All in!” Scott calls them over.

The boys all huddle in a circle and he sighs, preparing himself for the stupid chant Ilya and Carter saw on TV.

“Nine nine!” He barks loudly.

“Nine nine!” The team cheers and they head out onto the ice.

“I don’t know why we do this,” Scott mutters to Ilya.

“Is fun, no?”

That, and it hypes up the team pretty efficiently.

“We’re not even in Brooklyn!”

His complaints are buried under the Russian’s cackles. He can smell a Brooklyn99 themed Halloween Party coming this fall and he isn’t all that mad about it.

He takes to the ice with a good natured shake of his head, leaving his two alternates staring at him weirdly.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Carter says to Ilya quietly.

“Yes.”

While Scott has always been quick to complain about Ilya’s growing literary prowess, he has never gone along with their shenanigans so easily. Hell, he didn’t even shove Ilya for the half-a-dozen ‘that’s what she said’s he made this morning.

Scott jumps into the game with renewed passion, lining up one goal after another until he eventually gets a hat trick.

“Yeah!” Scott passes the bench and fist bumps the team as he passes.

Behind him, Ilya raises a brow and gives Carter a pointed look. Scott had a horrendous start to the season, leading a near record breaking scoring drought that has their entire coaching staff scratching their heads.

“Suddenly remember how to play, old man?” Ilya says. “Or is this historical reenactment?”

“Shut up, Roz,” Scott laughs.

For the first time in years, Scott feels like he is playing incredible hockey, and he begins to think to himself, this might be his year.

This will be the year he will win the cup. This is the year he will be happy.

1 week later

Today’s mysterious berry is… lingonberry?

Ilya tries to wrap his head around the tangy flavour. He rarely comes by before a game but he woke up this morning craving for the tangy sweet treat he usually gets on his morning runs.

“How is it?” Kip asks.

“Reminds me of Ikea,” Ilya answers honestly. “But is good.”

Kip groans as he crosses out another failed recipe.

The doorbell rings as Ilya takes a sip of his milkshake. He sees the way Kip’s eyes brighten, a little blush rising to his cheeks and Ilya’s eyes widened as he turns to the door.

“Shit,” Scott curses.

Ilya looks back and forth between Scott and Kip, mouth parted in a delighted smile. “Bozhe moy,” he says under his breath. 

Scott looks between him and Kip and Ilya swears he sees a bolt of panic shoot through the captain. Before he could even think of running, Ilya crossed the space and blocked his exit.

He was not going to have Scott run and hurt Kip’s feelings. Nope.

“You like old men, Kip?” he says with a playful tease. “Trying to get inheritance money?”

“May I remind you, I’m only THREE years older than you,” Scott raises 3 fingers.

“Not according to bald spot.”

“I do not have a bald spot!”

Do I? Scott suddenly thinks to himself.

He doesn’t.

This at least was familiar territory.

“Roz?”

“Yes, cap?”

“Move.”

“No.”

Scott looks at the guy with mild offense.

“Maria says I have to stand near the doors. Is good for business,” Ilya explains.

It’s unexpected enough that it throws Scott’s panic attack on a loop and he looks at his alternate with an odd look.

Not Ilya’s best work, but it does the job well.

Scott got the hint that Ilya wasn’t going to tell anyone and his career wasn’t going to end because of one poorly timed smoothie run and one mouthy bastard who is far too observant for his own good.

Too late to stuff the cat back in the bag now, so Scott turns towards the counter.

“Kip. I see you’ve met the goblin that terrorises my team,” he says stiffly.

“You love me,” Ilya drawls.

“I’m paid to tolerate you,” Scott corrects.

“You worry too much, old man. Have a smoothie.”

I won’t tell anyone, he tries to say.

“This is so weird,” Scott groans into his hand.

“Not weird, lingonberry. Try it,” he tilts his straw towards Scott.

“I’m good,” the captain turns back towards Kip. “Blue Moon Over Brooklyn, please. Extra banana.”

Behind him, Ilya was raising his brows at Maria. ‘Extra banana’ he mouths.

“Roz, shut up.”

“What? I did not say anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

Kip finds himself endlessly endeared and he rings up the order with a dopey smile on his face. “One Blue Moon Over Brooklyn, coming right up,” he lilts playfully. He turns around to make the order and Scott finally turns to face Ilya. He can see that he has something he wants to say.

“What?”

“Blue moon in english means rare, yes?”

“Yeah?”

“Then you should stop ordering it. Or else your hat trick will be blue moon.”

“Once in a blue moon,” Scott corrects. “Also, that’s not how it works.”

“Is superstition.”

“I don’t want to hear about superstition from the person who doesn’t believe in a playoff beard.”

“Sorry, who has won Stanley Cup, again?” Ilya cups his ear with a smile.

“Bro, shut up,” Scott shoves.

Kip brings out the decidedly purple drink and Ilya stares at it pointedly.

“Kip. That is not blue,” Ilya states.

“It has blueberries!”

They have a whole game day ahead of them, but Scott was already beginning to feel just a little tired.

Apparently he hadn't done a very good job of reassuring him because Hunter corners him before he walks into the locker room, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. Ilya raises a brow at his awkward stance.

"Yes?"

"Look, Roz. About this morning..."

He looked terribly uncertain, looking everywhere but at Ilya. It reminds him of Shane in some way, even though the two were leagues apart in personality. Still, the shape of their panic is familiar.

And yes, being around Shane for so long had helped him learn how to curb the panic before it gets the chance to start, but he isn't always certain he is saying or doing the right things, especially considering Scott isn't Shane.

"Look, I know that-"

Ilya cuts off whatever lie he was about to conjure with a loud dramatic groan, tilting his head back in exhasperation.

"Hunter, don't be boring. I will make sure not to tell the team you like 'extra banana'," he says airily and uses airquotes, hoping the implication is enough.

It usually isn't, for Shane, but surely Scott is a little less literal. He is, but it doesn't stop him from regarding him with suspicion. Ilya sighs and rubs his hand down his face dramatically.

"Oh my God, Hunter," he groans. "Ok, listen carefully because I will only say this once, yes? I don't want your C, I don't care that you like 'bananas' more than 'apples'. No, I won't tell anyone. Yes, I think you should grow some balls and ask Kip out, even if he should go for someone who doesn't use cobwebs as blanket. I've known Kip since week I moved here and I go 3 times a week. Any other questions?"

Ilya cocks his hips and crosses his arms impatiently. For a second, he is worried he let his mouth outrun his critical thinking once again but the look Scott is giving him is really putting him on the spot and he really doesn't know what else to say.

A beat of silence and Scott's brows unfurrow, seemingly reassured. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay," he sighs. "Actually, one last thing."

Ilya raises his brow in question. Is he going to ask him for dating advice? Flirting tips? Asking if Kip liked him back? Whether Kip was single? Wondering if Kip was interested in Ilya?

"Is it me, or are the smoothies there pretty watery?"

Montreal, February 2017

Shane gets home on Valentine's day a little more irked than usual. It’s not that he hated the date, or that he was mad he didn’t have anyone to spend it with. It just all felt like a marketing scam. Same with New Years resolutions. Why are you waiting for New Years to do something when you could do it now?

Doesn’t make any sense to him.

He had driven home from practice to a city lined with red and pink hearts. Chocolates on discount, flowers limited to a singular color pallet and cherubims everywhere. It was like Christmas, except you don’t get a day off and everyone looks at you with pity when you show up to a anywhere alone.

Shane scrolls through his chats with Ilya mindlessly. They’ve talked a lot less lately as the season progresses. His finger slips and it slides over the call button.

Shit.

He quickly pushes the red button and ends the call before it even connects, his heart racing as he stares at the screen with mild horror. God, Ilya was going to think he was a pathetic loner looking for attention.

Shane barely gets any time to berate himself for feeling so needy when his phone rings and his heart jumps into his throat looking at the caller ID.

Too late to back out now. He accepts the video call and Ilya’s face floods his screen.

“Rozanov.”

“Hollander.”

Shane pulls up the collar to his jersey to hide the stupid way his face lights up when Ilya says his name with so much mirth.

“Sorry, I accidentally pressed the call button,” he admits.

“Ah. And I called back because I’m booorrred,” Ilya groaned, falling back onto his bed. “Hollander, entertain me!”

Oh, Shane was smiling now for sure.

“You not going out tonight?” he asks hopefully.

“No. Was going to go to for a couple beers with the guys but they’re all busy. Have dates. Why do they all have dates on same day?”

Shane’s brows furrow. Does he really not know?

“Because it’s Valentine’s day?”

“Ohhhh, that’s today?”

“You really didn’t know?”

“I knew is Valentine week, did not know it was today.”

Because like Christmas and Halloween, Valentine’s isn’t a day that lets itself pass quietly, whether or not you celebrate it.

“And what were you doing?” Ilya asks. “Reading book while eating dried vege chips?”

Shane puts down the carrot chip he was reaching for. “Fuck you, they’re delicious.”

“It will not kill you to eat meat sometimes, Hollander.”

“Hey, I eat meat!”

“That’s what she said.”

“Who is teaching you these things?”

“Babson.”

“She’s teaching you dirty jokes?”

“Ah, so you understood that joke.”

Shane doesn’t need a mirror to know his face is fully red by now.

“She is like you. Very sweet, but secretly very dirty minded.”

Shane bites the urge to call out the fact Ilya just called him sweet. He flexes his fingers to get the buzzing out of his fingers and the heat off his cheeks.

“I’m telling her you said that.”

“Nooo she will kill me!” Ilya whines. “She is scary woman.”

Shane rolls his eyes at his dramatics. The Riveters adore him. At most Babson will put him in a headlock and grind his temples until he taps out.

“Hold on,” Ilya suddenly says. “Stone age is calling.”

Shane snorts. “Okay. Better not keep him waiting then. Any longer and he’s going to discover fire.”

It’s hard to hide the dopey smile that makes his way onto Ilya’s face. “I’ll be back.”

“Alright. See ya.”

The call drops and Shane sighs, pressing his fist to his forehead. What is he doing? All his teammates are out on dates, having dinner with their wives, buying flowers and chocolates with bright red ribbons and way too many hearts. Does he like flowers? Not particularly, it feels weird, holding a cluster of disembodied plant genitals in his hands. Chocolates? Allergic. Red ribbons? He prefers blue. Or maybe a nicer shade of red? The ones the stores use are always so… red. The heart shape doesn’t even look like a heart. So is he actually missing out on anything?

He isn’t sure. But he’s sure Valentine’s wasn’t meant to be spent calling his… friend? Sex buddy? He feels pathetic.

A ping wakes him from his thoughts and he flips his phone over.

Lily

Have to go

Sorry

Team emergency

Shane tries not to let the disappointment get to him. He isn’t sure what constitutes a team emergency on valentines of all days, but he has no choice but to take Ilya’s word for it. Ilya doesn’t owe him anything anyways. He sends an ‘okay’ and drags himself off the couch.

Destruction of property

Assault

Resisting arrest

Ilya reads the words on the text with muted disbelief. His mood soured so rapidly he was on the verge of a tantrum, of blocking anyone who wasn’t on the Hollander family registry and locking himself in his apartment for the week.

But no, he had an A on his jersey. He had responsibilities, and that meant ending a call with Shane, using Scott as an excuse and calling up the Coach and Christina, their press officer.

“Call the other two in,” Coach had said.

Ilya obeyed with a sigh.

Vaughny responded pretty quickly. Scott, on the other hand, was impossible to get a hold of. Probably having amazing Valentine’s sex with Kip in his fancy penthouse apartment.

Ilya’s mood sours even more as he thinks of the interrupted call. He had been having such a good time as well. It’s not often he gets to talk with Hollander with his guard down. They usually got in the way of each other, tripping over the blinding urge to press themself closer. If he was kicking his feet off camera while shamelessly flirting, no one needs to know.

Then he got a call from a random police precinct in Jersey of all places.

He had a feeling this would happen. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it has. Ilya walks up to the meeting room and knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he hears Coach’s voice.

Vaughny was already sitting across Murdock. Thank god he wasn’t the last one here.

“So what happens to Zullo?” Ilya says as he closes the door.

Murdock sighs. “DiMarco is handling that right now.”

He looks exhausted, drained by the events of the last 12 hours. Scott comes blustering in with flushed cheeks and his jacket half zipped up.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sits beside Murdock, still panting.

Ilya can’t even muster the urge to tease him about it.

“How did this happen?” Murdock asks.

“Well,” Vaughny exhales. “By the sounds of it, he had a bit too much to drink, got a little more than irritable and-”

“-no, I know that but… what signs did we miss? How did we not see this coming?”

“I mean, he can be pushy in the locker room,” Vaughny offers.

“Yeah, but he’s never caused any problems as far as we knew,” Scott added.

Ilya tilted his head like he was agreeing to disagree. No point in hiding it now.

Scott’s eyes turned accusatory at Ilya. “You know something.”

“Bits and pieces,” Ilya clarified, because as much as he had tried to sympathise with Zullo, he wasn’t under any illusion he could fix any of it.

“How long?”

Now, even Murdock is looking at him expectantly.

“Since March.”

“March? That’s almost a year ago, Roz!”

“I know.”

“And you care didn’t tell us?”

“I’m not a rat, Hunter. I don’t tell on people the moment they fuck up.”

“So you, what, gave him a chance to clean himself up?”

“Yes, I did!”

Because he would have liked the same courtesy, would have wanted to be given a chance to put himself back together.

“And look where that ended us,” Scott waves his arms.

Across him, Murdock has been strangely silent.

“We trusted you to help us,” he finally says.

“You trusted me to help the team get better. People cannot get better if you don’t give them room to grow.”

The coach grunts, still unconvinced.

“I gave him a chance to be better. He didn’t,” Ilya explained. “So I stopped giving him chances.”

“And told DiMarco to start looking for defensemen,” Murdock concludes.

Scott looked at the coach with wide eyes. This, he hadn’t known. It makes sense, he supposes, and yet it still ends them with a player arrested just weeks before the playoffs.

“You asked me to build good team, not fix your locker room. I can also do that. But you want a finished product, clean after years in a bad spot. That is not possible,” Ilya says slowly. “You said yourself, I am not a miracle worker.”

The coach sighs and rubs his brows. The kid is right, it was radically optimistic of him to expect change to happen so quickly.

“Fine. But from now on, you tell me what you see, okay? I don’t want any more surprises.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, I want a full dossier on everyone on the team. Everything you’ve got on them. I don’t care how small.”

Ilya looks at the coach conflicted. “I don’t think I can do that, sir. Many secrets.”

Not all his to tell.

Murdock seems to catch the unspoken words and sighs. “Fine. Most of what you have. Run it by Scott and Carter before handing it to me, if you must. We have a month or so till the trade deadline. If we’ve got a weak link, I need to know soon.”

Ilya nods. It is almost certain that Frank Zullo will either be traded or replaced. Hopefully they aren’t replacing one Zullo with another.

“Shane!”

He looks up and sees Gloria Grey smiling down at him. “Gloria, hi,” he gets up and greets. “Great to see you again.”

Shane had met the actress once during the awards last year, her hand elegantly draped across Vaughn's as they made their rounds. He spots a table filled with her costars in the VIP corner of the restaurant, trying to keep a low profile. Miles Becker, Jason Bearman, fuck even Rose Landry was there.

“You too. How are things?” she asks casually.

“Oh, you know, pretty good. I’m sure you’ve heard enough about us from Carter.”

“I could never hear enough about you, Shane,” she giggles, her laughter a polite ring in his ears. “If anything, I wish he would stop hanging around Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane feels the palms of his hands begin to sweat. “Oh?”

“Yeah. They’re together aalll the time,” she rolls her eyes. “I get that they have that little bromance going on, but I’m starting to get jealous here.”

He hopes the smile on his face is polite as he listens to her retelling the Admirals’ alternates’ latest misadventures. Shane hadn’t actually talked to Ilya in a while. Not as long as Sochi, but the distance was still tangible.

Text chains got shorter, calls cut short, late night face-time requests denied. Ilya had built a new life in New York and maybe, Shane no longer had a place in it.

“-great seeing you again,” he hears Gloria says and his attention snaps back into focus.

“Yeah, you too,” he answers politely.

Gloria was just about to leave when she turned around with a playful look in her eye.

“Come with me to my table? My castmates are dying to meet you.”

The rumours spread like wildfire, first a small paparazzi shot of Shane having dinner with the cast of Under Dark, then an ‘insider’ leak. Shane’s PR team lost control of the narrative before they could even understand it themselves.

The biggest story?

Shane, seen leaving the restaurant with Rose Landry, a Hollywood Darling starring in some of the industry’s biggest hits.

Ilya was having dinner with Yuna and David when Carter sent him the posts. The same 3 shots covered by a dozen different media outlets, sent to him with a simple ‘???’ from the other alternate captain.

Ilya is so sick of finding things out from the media. Maybe he should throw his phone into the Hudson and go into hiding.

“Ilya,” Yuna tries softly, her voice so gentle it hurts. “Would you like me to talk to him?”

Ilya’s eyes were distant, dull as he settled into a familiar numbness. “Nothing to talk about.”

“Still.”

“Has nothing to do with me,” Ilya says, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Good for him, right? She’s very beautiful.”

He can’t stand the sadness he sees reflected in her warm eyes. She knows about him and Shane. If he wasn’t sure before, he was pretty damn sure now.

“Ilya…”

“Please, Yuna. I don’t need that burden on me.”

Shane had always wanted a normal life. To draw within the lines drawn for him. Rose Landry gave him that shot. And if she was good to him, who is he to come between them? He didn’t need that on his conscience.

The visage of Shane Hollander was difficult to escape on a good day. His face was on every other poster, his ads projected on large screens that wrap around malls and enveloped buildings.

With Rose on his arm, he became a tabloid regular. Paparazzi shots, social media posts, pictures from games, all made their way into magazines on the side walks, tabloids in bodegas, their names on people’s lips. It was inescapable.

By the 3rd week, Ilya was tempted to just lock himself in his apartment and never step foot outside. His apartment, which Shane chose for him. His latest perfume ad was visible from his north facing window, and it felt like his judgement was bearing down on him in way too many Ks.

Ilya tugs at the golden cross around his neck.

These last few years have been like living in a dream. Now it is time for him to wake up.

Eric has always gotten a weird vibe from Montreal. They’re a good team, yes, but they also feel like a house of cards, and their entire bottom row is held up by Shane Hollander alone. Both socially and effectively. Pike and Boizau can be the edge pieces, and veterans like Miitka, Stedlund and Andropov might be the base for the second row, but it always felt like they were less stable than they looked.

Ilya has always been excited to play them. Today, the energy doesn’t seem there. He moves sluggishly through his warm up, doing them seemingly out of obligation rather than his usual pre-game burst of energy.

Eric keeps an eye on him as he taps the posts of the goal with his stick, aligning his spatial awareness as he does before each game.

It seems he isn’t the only one keeping an eye on Ilya.

He tracks Hollander’s gaze as he roughens the crease. They follow Ilya across the ice, jittery and expectant and Ilya is pointedly avoiding him, doing crisscrosses, powerpulls and skating circles to burn some of that anxious energy off.

Hollander looked a little giddy, if not a little guilty. Like he had something he wanted to tell Ilya but didn't know how he would take it. He skates up and down the red line, hoping to catch Roz' attention, but as the silence stretches, his excitement begins to wane and in it's place was a nervous energy he had never seen on the other captain.

"Hollzy!" Boizau called out and they both looked up.

It hits Eric right then. The way Ilya’s head whips around when he calls Holly’s name. How he always disappears after they play against Montreal. The child-like excitement he has before every game.

He always dismissed it as old habits he couldn’t break, a knee-jerk reaction to a 5 year old narrative he considered his norm.

‘Montreal Jane,’ Ryan Price had said when they went out for drinks.

Hollzy and Holly, Jane and Shane.

It was in front of him this entire time, he just took a while to notice. The referees signal the end of the pre-game warm ups and Ilya is the first off the ice, sprinting towards the door at full speed and disappearing into the tunnel before Scott has the chance to even round up the team.

“I got this,” Eric pats Scott on the back reassuringly.

He heads off the ice at a far more reasonable pace and takes off his helmet to go look for the missing Russian. Eric doesn’t check the locker room. He knows Ilya would run somewhere quiet.

He finds him in one of the small unused offices, back against the wall and helmet cast aside.

“There you are,” he says as he locks the door behind him.

“Go away, Benny,” Rozanov croaks, his lungs heaving.

God, that sound cracks his chest wide open. Eric slides down the wall, his skates making the fall inelegant. He lets the silence fall over them for a moment, waiting for the other’s breath to even out.

“It’s Hollzy, isn’t it?” He asks gently.

Ilya snorts mirthlessly and shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You get really weird whenever I call my wife’s name,” he says with only a hint of accusation.

“Yes, well. You’re very loud.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

Ilya’s head falls between his knees as he forces his breath to even out. “Just… leave me alone, Benny. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Fat chance, kid,” Eric puts his helmet down and stretches his legs out. “Look. I’m not here to give you some rousing emotional speech or anything. You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m not even going to ask you if you’re ok, ‘cuz I know you’re going to lie to me anyways. I just need you to know that I’ve got you, ok? Whatever you need?”

A glint of mischief flashes through Ilya’s expression. “Anything?”

Eric has to roll his eyes at that. “Within reason. So if you need to sit this one out, I can tell coach you… got a fever or sprained your ankle or whatever.”

Ilya doesn’t trust easily, Eric knew that. So he wasn’t surprised that the Russian would doubt his sincerity in the slightest. “Why?”

“Because, you’re my friend.”

“Is that what we are?”

“Sure. If you want us to be,” Eric shrugs, unaffected by the implication they aren’t. “We’re already roommates, and you’d be surprised how many times I’ve covered your ass while you’ve gone off to who knows where whenever we’re in Montreal. Don’t lie to me again, you lil shit,” he points at Ilya affectionately. “But really. It’s nice having you around, and sometimes I get the feeling we’re playing for the same team.”

Ilya furrows his brows in confusion, and Eric is tempted to look away from the intensity of his gaze but he forces himself to stay. Because he needs to know. He needs to understand that he is not alone.

Slowly but surely, a wave of understanding dawns on the other and he looks at Eric with wide blue eyes, a different light. Curious.

“Okay?” He asks nervously. This is the first time he has ever admitted something like this to anyone else, a feeling he himself wasn’t too sure of.

“Okay,” Ilya nods and takes Eric’s hand as he helps him up.

When they made it back to the locker room, the team looked at him carefully.

“What?” Rozanov calls out.

“You ok, Roz?” Carter asks. “You looked a little off out there.”

“Yes. I’m healthy. I can still play.”

Carter looks at his line mate with furrowed brows. “I know. That’s not what I asked.”

Rozanov looks like he had been struck with the sudden realisation that the care they were giving him wasn’t caution, it was concern. So unused to it he forgot the shape of it.

“I.. yeah,” he says dumbly.

“Good,” Carter smiles, patting him on the shoulder, even if he doesn’t fully believe him. “Then let’s give ‘em hell boys!”

The team cheers and just like that, their morale is back to normal.

Ilya plays like he is on autopilot. Puck drop, wait for Scotty’s signal, run off with the puck. Pass, check, receive, score.

Even when he is on autopilot, he plays better than half the team. Thank god he was on their team now.

Hollander keeps looking over at their bench. So much so Ilya can probably feel the weight of it bearing down on him as each stare gets longer and longer. Fuck, they’re both just kids. The same age as he was when he first met Holly in Harvard.

He gives the other captain a perfunctory hand shake and wraps an arm around Ilya’s shoulders as they skate off the ice.

Other players have always complained about how big and bulky goalie pads are, but for once, Eric was grateful for their size so he could hide Ilya’s fragile expression from prying eyes.

Like with most problems in his life, Shane finds comfort near the ice. Doesn’t matter if he is in the stands or in his skates, the cool smell of a freshly zambonied ice rink has been a constant.

So he finds himself hiding in the stands of Centre Étienne Desmarteau, watching Les Canadiennes do practice drills ahead of the Walter Cup. Hiding, in a sense where no one else but the girls on the ice knows where he is.

Out on the red line, he sees Poulin nodding at him in greeting before resuming practice. He is welcomed here as much as she is in Center Bell. 2 Montreal captains, 2 very different leagues.

The amount of push back he had gotten just to give her access to their practices still pissed him off till this day.

Her A climbs up to the stands to watch their formations from afar, finding gaps you wouldn’t find on the ground. “What do you think?” Claire asks.

“Getting there,” Shane nods. He tries not to offer criticism when it isn’t explicitly asked for. “How’s the new coach?”

“Getting there,” she repeats. “He’s doing well, but I think it would be better if we had more than 1 coach, you know? A goalie coach and some assistant coaches maybe. But we don’t have the budget for that.”

“That sucks,” Shane frowns.

“Maybe if we got the other teams on board… Hey, if we made a petition to ask for better pay would you be down to sign it? I think your voice could put a lot of weight on them.”

“I can get behind that,” Shane nods. He has never been more grateful for his ‘reach’ than times like these. “I’m sure a couple other captains in the league would be down as well.”

“Really?” Claire says with raised brows. “Like who?”

“Rozanov,” he says confidently. He remembers belatedly that Ilya isn’t a captain anymore. “Marleau, Hunter, Vaughn,” he corrects to compensate.

“Huh,” Claire thinks about it.

She doesn’t question Ilya’s name being mentioned, doesn’t bring up his reputation, or his personality, or his ability to piss off half the league at any given moment. And that was oddly refreshing, even if he was the source of Shane’s current dilemmas.

“You’re not surprised.”

“Yeah, no. I’ve seen a couple of them at some of our games with the Riveters. He seems like a good guy, even if he is a little… passionate.”

He is pretty sure she meant loud, but he’ll take it.

“He is,” Shane laughs fondly.

“Pretty sure the Riveters have actually adopted him.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.”

“He’s also one hell of a chirper.”

“You can hear him from the stands?”

“No, but somehow he always makes it into the highlight reels.”

Sounds about right.

Shane sighs deeply, his fingers twisting each other in his hoodie pocket. It’s Ilya’s hoodie, a dark grey one, well loved and soft.

He hasn’t talked to Ilya in weeks. Won’t even look at him when they played each other. Missing him hurts more than he thought, like a severed limb removed without his knowledge. They’ve been on longer stretches of time without talking. What makes one any different?

“Say, you talk to Rozanov lately?” Claire lowers her voice, sliding into the seat beside him.

Shane squashes the way his heart beat quickens anxiously. “What?”

“You guys are friends, right? Janelle says she’s been to a couple kickboxing classes with you guys and a couple other Riveters.”

“Uhm, yeah.” he forgot just how different the NWHL was, that teams chat and having friends from other teams is normal. “But no, I haven’t talked to him lately. Why?”

“Well, I figured with the whole Zullo thing-”

He turns to the alternate captain in confusion. “What Zullo thing?”

“You haven’t heard? Zullo was arrested on Valentine's day.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“I guess they’re keeping it under tight wraps.”

It’s a surprise the press haven’t gotten a hold of this news.

“One of the Riveters,” she says softly. “Said that Rozanov, allegedly," and she emphasies this word, "came to talk to her back in October.”

Shane supposes her identity is kept hidden for a reason.

“About what?”

“Addiction recovery.”

Shane sucks in a breath. October, that’s the start of the season.

“They were concerned, thought he might be in a bit of trouble. But now it sounds like he was just trying to help someone else.”

The interrupted phone calls, cancelled plans… it was all starting to piece together and the past 6 months began to reshape themselves in Shane’s mind.

“We just thought that since you guys were friends…”

“No. He hasn’t mentioned anything like that to me.”

“Oh… okay.”

Once again, Shane is reminded of how Ilya's world keeps turning and he was just a remnant from his past gasping for air trying to catch up.

Rose was kind. Very kind. She’s funny, considerate, and Shane feels incredibly at ease around her. He doesn’t mind her arm wrapped around his, even if he flinches at the unexpected contact, or her insistence that he hangs out with her friends during his time off, even if it leaves him worn out. It feels weird having her tongue in his mouth, her lips too soft and her body gives far too easily beneath his fingertips. He seems to constantly be missing cues whenever she wants more than just a simple kiss. He just…

He never feels like he could truly let go. He is playing the part he is expected to play, doing the things a good boyfriend should do. He feels safe and comfortable, sure, but it feels like watching a Hallmark movie of his life and he’s the director, but he doesn’t know the DoP. He’s doing all of it, so why does he feel like this?

Why doesn’t he feel happy?

Maybe it takes time for feelings to develop. Maybe all he needs is a partner who values and respects him for who he is instead of how many goals he can score, and the rest will follow. Afterall, all good marriages are based on a solid partnership, right? It was far too early for him to think that far, but then again, Shane has always made plans in years, not days.

“-ight, Shane?”

Shane freezes as he hears his name and he sees Rose’s friends looking at him expectantly. Fuck, he was being a bad boyfriend wasn’t he?

“Sorry, what was the question again?”

Rose’s gaze became one of concern. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah, just… tired I think. This season has been a lot,” he tries to reason.

“No, I get it. You don’t have to explain.”

He gets the distinct feeling she doesn’t believe him. They duck out of dinner early and Shane apologises profusely once more.

“Hey, no. It’s fine,” she sighs softly. “Let’s get dinner next week, okay? Just you and me.”

“Alright.”

A sense of numbness washes over him as he makes it back to his home. He scrolls through the posts about them all over social media.

so cute together

power couple

living the dream

He is living the dream, isn’t he? It’s just out of reach, the white picket fence dream he should want. This is what he should want, right?

Shane doesn’t know anymore. He tosses his phone onto the counter and buries his face in his hands. Ilya would know what to do, right? He always seems to know what to say when Shane gets too deep into his own head.

The temptation is right there. He could just press the call button and Ilya would answer. He knows he should. But he needs to grow up. He can’t depend on Ilya on everything.

He walks into the practice in an odd mood, one the boys seem to catch onto immediately.

“Whoah, what’s gotten you so pissy, cap?” Stedlund says.

“Got into a fight with your bird?” Comeau teases.

God he fucking hates when they talk about Rose that.

“No,” he answers. “Just… in a mood, I guess.”

“Well, if you’re done with her, let us in on some of the action, will you?” Gagnon jokes.

Shane’s eyes narrow as he turns to the defenseman. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my girlfriend like that. Or any other woman, in fact.”

Gagnon raises his arms in mock surrender.

Shane wasn’t mad before, but he’s mad now and he takes to the ice to burn off some of that anger. He was a captain, the team depended on him to lead them with a calm head between his shoulders. It doesn’t matter if life was in shambles or his house was on fire, he had a job to do.

“I’m glad we did this,” Rose tells him after dinner. “We needed some time alone, I think.”

“Yeah, this is nice,” Shane admits.

The smile she gives him is warm and Shane tries to ignore the guilt rolling in his stomach. They were pretty much the only ones in the restaurant. Service had started to die down and most of the patrons had already left hours ago.

Talking to Rose was easy. She didn't have any expectations of him, wasn't knee deep in league politics but still understood bits and pieces of it. She understood pressure and she understood fame. Shane felt like they were in the same boat, even if it doesn't always feel like they were rowing in the same direction.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

Shane snorts in disbelief.

“No seriously,” she insists. “You are. Miles is extremely jealous.”

“Of me?”

“No, of me,” Rose clarifies.

“...Oh.”

She quirks her lips and the mood shifts. “So… about last week.”

“Rose, I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I know I’ve been a bad boyfriend.”

“No, it’s fine. I just… don’t know if I’m doing it for you,” she grimaces, her tone careful.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Like… do you like… talking to me?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently.

“Ok, do you like… kissing me?”

“Sure,” he nods, before hearing how it sounds. “I mean, that’s not-”

“Shane, hey,” she grabs his hand across the table. “It’s ok.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. Look, I love spending time with you, but sometimes… sometimes I feel like you’re somewhere else. Like there is a wall between us and I’m just looking through a window.”

That’s how Shane has felt his entire life, waving through a window hoping someone would notice.

Someone did notice. Someone noticed and tapped on the glass before he even had the chance to wave back.

“It’s just… maybe I’m completely off base here, but… maybe you’d rather be kissing… Miles?”

“Miles?” Shane looks at her in confusion.

“Maybe not Miles specifically but…”

Understanding takes hold of him and it fills his chest with a sudden wave of panic.

“I can do better,” he tries.

“Hey, no. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“I know the sex stuff is a problem.”

“Shane. a problem is something you can fix. We’re more like… a square peg and a round hole. Eww,” Rose groans at her own analogy and Shane laughs, his eyes a little glassy.

“What I’m saying is, I don’t think we were meant to fit. And that’s ok,” she insists.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologise, ok. We tried, and it didn’t work. And that’s fine.”

Shane shakes his head like it was still a personal failure, that this is something he could try harder in and it would all magically work out. So Rose tries a different approach.

“Can I… ask if you’ve ever been with another guy?”

Shane nods slowly.

“Was it better?”

He nods before wiping his eyes. “Yeah, uh. Yeah it was better.”

Rose watches a smile bloom on his face, a lightness in his eyes glistening as he loses himself in a memory she can’t see. It was gentle, far too fond for anything casual. It suited him.

“You have someone,” she concludes.

The smile falls off his face in an instant. “What? No. I don’t.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you’re seeing them right now,” Rose rolls her eyes. Because Shane Hollander is far too earnest to cheat. “But when you think about other guys, you’re thinking of someone specific.”

“It’s nothing,” he waves off. “We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” she parrots his previous answer. Obviously not buying his answer.

“It’s just… we’re really busy-”

“Right.”

“-and I can’t be out right now-”

“Okay.”

“- and we don’t even talk anymore.”

Rose frowns. “You don’t?”

Shane shrugs. “I got a girlfriend,” he says, like it should mean something.

“You don’t magically lose your friends the moment you start dating, Shane,” she points out. “Not the good ones, anyways.”

“Sometimes, I’m not even sure we are friends. We haven’t talked in months.”

“Wow,” Rose sits back and sits with that for a moment. "And you're sure you like him?"

"He's," Shane frowns as he tries to find the words. "Funny. Sweet. Considerate, even if he pretends not to be."

Rose leans closer and crosses her arms on the table. "Tell me about him."

He takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning. Chronologally. Starting from that cold day in Saskatchewan to the call on Valentines. He spared her all the less PG details, of course, but he couldn't help but smile as he recounted them, then frowned when he recounted their last game together.

"Damn," is all she could say.

Shane tries not to think about that too much. “Like I said. It’s not serious.”

“Sure. But do you want it to be?”

So much it kills him. But he doesn’t admit that in front of Rose.

"Wow. You must really like this guy," she concludes softly, taking in the sheer want in his eyes. It should terrify him, just how easily Rose could read him, but instead, he feels comfort. He doesn't need to explain himself, not to her at least, and he doesn't need to defend Ilya or be wary of what people think of him. It was new, hopeful, if not a little sad.

"Come on," her smile grows. “Let’s go get your man.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You heard me, Hollander! Let’s come up with a game plan!”

Is it normal to find out your ex is gay then help him buy clothes to try and help him win over the guy he is obviously in love with, probably not. But Rose is clearly having way too much fun playing dress up to care.

She puts up a blue suit against Shane's body, humming as she tilts her head and swaps it with a brown set. "Well, brown is definitely your colour."

Shane didn't know what else to do but nod. Fashion clearly had rules, it was like a game of trial and error until you could figure out the rules that applied to you, but Shane for the life of him couldn't wrap his head around any of them.

"Try it on," she passes the set of hangers to him.

He comes out of the dressing room with a frown. "Are you sure this is the right size?"

The cuffs ran past his wrists, the suit was loose around his waist and the pants pooled around his ankles.

"Yeah, no. It's meant to be oversized," she reassures him.

'You should explore styles outside your comfort zone,' she said. But when your wardrobe mainly comprises of black ties, game day suits and athleisure, everything is outside of his comfort zone.

"Well, what do you think?" she steps back. He appreciates that she at least asks for his input, even if she makes him buy it in the end anyways.

Shane shrugs. "I mean, I don't hate it."

"But?" she urges.

"But I don't see myself wearing this," he admits.

"Hmm. Fair enough," she mumbles. "Ok. Last one."

She pulls the shirt off the hanger and hands it to him. The fabric is soft beneath his fingertips. Black, short sleeved. It has some sort of shimmer on the top of the shoulders that fade out as it cascades down his chest. It had a black collar with a couple buttons and hugged his arms nicely. Not too loose, not too tighy. Shane turned to the mirror and paused.

"Uh, Rose?"

"Yeah?"

Shane pulls back the curtain. "This shirt is see through."

The smile she gives him tells him she did it on purpose. "I know."

"You can see right through it!"

Rose gives him a hungry appreciative look. "I know!" She sounded far too delighted. She straightened out the shirt. "Put this on and just like that," she snaps her fingers. "He'll come crawling right back."

He didn't want Ilya to crawl, he just wanted his friend to talk to him again.

Shane bites his lip, uncertain. "And if he doesn't?"

Rose frowns. She cups his face and pulls him close. "He will," she reassures.

Shane hadn't given her all juicy details of the last 7 years but she knew enough. It felt good to finally tell someone, to share just how much he had been holding in his chest, even if it's only in part.

"But if he doesn't?" he asks insistently.

"Well, then we use my hundreds of kidnapping experience and make him," she jokes.

It eventually pulls a smile out of him. Their relationship might have been a mess but he still genuinely enjoyed Rose's company. Sure, he could do without the hundreds of dollars worth of clothes currently sitting in paper bags, but he appreciated her regardless.

"Where will I even wear this?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "The club?"

Shane doesn't mention that he hates clubs.

"All-stars?" she continues to suggest. "Oh, shit! You're gonna need a fit for All-Stars!"

Shane sighs as he looks down at the growing collection of bags on the ground. It looks like this shopping trip is far from over.

The club Andropov picked out was too bright, too much. Too many flashing colours, the floor thumping loudly even through the noise cancelling earbuds. Shane takes the drink Hayden passes him and winces at the taste.

“Fuck the Islelanders!” JJ had screamed a little too boldly in their home turf.

The rest of the team cheered in return “Fuck the Islelanders!”

“-the Islelanders,” Shane trails weakly.

Going out with Rose had given him some practice in surviving clubs, but he still hated them. Even when he sat in VIP tables, avoided dance floors, wore ear buds that cancelled out sounds above a certain decibel, it was still the last place he wanted to be after a night out.

No, right now, he wanted to be in Gramercy, in an apartment he had picked out but hadn't been to in months. Quiet and warm, draped in freshly washed clothes and neatly ironed sheets. Staring down at people who were too busy to look up at him. He wanted that green smoothie from that one place Ilya always gets them from and an egg sandwich from the bodega around the corner and to pet Gizmo, the tuxedo cat guarding the counter.

The thoughts pressed against his chest like the sea of people and Shane couldn’t take in a breath without a noxious mix of too strong perfume, hands in too many places and something tacky against his shoes.

Shane stumbles into the bathroom and slides down onto the floor.

There’s a dull thudding between his temples, his mouth tasting like stale beer and too sharp cheap vodka and something blue and sweet and he hates it. It tastes like shit and now he feels like shit.

This is why he never celebrates with the team after a game. This is why Shane prefers the comfortable silence of his home, even if it sometimes feels a little cold and empty. He pulls up his phone and scrolls through his chats with Lily.

The chat has gone strangely silent and it hurts. It hurts that he hasn’t gotten a single text in months, just like the months following the Olympics. At least then he knew what he did wrong. Ilya told him not to do something and he did it. He broke a rule.

What has he done this time?

He presses the call button. He’ll demand an answer out of the Russian. He’ll show him that he doesn’t need him.

“Hello?” he hears and he loses all his nerves at once. So much for Rose’s grand plan.

“Ilya,” he sobs.

“Hollander? Are you ok?” The concern in his voice sends a wave of warmth through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“Are you safe.”

“Mhmm.”

A sigh blows out from the other end of the line.

“Hollander, why did you call me?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” he hiccups.

“Are you drunk?”

“I don’t know.” Shane couldn’t feel the difference between the pounding in his head and the one outside the door.

He hears Ilya shuffles on the other end. “Where are you?”

Fuck, he was being annoying again, wasn’t he. Annoying and needy, always insisting on being in Ilya’s life, even if he had run so much further ahead than Shane could catch up with.

“Hush? The one in Elmont?”

“Yeah, I know the place.”

“Yeah,” Shane says weakly. “That one.”

“Okay. Stay where you are, okay? I’ll go there.”

“Here?” He couldn’t stop the pathetic hopefulness from bleeding into his voice. “You’ll come here?”

“Yes, Hollander. Now stay there, okay?”

“Okay.”

“No more drinks for you.”

Not like he wanted any more. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya answers awkwardly. When had it become so awkward between them. “Bye.”

The call drops before Shane could return it and the phone slides from his hand. He should get up from this disgusting floor.

None of the other club patrons have recognised him and he was grateful they have chosen to ignore his little crisis. None of his teammates have checked on him. Did they even look for him? Who knows?

Slowly, the world stopped spinning so much. The thudding behind his eyes still suck but at least he doesn’t feel so… unmoored.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed but then he sees a familiar head of blonde curls pass through the doors.

“You came,” he rasps.

Ilya shrugs. “You did the same for me.”

“Right,” Shane’s head falls as he pushes them against his thighs. Ilya was just here to return a favour. Nothing to it.

He was so near yet so far, it hurts. Even then, his concern shone through the wall of indifference.

“Where is your team?”

“I don’t know.”

He truly doesn’t, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“I broke up with her,” he finds himself saying.

Ilya's brows shoot up. “Is that why you’re hiding here having a panic attack?”

“No.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Then why?”

“I just…we weren’t… compatible.”

There is a mild look of confusion on Ilya’s face. One that Shane has come to recognise as the look he gives when he feels like he knows a word but he isn’t sure.

“I don’t think I like women in general,” he explains.

It pulls a laugh out of the blonde across him. “Canada’s Shane Hollander is a misogynist?”

“Fuck you, dude. I’m trying to be serious here. Where did you even learn that word?”

“The internet, duh.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not.”

Ilya groans dramatically. “Then, what?”

“I don’t think I’m attracted to women,” Shane corrects with a glare. “And Rose… she’s been nothing but perfect, but she made me realise some things.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Ilya crosses his arms.

He looks up at him with a look that forces Ilya to turn away, frightened at the intensity of it and what it meant.

“For starters, I’m gay,” Shane says, his eyes never leaving the blonde.

 “You went out with one woman and decided that’s it?” Ilya laughs. “Maybe she’s not your type.”

“I had a girlfriend in high school,” he tells him as a matter of fact. “Didn’t work out either. She made me choose between her and hockey.”

The snort Ilya gives him makes him feel a little vindictive. He remembers being so conflicted over his choice back then. He didn’t realise how much that decision weighed on him until Ilya validated it.

“And I went out for a drink with your friend Svetlana.”

Ilya’s eyes widened, frozen in shock. “Sveta? When?”

“Like,” he doesn’t really remember. “Last time I was in Boston?”

“Right.” Ilya was going to have some choice words for his childhood friend next time she is in town. “What else?”

Shane sighs and lets his head hit the wall behind him. “And I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t like you.”

Ilya shakes his head. “You don’t like me.”

“Fuck you. Don’t tell me how to feel,” he says, his voice biting and it silences the blonde immediately.

“So you, what, want us to be friends?”

Aren’t they?

This is the most unsure he has felt the whole night. He doesn’t want to misunderstand him, or their relationship.

“To start, I guess. Is that so bad?”

“No,” Ilya admits. But it’s dangerous. Their friendship has always felt like it was on the precipice of something more, but that edge was not a gentle fall, it was a gorge.

“I mean, with you in New York we don’t have to keep hammering on about the whole archrival thing. We’re not even in the same division anymore.”

“Yes, but we are still Original 6.”

Shane winces. “Right. So not gone. Just… less.”

“Yes.”

His lackluster answers were grating on Shane’s nerves. It felt like a really fucked up version of minesweeper that he didn’t think he would be playing with Ilya of all people.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say Hollander?”

Great, so now he’s back to Hollander.

“Do you even like me? Be honest with me.”

He does. So much it hurts.

“Hollander…”

“Just tell me.” He can feel his eyes water, brimming with emotion he is so tired of ignoring. “So I know that it’s just me that feels it and I can at least make some sense out of all this and fucking move on.”

He could take the easy way out, Ilya realizes. He has been telling himself that it was over, that they could finally be rid of their little secret and it would be for the better.

But he also told Yuna two years ago that he would try to live more authentically. To be more of himself in New York.

He hasn’t done a very good job at that, has he? But still…

“Hollander, you know this-”

“That was a yes or no question, Rozanov,” Shane interrupts. “You like me. Yes or no?”

Ilya laughs in defeat. Fine. “Yes.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard was it?” Shane laughs wetly. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he drops his head onto his knees. Ilya drops down onto the floor beside him, a mirror image of what Shane did for him back in Boston.

“I’m offended you would think otherwise.”

“Yeah, well. You haven’t exactly been the most forthcoming,” Shane laughs mirthlessly.

“Because it doesn’t change anything. We cannot be together.”

“I know.”

“I would not be able to go back home to Russia.”

“I know.”

“I will have to claim asylum in America, and that’s not easy to get.”

“I know.”

“Then I don’t know why it matters.” This time, Shane finally looks at him, at the resignation on his face. He feels a little more sober now, and Ilya’s presence grounds him, but he hopes he remembers this conversation tomorrow morning and he hopes even more fervently that Ilya won’t pretend he doesn’t.

“It matters to me.”

Someone tries to crank the bathroom door open frantically, followed by a fist slamming onto the door.

“Oy! Can you hurry the fuck up in there? I need to piss. Hello?” Someone calls out from the other side.

Shane finally lifts himself off the dingy floor and steps closer towards Ilya, the tips of their shoes touching.

“Let’s get out of here. Before someone pukes in front of the door or something.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

This time, Shane doesn’t mind the one worded answers.

The next morning, Shane sits on the beanbag chair by the large windows wearing Ilya’s clothes with a mug of coffee in hand. The bitter taste of it wakes him, shaking the last of the sluggishness he felt from the night before. Below him, the city comes alive, ever moving, ever changing. Shane had always liked how invisible he felt in New York, how the world continued to spin no matter what he did.

He walks to the kitchen and watches as Ilya makes them breakfast. Eggs, beans, toast. Turkey bacon for Shane, normal bacon for Ilya, and some mushrooms on the side. His eyes trace the smooth lines of his back, long and defined, wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and what he knows to be a beautiful ass hidden by the low slung tri-striped sweatpants he seems to have a life-time supply of. Indulgent, as he resists the urge to do something embarrassing like bite him.

“You’re staring,” Ilya says without turning back.

Shane hums, a silent confession.

Ilya turns around and leans onto the island, eyes meeting Shane’s.

“What is it?”

The high collar, wide sleeves of his shirt brush against his inner elbow comfortingly as he leans closer. He slowly blinks as he sits there, content to just spend the morning lazily looking at him. Truly look at him and savor the feeling of having Ilya’s undivided attention.

He wishes he could tell people how sweet Ilya can be, how much he cares about people and looks after them. Warm and kind and so easy to love.

He wishes he could convince Ilya himself.

Ilya looks away first. He was so intimately aware of Shane’s desires but so unfamiliar with the shape of his affection.

“What time do you need to get back?”

“Around 2, I think?”

It was only a little past 9, and Shane doesn’t really feel like going anywhere else.

Fuck. I’m in love with Ilya Rozanov, Shane thinks to himself.

The thought doesn’t scare him as much as it used to, a feeling he settled into so slowly he never noticed the change. But even if he says it now, Ilya probably wouldn’t believe him.

“Did you hear about the All-Stars theme this year?”

“Yes. East vs. West,” Ilya thumbs the edge of his mug.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like for us to be teammates.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Could be fun, I think,” Shane smiles.

“Maybe,” Ilya concedes.

“Who knows, maybe we can get to know each other better. We might have a lot more in common than we thought,” he says playfully.

“Or less,” Ilya counters. “We might end up fighting for puck on instinct. We would hate each other by end of 1st period. Maybe first shift.”

Shane shakes his head. “That won’t happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I like you,” Shane admits. “A lot more than I think I should.”

Ilya frowns, reminded of their conversation the night prior. “Shane…”

“You don’t… have to answer or whatever,” he avoids Ilya’s eyes. “I just wanted you to know. And… even if you don’t feel the same way, I’ll still be your friend. If you want that.”

He finally lifts his head and Ilya is looking at him with furrowed brows.

“Are we friends?” Shane knows he sounded desperate, like he was grasping for reassurances, but he never really knew when it came to Ilya.

Thankfully, Ilya gave him a smile even he had trouble hiding. “The best.”

He says it with such ease, even though he had trouble admitting to it the night before.

Shane returns the smile. “Really?”

“Who else would it be, Hollander?” Ilya rolls his eyes.

He supposes it was somewhat of a stupid question, unless he also lets Vaughny sleepover in his clothes and cooks him breakfast shirtless.

“I don’t know, dude. You have way too many friends.”

“Of course! People love me.”

Shane smiles softly and doesn’t let him hide behind his own pageantry. “Yeah, they do.”

The sweetness of it dries Ilya’s throat, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet.

“What do you want for lunch?”

A smile breaks across his face unbidden and he knows they will be alright.

“A tuna melt would be great.”

Chapter End Notes

It's not included in the fic but I assure you Ilya and Eric had very long winding conversations about bisexuality over a couple GNTs

Kudos and Comments are appreciated!!!

Chapter 6: Such a Lovable Lamb to Me

Chapter Summary

My moon my man, so changeable and
Such a lovable lamb to me

- My Moon My Man by Feist

All-Stars weekend loom over the horizon and despite their little talk in Ilya's New York apartment, Shane still isn't sure where they stand.

Chapter Notes

Yes, hello, welcome! I present to you... smut! Ehe. I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes that might appear. This was a fat boy and I'm too tired to edit.

Did I jump on here after seeing the Yaga trailer, why, yes! Does it make me feel a little insane? Also yes.

Tiny note, you might have caught this but one of the head-cannons in this fic is that Scott attended World Juniors with Shane and Ilya. Considering he's on the US national team and is only 3 years and 1 draft class older than them, this isn't that far fetched of an idea.

Carter skims through the dossier Ilya wrote up with pinched brows. He was… thorough. A bit too thorough. When the coach told him to write anything and everything he could think of, he might have taken it a little too literally.

The stack in front of him was thick. An itemised list of all 20 guys on the team and all their flaws, both on ice and off. The only thing he seemingly left out were things the office already knew. Birthdays, positions, home towns, all that. He couldn’t resist the temptation to open up the page about himself. Nothing scandalous, thankfully.

Carter Vaughn

• Always smells good

• Sings in the shower

Coach does not need to know that, so he crosses out those bits.

• Leans too hard on his right when making turn during double shift

• Prefers shooting right

• Hold on stick not low enough

Right. Ok, that bit he can admit is true. 

• Blames himself when Hunter misses a pass.

How does he know that? Is he a mind reader? Vaughny flips to Scott’s page and it’s long. Longer than most. Then again, he has been going up against Scott since World Juniors, so that isn’t a surprise.

Scott Hunter

• Very superstitious

• Does better first half of season

• Spends summers in Europe, preferably Mediterranean areas

• Freezes under pressure

• Takes at least 2 seconds to think before passing. Will default pass to Vaughny

Are their plays that easy to read? Maybe that’s why Ilya suggested to the coach that they should be practicing different plays more often.

• Feels pressure to be the best in the team

• Does not have ultra sensitive hearing

• Impossible to wake up once asleep

Strangely specific but he’ll take it. His notes on the other guys are not that different, ranging from good pointers to TMI.

“Berkes, ringworm on left leg,” Vaughny grimaces. “Gillis, does not wear shirt under chestie, has a crush on Bresbois’ wife. Wagner, needs to poop before games or will fart on ice.”

Is that why there's always a weird smell in the rink during practices?

“Huff, lactose intolerant, low alcohol tolerance, specifically whiskey. Virtanen, laughs at inappropriate moments. Armstrong, weak arms (ironic). Kay, yodels when bored. Bresbois, scared of birds. Cameron, doesn’t wear socks with skates?”

“A heathen,” Ilya nods across from him.

“Woody, sexist when drunk. Prentice, touchy when drunk….” Vaughny mumbles. Those are indeed things to watch out for.

He turns to the page on Benny, which has minimal to no notes aside from ‘knows too much’. Vaughny knows he’s hiding something, but if even Ilya isn’t willing to dredge it out after what happened with Frank, it must truly be none of his business.

“How come there isn’t a page about you?” he asks.

Ilya shrugs. “Would not be objective observation.”

“But ‘burps a lot after meals’ is?”

“Is sign of gastritis! Might be important.”

“Sure,” Vaughny snorts. He tosses the dossier on the table and crosses his arms. “What about Matti Jalo? Got anything on him?”

“Never met him, but I’ve seen him play. He is very good.”

“Good enough to replace Frank?”

“Maybe better.”

Jalo was a big guy, about as big as Price. Drafted and wasted on Tampa.

The trade hasn’t really been announced but the captains have gotten whispers of it from the coaches and it has gotten everyone buzzing. This was huge.

“Will take some time to train him, get him in line, see how he fits in locker room, but he will do well.”

“Well, I damn hope so. Hunter’s playing really well right now. If he keeps going, we might have a chance at a cup.”

“Svetlana thinks so too,” Ilya nods.

“Then it must be true,” Vaughny laughs.

Nearly everyone in the team has met the legendary Svetlana Vetrova, though most of them aren't sure if they're scared or attracted to her. Maybe both.

“Wish I could come to All-Stars this year,” Vaughny sighs wistfully. “I’d pay a lot of money to see you and Hollander on the same team.”

“I think maybe that was the point?” Ilya says slowly.

“Ok, yeah, but I get to look behind the scenes! I mean, I know you’re good friends and all that, but once you two hit the ice, everyone’s gonna cream their pants. Those hockey podcasters on youtube, especially.”

Ilya makes an exaggerated gagging sound. Not his target audience.

“Sup, boys,” Scott greets. “What’cha talking about?”

“The All-Star game this weekend,” Carter says.

“Ah, yes. Thanks to you, Roz, I can finally have a proper bye week.”

Scott doesn’t remember the last time he has had a proper mid-season break. Before Ilya came to the team, it was almost always a guarantee that Scott would be called up. But now that he’s here…

“So, doing anything this week Cap? Plan on skipping town?”

Scott was going to kill Roz for the way he whips around to him, brows raised at the ‘kip’ in ‘skip’.

“No. I’m just… looking forward to relaxing before the playoffs.”

“Yes. Rest is important. Too much work for hips at your age, yes?” Ilya teases.

“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov!”

“Nah, is much more fun if you’re there,” he snickers.

Scott doesn’t even know why he bothers anymore.

“Right, let's get this over with then,” Scott nudges them out the door. One last game before the bye week. One final night to mark the end of the first half of the season. They’ve had a few stumbles through the months, hopefully this one was the last.

Ilya straightens his jersey, picks up his helmets and cups his hand around his mouth. “Alright boys! One last game before bye week. Make sure you all earn it, yes?”

“Yeah!” the group cheers back.

“Then put your buckets on and lets send our neighbours packing back to their ee-sless!”

“Yeah!” The team pumps their fists, laughing at the purposeful mispronunciation of Isle and knocking each other’s helmets as they pass.

In the visiting locker-room, the Islelanders are getting ready to step on the ice. And the Admirals might be one man down, but they’re determined not to end the night with a loss.

Tampa, February 2017: All Stars Game

‘Brown is your colour,’ Rose had said.

Shane tosses on the brown polo shirt she bought him. He had checked in at the hotel an hour ago and somewhere above him, there were 21 other players helping themselves to the open tab the league had kindly left for the afternoon.

He tried the black sheer shirt first, the one with little silver sparkles down the shoulders, then took one look in the mirror and was mortified. Tens of other players were going to be there, and the mere thought of any of them seeing him in this made him want to run. Then he tried on this white collared shirt with gold cords on the hems and little gems on the collar but it looked a little too christmasy for his taste.

Thus, the brown polo.

The sleeves were nice and loose, stopping right above his elbows and the material sits comfortably on his shoulders. Sure, the colour was a little outside his usual black, white, blue and grey, but he had to admit it wasn’t all that bad. It was comfy, the material thick enough to look expensive but thin enough to be breathable in the unrelenting Florida heat. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he got the impression it made his eyes look… browner?

Leave the buttons undone. She had told him when she bought it, pulling open the collar. Do your hair like this.

He fusses with his hair until it gets somewhat close to what she did and gives up trying to tame this one lock of hair that keeps sticking up. He wished it was a little longer. It was already a bit longer than he was used to, and it was annoying to get out of his eyes but he admitted that it looked… better.

“What are you doing, dude?” he sighs to himself as his arms fall to his side.

Ilya was talking to him again, which was really all he could ask for a couple weeks ago, but now that they’ve both admitted that there were… feelings… there, they were in uncharted waters. Whatever was between them was new, unknown, fragile.

He could tell that they were both walking on eggshells around each other, not really at ease but always desperate to talk. It was strange, seeing Ilya so restrained and he hates it. He wanted the normal Ilya back. The one who was a bit mean at times and chirped like he earned a commission for every player he pissed off. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to get them back to that point.

Thus, Rose’s All-Stars wardrobe.

It certainly beat the white blazer combo some stylist had randomly put together.

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe it didn’t matter that he was wearing a nicer shirt, or that the Ray-Bans he was wearing framed his face nicely. Maybe Ilya was still going to keep him at arms length and things would forever stay awkward between them.

Either way, he had a welcome dinner to get to.

He brushes his sweaty palms against his pants as he rides the elevator up to the rooftop bar. He looks into the mirror, his reflection bronze tinted and steels himself for what is to come.

He spots Ilya the moment he walks into the bar. It wasn’t hard. His eyes seem to always be magnetised to him, drawn to wherever he was in the room, even in a hall filled with blonde, blue eyed hockey players.

Shane’s breath caught in his chest. The afternoon light filters into the bar, turning Ilya’s hair into a honey gold, the gaudy red silk shirt on his shoulders fluttering in the light breeze. He looked beautiful.

It seems the magnetism worked both ways because he could see Ilya’s eyes drift towards him within seconds and widen as they took him in. Looks like he choked a little on his beer as well. Oops. One point for Rose, I guess.

With a little more confidence than he had any right to have, Shane walks up to the bar and seats himself right next to him. Ilya’s brows climb impossibly higher as he brushes against him, far too deliberately to be anything other than flirting but his attention doesn’t leave him the whole time, instead, his gaze turned a little heated as they swept up and down his body.

"I'll have, uh, what he's having," Shane tells the bartender lamely.

"Sure thing."

He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the Corona as he feels Ilya's hot gaze rake over him from head to toe. Only once the bartender has left them alone did Ilya finally speak up.

“You look pretty."

“Oh, uh… thanks. I wanted to try something new.”

An amused smile reaches his face. “Really? Shane Hollander, trying something new?”

“Fuck, I knew you’d make fun of me.”

“No, no. Is nice. So you, what? Got tired of looking like shit?”

“No,” Shane snorts. “Rose says I need to dress up nicer if I want to catch someone’s attention.”

For a moment, he thought Ilya might have missed the implication, but there was a laugh bubbling past his lips.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Shane says softly.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but warm as the summer as their eyes never left each other. Eventually he clears his throat and Shane lets his eyes drift to the god awful silk button down that had no right looking so good on him.

“Nice shirt,” he says.

“Thanks. I’m trying to get into the spirit,” Ilya lifts the hem.

Shane couldn’t help the chirp that made it past his lips. “The Florida Man spirit?”

Ilya’s mouth parts in shock. “Wow,” he says, obviously delighted. “You are asshole,” he concludes.

“No, you’re an asshole.”

“No, you are even bigger asshole.”

“Yeah, well, I learn from the best,” he shrugs.

Ilya covers his mouth with his hand to hide the goofy grin he has on his face and Shane feels entranced by the way it makes his eyes sparkle. Fuck, he wants to kiss him.

Instead, he drops his gaze and wipes his hands on his pants. “Well, I guess I’ll go do the rounds. But I’ll… catch you later?”

He looks up at Ilya, just a tad bit hopeful.

He shouldn’t feel so charmed but the small laugh Ilya gives him before taking a swig of his beer.

“Okay. See you,” Ilya tells him.

Shane couldn’t stop the smile on his face even if he tried.

Larsen had seen a lot of players in his tenure. He’s seen good chemistry, great chemistry even. Whatever Hollander and Rozanov have, however, should be considered witchcraft. There was no other way to describe it.

How else would you explain executing a perfect no-look pass to someone you’ve never played with?

It was like Rozanov passed the puck knowing Hollander would be there, regardless of his starting position. At some point during the game, they started arguing animatedly over… puck temperatures?

“I’m surprised they haven’t strangled each other,” Diaz skates up to them as they reset.

“Give it a minute. They just might.”

Another goal hits the back of the net and Larsen doesn’t know which one of them is crazier. Rozanov, for jumping in the air in celebration, or Hollander catching him like it was normal for a 200 pound Russian wall of muscle to be asking for uppies.

Even the goalie was looking at them like they were mad, and that’s saying something.

Regardless of their eccentricities, Larsen can admit, they play some pretty damn good hockey. He slides up to Hollander’s left, peering at Rozanov on his other side. They boys are focused, laser sharp as they keep their eyes on the center. But where Hollander’s eyes are filled with overwhelming determination, Rozanov’s eyes are filled with mischief. They promise terror, chaos, a very high likelihood for a broken nose and at least 1 loose tooth.

Guys, please. This is an All-Stars Game.

“You know,” Dykstra mumbles between shifts. “For a couple guys who spent the better half of this decade hating each other, they sure get along well.”

Out on centre ice, the terror twins are skating circles around their opponents, reading each other's movements so thoroughly they could change plays halfway through its execution. It was madness. One Larsen prays never becomes permanent, lest the whole league collapses.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Larsen sighs and quickly debates the merits of retiring at 30.

Hollander wins the face off as passes to Larsen. He dodges Diaz as he skates past the blue line and spots Rozanov down the center. A quick pass, a double tap in his periphery and the puck is gone, barely a second in Rozanov’s possession before it makes its way back to Hollander.

After the 1st period, Team West knew it was sort of a given that any pass directed to Hollander would end up with Rozanov and vice versa. So yeah, they had a couple guys target Hollander and predictably, they end up fighting for the puck by the boards. Too many sticks in too many areas aimlessly snapping at each other to get the puck.

In a flash of brilliance, Hollander pins the puck down with his skate, sliding it between LA’s defenseman’s legs and Rozanov snatches the puck and tears towards the goal. He turns hard enough it sprays ice and passes to Carmichael.

Released from the battle at the boards, Hollander moves to receive the puck when-

Snap.

The force of the pass breaks Hollander’s stick. Larsen watches as Hollander and Rozanov exchange glances from across the ice and punts the puck out of the way with his skate blade while dodging a forecheck.

“Bryce!” Larson calls the closest player to Hollander and the defenseman takes the puck from him as Hollander skates back in long strides.

Rozanov catches up to him, passing his stick into Hollander’s hand with a shove and falls back to the bench. A few seconds left on their shift. Bryson shoots the puck across the back of the goal, curving to Larson who passes to Hollander.

A swing of his stick, a snap against the puck and it sails towards the goal at an unbelievable speed. Detroit’s goalie tries to stop it, hand moving to block it but it slips across the top of his glove and buries itself in the net.

A red light, a loud horn and the crowd is up on the feet pumping their fists. Larsen wants to collapse right there on the ice.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Bryson screams. The bench is smacking the boards in disbelief and Hollander skates to the center with a satisfied smile. He braces as Rozanov crashes into him and kisses the side of his helmet.

“Nice goal!” He screams into Hollander’s ear.

“Nice pass,” Hollander smiles.

For a moment, the noise of the crowd falls away. A singular second that felt more like a vivid dream than reality, punctuated by Hollander returning the stick in his hand to its rightful owner.

“That was insane!” Ottawa’s Dykstra wraps his arms around their shoulders.

The reality of their proximity crashes into Shane and he blinks back into reality. He shakes his hands to get rid of how different it felt holding Ilya’s stick.

Not wrong, different. It doesn’t bend for him like it should, the Sherwood a little more unforgiving in his grip than his own Bauer.

“You had to get one with a lower flex huh?” he laughs at Ilya.

“What can I say? I like my sticks hard,” Ilya shrugs.

Dykstra throws his head back in a laugh as they all skate back to the bench. If anyone asks why Shane’s face was hot under his visor, he could blame it on the game and a job well done.

The millisecond the door shuts behind them Shane is pinning him to the wall and licking into his mouth. That presser couldn’t have ended any sooner. Ilya groans into the kiss as his head hits the wall, pushing back with equal hunger as he gets his greedy hands full of Shane’s ass. A hand is untucking his shirt and sneaking its way up to grasp his round pecs while the other splays firmly across his jaw. Shane feels overcome with that fervent persistent need to touch. Everything, everywhere, hands greedily exploring and Ilya pushes up against the searching hand.

He pushes their hips together and Ilya takes advantage of the gasp it earns him to press his tongue firmly against the roof of Shane’s mouth. Fuck, he was so hard it hurts.

“Shoes, off,” he says lowly and they’re both kicking off their shoes as Ilya backs them deeper into the room. Shane is looking at him with a knowing smile as he slowly peels his suit jacket off and unbuttons his shirt, revealing inch after inch of tantalising skin. Ilya is breathless just watching him, helpless to follow until the back of Shane’s knees hit the bed and they come tumbling on top of each other with a laugh. Impatience gets the better of them and one after another, pieces of their clothes fall to the ground. Shane is absolutely going to lose his mind over it later so Ilya tries his best to drop them all into one neat pile.

That didn’t stop Shane from yanking the belt straight off Ilya’s pants like a whip and unceremoniously dropping it by the side of the bed. Fuck, he’d been wanting to do this since he saw Ilya by the pool, golden and glistening as he was playing with the kids earlier. It seems they can read each other off ice just as well as on it because Shane doesn’t even have to wait a beat between pushing down his boxers down his thighs for Ilya to blindly reach for the lube by the nightstand and coat his hand liberally. The lube has barely warmed to the temperature of his hands before Shane wraps around both of their erections and tosses his head back in relief.

Ilya is groaning against his neck at the cool liquid around his cock, his voice rumbles against Shane’s chest as he begins stroking them. His thumb swipes over their heads, pressing into the slit of Ilya’s cock and his breath hitching with every twist of Shane’s calloused palms. He wants to lick the prominent vein on his forearm, kiss his beautiful smooth skin and bite into that delectable neck. He still had his white crew socks on and they rubbed against Ilya’s calves where their legs are tangled together. He’s so fucking hot like this and so achingly beautiful. And yet, there is an aching tenderness in Shane’s honey warm gaze, half-lidded, heavy and lambent in its radiance.

They’re almost the same size, Ilya notes with delight, almost the same length where they were both wrapped in Shane’s fist and no one will ever know and that knowledge turns him on more than it ever should. Ilya presses their foreheads together, blonde curls blending with silky midnight black as he thrusts lazily into Shane’s grip. He could see the way pleasure was beginning to cloud his gaze, transfixed by him. Him!

Ilya knew he was handsome but it never ceases to surprise him, just how much Shane wants him. Shane’s lips part into a gasp, pretty, plump and kiss-bitten, little noises escaping them as he chases Ilya’s pleasure as much as his own. Ilya wraps his hand over Shane’s and swallows the moans that spill out his mouth as he moves their hands around their cocks. Quicker, tighter, enough that Shane’s brows furrow, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. A broken sigh leaves his mouth, pleased little sounds quiet in the privacy of their hotel room, muffled against Ilya’s lips.

Years of secrecy and sneaking around hotel rooms have ingrained it into them. It was a habit Ilya doesn’t think they will know how to break, not when the fear was still quite potent, not when hiding had become second nature. So he resigns himself to tasting Shane’s desire straight from his lips, his tongue stealing the whimpers made just for him and keeping them in his chest.

Tongue-tied. He likes that expression, even if it doesn’t mean the same thing in this context.

Shane cums into their joint hands, nose pressed against Ilya’s cheeks and panting as Ilya chases his own climax. He spills onto the mess between them with a shudder. It’s gross. They’re sticky all over and soon, Shane will start whining about the mess but for now, Ilya is content to stay close, pressing kisses to his jaw and his hairline.

Shane usually needs a moment to gather the strength back in his legs and collect the thoughts scrambled by his. He comes out the shower to 2 neat piles of clothes, laid on the couch by the window, just as he expected. It was cute, a habit from their first hookup that Ilya hopes he never drops and his amusement must be visible on his face because Shane is shaking his head and pushing past him to clean himself.

By the time Shane comes out of the shower, Ilya is still in his towel, laying on the edge of the bed and scrolling through his phone with his feet spread wide. And who was Shane to reject an invitation. He drops onto his knees between his legs and Ilya looks down at him curiously.

“Can I help you?” Ilya asks with a smile.

Shane’s hands wrap around his muscular calves, crawling up to the back of his knees. He looks up at Ilya through his lashes. “Can I?”

And really, how could Ilya ever hope to deny him anything? “Go on, solnyshko.”

Shane’s hands become more daring and he undoes the knot securing Ilya’s towel, just like he wanted to do in that locker room during that commercial shoot all those years ago. His hands crawl up his thighs and Ilya shivers beneath his firm grasp climbing the curve of his ass. Shane doesn’t do light touches, doesn’t move until he is absolutely certain about something and it affects Ilya more than any featherlight touch could. His mouth grazes the inside of his thighs, mouthing at the thin skin there and nipping at him in places he hopes others can see. Can understand Shane’s claim on him like a brand.

A butterfly light kiss to the tip is all the warning he gets before Shane takes him into his mouth. The tight wetness around his cock has him arching off the bed, mouth dropped open in a gasp and his fingers grasp onto silky dark hair. Shane’s hands are raking down the side of Ilya’s thighs in a way that is definitely going to leave a mark and Ilya revels in the thought.

Shane moans at the pressure in his mouth, flattening his tongue and curling around the head as Ilya slowly fills out in his mouth. It is an exercise in Ilya’s admirable self-control to keep still and stop himself from bucking into his warm mouth, a breath moan leaving his lips as Shane takes him deeper. He relishes the clean taste of him, hot velvety skin hard on his tongue as he traces the veins with his mouth. Whatever he couldn’t reach, he covered with his hand and he starts bobbing his head leisurely.

“Bozhe moy, zolotse.” His breath hitches, English leaving him completely as he leaves himself at the mercy of Shane’s whims. “So beautiful, so perfect. Perfect mouth. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”

Blowjobs have started to become more about Shane than Ilya himself. It’s about Shane wanting to taste him. Shane wanting tangible proof of his attraction, despite any bullshit that comes out of his vulgar impersonal mouth on a regular basis. Shane knowing that Ilya will let him get away with pretty much anything as long as he doesn’t stop, even if the pace has Ilya stuck in a limbo of too much and not enough for far longer than usual.

So yes, Ilya is exactly where he wants to be, cock engulfed in the torturously delightful cavern of Shane’s mouth, nerves set ablaze by the lazy confident swirl of his pink tongue and pinned down by the molten hot gaze behind his dark brown eyes.

It takes far too much of his mental energy to string together a single sentence. “Fuck, I’m close. Going to cum.”

He tugs at Shane’s hair and Shane takes him in deeper, nuzzling against his hip bone as Ilya cums down his throat.

He slumps against the bed, boneless and out of breath. A whine escapes him as Shane sucks a little as he pulls back, just to reduce the mess between his legs.

"You killed me. I am dead,” he slurs.

Shane snorts in amusement.

With a momentous amount of effort, Ilya forces himself to sit back up and look at the man between his legs. Shane is still kneeling on the floor, brows scrunched up in discomfort.

It was a beautiful sight, seeing him only in his plain black boxers, his hardened arousal straining against the confines of the dark fabric, but it can’t be comfortable.

“You should get off the floor, kotenok. Your knees will hurt.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if they have rug burns already.

“I can’t.”

Ilya pauses. “What?”

“I can’t get up. My legs’ve gone numb.”

Ilya laughs lightly as he slides off the bed, hooking his arms under Shane’s knees and lifting him off the floor and onto his lap. Shane hisses as pins and needles shoot down his legs.

Ilya makes a move to try to flick them with his finger and Shane grabs his wrist firmly, then the other, locking them in place.

“Ilya,” he groans.

Ilya strains against his hold, playfully pushing back as Shane tries to get the blood flowing back to his legs. It ends with Shane pinning him down onto the bed, finally getting the feeling back into his feet without wincing. Blue eyes stare up at him playfully, glowing even in the lamp light.

He goes limp in Shane’s hold and when he lurches up suddenly to bite him, Shane pulls away with a smile.

“Stop it,” Shane says.

“Ah, so you don’t want me to help you with this?”

He pulls one of his legs up to rub against the hardness in Shane’s tight black boxers, watching in satisfaction at flush growing on Shane’s face, letting him grind against his shin.

“Let me return the favour, zaichik,” Ilya drops his voice into a low timbre. “Come here.”

The grip around his wrists loosen and Ilya curls an arm around his waist. He flips them over and latches his mouth onto Shane’s neck, nipping at the sharp angle of his jaw. Shane’s breath hitches, pulse jumping beneath his lips, making little pleased sighs as Ilya’s teeth grazed his neck, mouthing the hollow of his throat and pressing a firm solid kiss onto his sternum. His fingers reach up to tease his dark nipples and grasps as much of his pecs in a squeeze as he could.

“Ilya,” he sighs, arching into his touch.

Ilya’s hand traces the side of his ribs and splays across the strong lines of his abs, heated skin and firm muscle giving and pushing against his ministrations. They make their way down to where he wants them. He grinds the heel of his palm against the hardness in his boxers and sneaks his hand down the waistband, brushing against his perineum with a shudder before they land on the furrowed muscle of his hole.

Ilya stills where his mouth is latched onto Shane’s jaw. He pulls up to meet his eye and Shane holds his gaze firmly.

“You prepped yourself in the shower,” Ilya looks at him accusingly.

Shane smiles, having been caught.

The Russian above him frowns. Despite their often desperate need to get off, Ilya admittedly likes working Shane open, relishes the way he whines at the stretch and moans when he brushes against his prostate.

“Please,” he whispers into the scant space between them. “I want you. Fuck, Ilya I want you inside me.”

Shane pushes his hips up to meet Ilya’s and the other groans at the overstimulation against his spent cock.

He can nearly taste the desperation against Shane’s lips when kisses him, an endless hunger to have him close, pressed against him, in, on and around him as much as time will allow. He helps Shane out of his boxers and presses one more firm kiss to his lips.

“Turn around.”

Shane flips onto his stomach, cheeks sliding against the cool sheets. His impatience was endearing, adorable even, but he made a mistake thinking Ilya would bereft himself of the opportunity to appreciate the beauty presented to him. He lifts Shane’s hips and slides a pillow under it, making sure Shane was comfortable then with his hands full of his plump round cheeks, Ilya presses his tongue flat and firm against his hole.

Beneath him, Shane whines against the sheets, breath hitching as Ilya draws a circle around the puckered skin and works open him up with his tongue.

“Fuc- Ily- Crisse.”

Shane could barely complete a single curse as he pants. It dissolves into a mess of broken sound as Ilya presses two spit-slick fingers into him, pressing down on his prostate with a precision that comes only with experience. And he has had 7 years of personal experience handling Shane’s body.

His breath feels stuck in his throat, the air refusing to enter his lungs fully when Ilya presses his thumb against his perineum, even as his slick fingers are pumping in and out of him. Pleasure shoots through him lightning sharp, right down to his fingertips. Ilya’s stubble is rough against the baby soft skin of his inner thigh, dry lips pressed reverently against the curve of his ass. It pulls a high pitched mewl out of him, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t feel full enough. He was beginning to think himself greedy for asking for so much when Ilya’s mouth was eager and willingly worshipping him.

“Ilya,” he pants. “Fuck! Ilya, enough.”

Ilya stills at his pleading. He pulls back and Shane whines at the loss of contact. “Shane? Everything okay?”

Shane turns his head and looks back at the concerned expression on his face. He gives Ilya a reassuring smile. “More than okay.” It comes out softer than he intended. He parts his legs wider and plants his knees on the bed a little more firmly, emphasising the natural arch of his back in invitation. He could see the way Ilya’s pupils were blown wide with want, his cock slowly hardening again and god, it was making him salivate.

“I’m okay, so can you fuck me now?”

He was so bratty, so impatient and it pulled a breathy laugh out of Ilya. And really, who was he to deny him. So he rolls on a condom quickly and climbs on top of Shane. He presses kisses across his shoulders, broad and strong and so so beautiful. His hands find their way to his waist, tracing the tiger stripes on his thighs and thumbs pressing down on the dimples on his lower back before resting on the dip of his hips

Shane smiles at the lips on his neck, sighs as Ilya drapes his weight across his back and gasps as he lines himself up and pushes in. He is suddenly grateful he could hide his face in the sheets because the moan he let out could have been heard by the laundry staff on the basement floor. He was stretched out and full and Ilya’s face was buried in his neck and it was perfect. Even more so when Ilya started to grind his hips against his ass, slow shallow thrusts rocking deep inside him.

The stimulation on his rim lit all his nerves on fire, clearly taking his time, even if Shane was already getting used to the stretch. He was starting to think this might have been revenge for the self-indulgent blowjob he gave him earlier.

“More,” he demanded, his breath damp against the sheets.

He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for but Ilya understood regardless. His thrusts get sharper, the sound of their skin slapping against each other echoing across the room. He laces their hands together beside Shane’s head and lets the full weight of his body fall on top of Shane and the deep pressure of it is like a balm.

“More,” he panted again.

Ilya’s moans were muffled against his skin, Shane’s name curled beautifully on his tongue. He began fucking him in earnest and Shane pushed back against his thrusts, even as his body is pinned down by Ilya’s weight.

“Fuck, Ilya, more.”

Shane was screaming into the mattress, sheets wet beneath his pooling saliva as Ilya finds the spot that makes him see stars. His fingers find their way into Shane’s mouth and he moans around the way they press down on his tongue. It was bordering on too much. Ilya flush against him, the cock driving into him, the Russian praises in his ears. Ilya was in and around him and for a moment, he could forget that no one else knows, pretend it doesn’t matter that this wouldn’t destroy them, deny that he has to go back to his team in a few days and play a tune he no longer knew.

He could pretend that he could have Ilya all to himself everyday, any day and it wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t kill him, and when he cums, stars bursting behind his eyelids, he hopes Ilya feels the same.

Shane wakes up nestled in warmth. Even in the disorienting dissimilarities between ever changing hotel rooms, the warmth beside him is familiar, even if the position isn’t. Ilya had cleaned them up, wiping them down carefully with a warm damp towel, stripping the bed of its sheets and tucking them both in. He shifts in Ilya’s hold and brushes his nose against the other.

His eyes land at the long blonde lashes fanning across his cheeks, cherubic in his sleep.

“Bad dream?” Ilya croaks, consciousness at the edge of sleep.

He feels himself grasping at the dream, putting pieces of it together even as it slips away into the early morning.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

It wasn’t a particularly good or bad dream. And if he was being honest, it wasn’t the first time he’s had this dream either.

Ilya could tell he wanted to talk about it, even if isn’t sure what there was to talk about. “What was it about?”

He lifts his eyes to meet Ilya’s. “You and me at the face off point,” he says slowly.

“Hollander that’s not a drea-”

“-at the cup finals,” Shane finishes and Ilya’s brows furrow. He doesn’t know what to make of it either.

Having both of them at the cup final… They would have to be in separate conferences for that to be possible. Not just separate divisions like they were now. Conferences. One east, one west.

“I think,” Shane furrows his brows. “I think I just liked the idea of having you there. When I win.”

To see Ilya’s face as the final buzzer rings, on the ice with him as he lifts the cup, spinning him in his arms and kissing him on the side of his helmet, just as he did today. Would he be happy for him? Would he be proud? Or would his face twist into a scowl as the adrenaline filled emotions crash into him. 

“Ah, so in this scenario, you win,” Ilya teases. “This is how it’s not real.”

Of course that’s what he chose to focus on.

“We can get pretty close this year,” Shane deflects. “Eastern Conference finals?”

“If Hunter remembers to take fish oil and remembers how to play, sure,” Ilya teases.

Shane’s smile drops as he remembers the sudden hole in Ilya’s line. “I heard about Zullo. Sorry that happened.”

He leans into Ilya’s hands as he combs through silky dark locks. Ilya feels a sting on his finger as the hair on his nape splinters his skin. “Had nothing to do with you.”

“Still, it must suck,” Shane insists.

He was seeing an alarmingly similar pattern in Wilson. His thoughts are interrupted by Ilya groans as he slumps on top of Shane and buries his face in his neck.

“Talk about something else. I don’t want to think about my team while we’re here.”

Okay. He can do that.

“Are you, uhhh… going back to Russia this summer?”

Ilya pulls his head up to narrow his eyes, giving him a look that says ‘Really? That’s what you want to talk about?’.

“So I have this cottage in Lanaudiere,” Shane starts.

Ilya feigns a look of nonchalance that would absolutely work if Shane couldn’t feel his heart speed up against his own chest. “Hollander, I have seen videos of your cottage. That is not a cottage, that is a mini mansion.”

“It’s a cottage,” he insists. Ilya was trying to change the subject and it was fucking working and Shane was starting to lose his nerve. He turns his head to the wall on the far end. “Forget it.”

Shane’s eyes had turned dejected and glassy and fuck, Ilya was never going to win an argument against him, was he?

“Noooo, Shane,” his nudges his fingers against his chin. “What is it? What does your fancy house have to do with Russia?”

Shane was biting his lower lip and it was so distracting. He finally turns back to look at Ilya and sighs. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Hollandeerrr,” he needles.

“I was gonna ask you….”

Ilya looks at him patiently.

“If they have anything like that in Russia?” Shane finishes.

“Oh.” Ilya ignores the pang of disappointment in his chest. “Yes, we have them. My family has a dacha.”

He slumps back down onto Shane’s chest and avoids his gaze. His eyes flutter close as Shane’s hand card through his curls, rubbing them between his fingers to feel their smoothness.

“What’s it like?”

Ilya hums. “My grandfather said in his family, men have to build a dacha. It was a sign of growing up.”

“A rite of passage,” Shane supplies.

“Da. Sveta and I used to spend summer at the dacha my grandfather built.”

“Not anymore?”

“No,” he shakes his head against Shane’s sternum. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Shane is too tired to ask.

“Maybe you can come visit mine one day,” Shane says hopefully, some of his earlier intentions bleeding in.

Ilya sighs against his chest, sleep slowly taking hold of him. “Yes. That would be nice.”

“Yeah… nice.”

You would think that a bye week would leave a player feeling refreshed. Recharged and eager to start the second half of the season but no. Ilya comes back from the All Star weekend to a mopey sad looking Scott Hunter skating heavily across the ice.

Nobody notices the way his head hangs a little more than it usually does, or the learned strides. Not during the first optional practice after a break.

“Did I miss something?” Ilya skates over to Benny.

Scott fumbles a pass from Wagner and Carter claps him on the back in encouragement.

“Not that I know of,” Benny shrugs. “Maybe he’s having an off day.”

Yeah, maybe.

Ilya tries not to think about it too much. He doesn’t get to ponder on it long when a big guy comes skating towards him. Huge. Bigger than Benny, even. Did he mention the guy was big?

“Rozanov! Matti Jalo. So excited to be working with you.”

Standing over 6’5”, Matti Jalo towers over Ilya. He looked like a children’s version of a sasquatch. Large stature, pale white-blonde hair, a big smile that lightens everyone’s mood and incredibly attractive. Nowhere near Ilya’s type but undeniably handsome.

Ilya has gone against the guy a couple times but he has never met him without his helmet on. He shakes his hand mutedly and suddenly remembers that he has an A on his jersey for a reason.

“Yes, nice to not to feel like hydraulic press crushed me after a Tampa game,” Ilya jokes.

Jalo lets out a bright unrestrained laugh that rings across the ice. “Happy to not be sweating 24 hours.”

Ilya had known this before but maybe reality hadn’t really set in, the magnitude of the trade DiMarco had managed to wrangle together.

This was the guy they brought in to replace Zullo. The best defenseman in the league, who for some reason was eager to play with Ilya and this team that never seems to make it to the conference finals.

“Welcome to the team, Matti,” Eric shakes his hand, finally giving him a proper reception.

Ilya spots Scott skating around in the corner of his eye and frowns. This trade shows the high level of confidence management has on this team. If the pressure Scott feels wasn’t enough, Matti’s arrival was about to be the massive cherry on top.

It’s strange how welcomed Ilya feels in the Kingfisher. A small, poorly managed gay sports bar he found by chance had slowly become a place he knew would cheer him up.

“Eyyyyyy look whose here,” Elena calls out to him.

One by one, the group comes and greets him warmly. It’s nice, having friends outside who know absolutely nothing about hockey. Away from the cameras and separate from its culture. Nothing about kill counts or 

“Hey! Ilya!!” Kip gives him a hug as he finds the group.

“Happy birthday,” he tells the other. “For next 3 months, you are more ancient than me.”

“Wow, what an honour,” Kip rolls his eyes in laughter.

“Old man not coming?” Ilya scans the room for the older blonde.

Kip shakes his head with a helpless smile. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Ilya frowns at his friend’s apparent disappointment. As much as he bugs them about it, he knows how deeply Kip’s feelings towards him run.

“Maybe geriatric unit forgot to approve his leave,” he jokes.

It does something, at least. Even if it’s a weak attempt to cheer his friend up. He might not understand what happened between them, but no one deserves to he sad on their birthday.

They suffered a humiliating defeat in Jersey, then another one in Minnesota. It leaves him exhausted and frustrated beyond belief.

Greg pats him on the back and Eric looks at him with concern but he waves them off. Vaughny helps him round up the team, leaving him to stew in his thoughts.

“Thought you remembered how to play hockey again,” Ilya looks at him in disappointment.

That somehow feels worse.

A week later, they flew out to Montreal. He always hated playing in Center Bell. The air in the rink was oppressive, masses of towels waved in the air in unison. Up on the rafters, two cup banners hung proud.

It makes Scott feel nauseous.

Greg taps him with a glove and it breaks him from his thoughts.

The game was grueling. As expected of a team that had won the cup 2 years in a row. A historic team, led by a dynastic captain. Scott’s knees nearly buckle by the end of the second period and he sees Hollander come up to him, a bright smile on his face.

“Maybe next time you’ll remember to show up,” Hollander says.

It was a small chirp, almost nothing compared to the ones Roz throws at him on the daily. But something vindictive curled inside him and he sneered at the younger captain.

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

The smile drops from Hollander’s face and his eyes narrow. “What did you say?”

Scott straightens himself and cocks his head. “You heard me, Hollander!”

He didn't register the blow against his jaw until he was clenching it in surprise. Pain immediately bloomed on his cheek.

Did Hollander just hit him?

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shouts.

“Me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hollander snarls. He lunges for another hit when Pike’s arm is suddenly hooked around his.

“Say it again to my face, you fucking pussy!” Hollander spits and Roz was already putting a hand between them. “You’re 45 years old! Go home!”

“Hey, hey! Knock it off,” Greg presses firmly against Hollander’s chest.

Roz was absolutely trying to hold in his laughter as he grabbed Scott by the scruff to pull him away. Scott ends up with a minor penalty, while Hollander serves the first and only major he has had all season.

“Unique achievement, getting Hollander to commit a major,” Rozanov snorts in amusement as they pack their stuff.

Scott grimaces at the ache on his jaw.

“Fucking hell, he punches like you.”

Ilya looked a little too self-satisfied to be innocent.

“Did you fucking teach him how to punch?” Scott looked at him with an accusatory glare.

“I taught him how to throw a good punch,” Ilya clarifies.

Because Yuna had enrolled her son in judo classes the moment he committed his life to hockey. Shane knew how to throw someone off his shoulder easy. Punching is a different skill.

Ilya’s phone vibrates in his locker, loud and persistent. He glances at the Cyrillic alphabets on the called ID and declines the call with a frown.

“Not going to get that?” Scott grumbles.

“Nah,” Ilya shakes his head.

The punch from Hollander made Scott feel a little bit better, which is a terrifying thought. Maybe he truly was sick in the head. But it felt like something he deserved, a baseline ache that distracted him from the ever persistent gnawing in his chest that made him wonder if it was worth it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself that it was fine. He was 29 this year. 10 more years and he could stop hiding. He could stop feeling like shit and Kip was just a case of ‘right person wrong time’.

Ilya had been adamantly ignoring the constant ringing in his phone and it was really getting on his nerves. At least the game in Brooklyn was better.

By the time they make it to Ohio, Scott could feel himself fizzling out, the bright yellow bananas on his socks feel like a mockery to his mood. He slips on a second pair above them regardless.

“Alright boys, the rumours are true! Hunter will give you a thousand dollars for every goal you score!” Ilya shouts across the room.

The group has the gall to cheer and Scott looks over at Ilya in offense. “I did not say that!”

“Ah, then you better make sure to be the one to score, yes?”

He was being goaded into doing something, to actually pull himself together and fuck, if it didn’t work.

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” he shoves him against the wall in the tunnel and the guy has the audacity to start whining.

“Coach! Hunter is trying to injure me!”

Murdock’s laugh echoes through the tunnels.

They emerge from the game as victors and the team needles Scott the entire way back to the locker rooms.

“Where’s my money cap!”

“Yeah, come on, Scott!”

“Hey, google! Play Bitch Better Have My Money.”

Soon enough, Rihanna was booming through the locker room speakers and yeah, Scott still feels like shit, but at least he’s winning shit. Beside him, Ilya was wearing the brightest smile he has had since Zullo got arrested. Good on him.

If only he could ever feel that carefree.

Maybe it’s the high of the win, maybe it’s the exhaustion of putting off something for long enough but Ilya finally answers whoever it is that has been persistently calling him since they left Manhattan. He couldn’t hear what Ilya says to the person on the phone. Even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to understand.

What he does understand is the way the smile falls off his face the moment he answers the call, the blood draining from his face the longer the caller spoke. Scott might not understand Russian, but he has long been acquainted with bad news.

Ilya gives a series of clipped answers, his sombre mood a sharp contrast to the celebration occurring all around him. And when he ends the call, he turns to Scott and he just knew.

Something bad had happened.

Shane hadn’t been able to get a hold of Ilya for days now. He had texted the moment JJ mentioned that he wasn’t travelling with his team to Detroit and watched the single grey tick beside the message remain single. He sighs as the call went straight to voicemail. Something happened, that much is clear, but no one is saying anything and it was in Shane’s nature to worry.

Technically, he could ask Hunter, but after the last fight with him, he was too annoyed to reach out. He suddenly regrets not asking for Vaughn or Bennet’s number.

Mutedly, he stares out into the view of Montreal.

They have been texting a lot since they left Tampa, about anything and nothing at all. Pictures of their meals, hockey gossip, complaints about their teammates. Their chats have slowly diverted away from sex and become almost mundane. The hours feel emptier without Ilya’s texts waiting to be seen.

The grey tick doubles and turns blue some time in the early morning, while Shane is still asleep. Ilya doesn’t text, he waits. He refrains himself from rousing Shane from his sleep, waiting until the clock strikes 6.05 before calling.

Shane answers in the first ring. “Hey,” he says softly, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi,” Ilya says.

He was in a room Shane didn’t recognise, the gold cross on his neck resting atop his black tanktop. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes dark even in the low light.

“How are you?” he sits up and asks.

“Tired,” Ilya rubs his hand through his face. “But better, now that I’ve seen your pretty face.”

Shane tries to suppress the flush that makes its way up his face. “Where are you?”

“Home,” he says simply.

“Boston?”

“No. Moscow.”

Shane catches in his throat. He knew exactly what that meant. Still, he needed to be sure. “Your father?”

“Dead,” Ilya confirmed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was an asshole.”

“Still…,” he isn’t really sure what else to say to that. “When are you going to be back?”

“Ah, miss my dick already?”

“Fuck off.”

Either way, it earns him a small smile, an incremental tick of Ilya’s mouth that looks watery and tender and has nothing to do with the man that raised him.

“I just… want to know.”

He just needed to map out what the next few days will look like for them, so he knows how long he needs to worry about Ilya being in Russia and not to panic when the single grey ticks stay single for far too long.

“Thursday,” Ilya relents, giving into the worrying tone in Shane’s voice. “I come back Thursday.”

That’s another 6 days away. It’s less than a week, yet it feels like eternity.

“Anything I can do to help?”

A mischievous smile appears on Ilya’s face and there is a sudden heat in his eyes as his gaze rakes down Shane’s shirtless form.

“Put on your glasses,” he taps to his temple.

Shane obeys him obediently and is awarded with a more genuine smile. He knows what comes next, yet the yearning that curls in his gut surprises him regardless.

“Now let me see you, solnyshko,” his voice drops to a sultry timbre.

Shane grabs the phone stand on his bedside and peels back the covers.

By the time he is done cleaning the mess on his stomach, Ilya’s phone has slipped out of his hand and dropped onto the bed and Shane breathes easier hearing his sort snores filter through the call.

It became an odd habit, Ilya calling at the end of his day and Shane answering in the beginning of his. Each day Ilya looks more and more tired, like the time he spent in his childhood home was slowly draining the life out of him. And maybe it was, with the way his eyes looked distant, like he was seeing the ghost of a memory ingrained into the worn wallpaper.

He had an apartment downtown, but with his father gone, he needed to clean the house for… whatever it is they wanted to do with it. Sell it to the state maybe. It was much heavier of an expense than any of the brothers wanted to admit.

“This used to be my favourite room,” Ilya tells him one day, setting the phone on his father's table while he perused the wall of books.

He isn’t sure if it was because it was his mother’s favourite room in the house or if it was because the books insulated the sounds of things being thrown across the house. Ilya’s fingers ran through the barely worn spines. None of them had touched these books in years, and they were far too heavy to move. Maybe he will donate them to a local library.

His eyes land on a well loved book, its cover far more age bitten than any of the others. Ilya pulls out the book and flips it open. In it, was a picture of Laika, the astronaut dog. Sent on a mission to space, never to return.

"Was that your favourite?" Shane asks him.

Ilya had cried the first time his mother read him that book. Alexei teased him for it, despite the tears in his own eyes. His father sneered at him for picking it in the first place. Now, he felt oddly detached from the memory.

"Yeah," he admits softly.

His fingers land on another book. Russian Fairy Tales. He remembers Baba Yaga. He used to be terrified of the witch grinder bones in her mortar and pestle and lived in the woods, in a house that walked on chicken legs. When his mother died, he wondered if it would be easier if she stole him away and devoured him. Now, the monsters of the past don't scare him as much as they used to.

The strange feeling of monotonous detachment followed him throughout the funeral procession. Good, Sveta tells him. Grigori didn’t deserve his tears. Ilya could feel Alexei’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t even deign to look his way.

Sparse words were exchanged during the wake. The vodka was excellent, which felt like an insult to the dead. Ilya lamented the fact he couldn’t buy it for David. It seemed distasteful, to give him a bottle of the same drink they served at his father’s funeral.

What a terrible son he is. Thinking of gifts for someone else’s father while his own laid cold in a casket.

And what a terrible brother he was, for relishing in the fear on Alexei’s face when he realized Ilya wasn’t quite as small as he remembered.

‘I hope Jane knows how lucky he is,’ Sveta had said.

She was wrong. Ilya was the lucky one. Shane was blessed with two loving parents, a beautiful home in an open minded country, but Ilya was lucky enough to be pulled into his orbit. A ping on his phone alerts him to a message.

Speak of the devil.

Ilya smiles reluctantly at the picture of the double yolked egg Shane had sent him. Followed by a series of question marks. It gives him just enough strength to make it through the rest of the wake.

Lily

Can I call you?

Jane

Yes

'Lily’s' messages popped up while Shane was unpacking somewhere in Colorado. He grabs his phone and key card and heads out the door.

He turns to Hayden. “I’m just gonna-”

“Have fun!” Hayden waves off and he heads into the emergency exit for some privacy.

His phone buzzes in his hand while he looks up and down the stairwell to make sure he was alone.

“Hey,” he answers the phone, a little winded.

“Hi,” Ilya’s voice rasps over the phone. His microphone picks up some wind and the sounds of cars passing. He must be outside.

“Where are you?”

“Just walking. I needed to get out.”

Beyond the shelter of the small tunnel, it had begun to snow. The wet kind, that would turn to slush by tomorrow.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. No,” Ilya quickly corrects. “I don’t know.”

“How are you feeling?”

"Ugly," he answers. "Not ugly outside, I know I am very sexy, but inside. It feels ugly inside."

Shane swallows around the lump in his throat.

"And your brother?"

"Definitely ugly outside."

Shane laughs softly.

"But definitely ugly inside. He is scared, I think. It makes him terrible. And it makes me terrible back.”

He thinks back to the worn down book in the reading room, to Laika, the dog used and left to die.

“I don't like who I am here,” Ilya admits. "I don't like what this place makes me do. But maybe I am upset about the wrong thing."

"Like... about your father?"

"Maybe," his sigh crackles through the speaker. “I don’t know. English is too hard right now.”

“I wish I spoke Russian,” Shane says.

He was learning, but it was so hard.

Ilya hums. “Yes. You could learn it in a week. No accent.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you tell me what is on your mind, but in Russian? I don’t understand but maybe it will help?”

“Okay,” he breathes.

The bite of the cold Moscow air was familiar, in a tunnel that smelled like piss and was dark and covered in graffitti. His voice echoes in the lonely space.

Shane lets Ilya speak, the words flowing out of him, voice breaking in a timbre lower than the one he ever uses around others. He might not recognise the words, but he recognises the heart ache, the yearning for things to be easier, better, for him to stop feeling so guilty, for feeling like he is an ungrateful child abandoning the home that has raised him for the home he built.

Shane’s eyes squeezed shut, tears stinging the corner of them adamantly. Russian wasn’t an easy language to learn. It had its own alphabet, a different grammatical structure and rules his mind had yet to wrap around. He had no one to practice it with. But he knew the basics every person learns when it comes to a new language.

Hello. Goodbye.

Thank you.

Fuck you. Shit. Bitch.

I love you.

It catches in his throat, aching to be let out and reciprocated, to be acknowledged. But Shane holds his tongue. Ilya didn’t need to know the amount of time Shane spent each night trying to pronounce words he had no frame of reference to. Or how he felt like he was always tripping over his own tongue each time the duolingo owl made him press the microphone icon. Stupid angry green bird.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what words of comfort he should be offering. He had spent so many years trying to be normal, trying to say the right thing but nothing had prepared him for this. For the magnitude of it, and the heavy weight in his chest. Of hearing the 3 words he hadn’t expected to hear, painted using the same brushstrokes as his grief, marred by old wounds and painful memories.

“Okay, I’m done,” Ilya sniffs.

It felt like such a simple conclusion to such a profound confession that it left Shane feeling unbalanced.

“Do you feel better?”

“Little,” Ilya admitted.

Shane sighs. “I wish I was there.”

“Yes, but it’s fine. Will be back soon.”

Back to New York, still miles away from Montreal. They won’t have any time to see each other before the playoffs, but even then, the illogical and delusional voice in Shane’s chest tells him that he will feel better, having Ilya back in the same timezone, at the very least.

“See you at the conference finals?”

Somewhere in a worn down tunnel in Moscow, Ilya doesn’t even bother to hide the watery smile he has as he rests his forehead against the wall. It’s a goal, something for him to fight towards, something to look forward to.

It’s the closest they’ll ever get to winning a cup together. He wonders if he can get away with giving Shane a hug on ice.

A man can only dream.

“Da. Conference finals.”

New York, April 2017

Ilya groans as he slumps onto the bar dramatically.

“Rough day at work?” Kyle chuckles, sliding him his usual beer without a word.

“Rough year at work.”

“Hey, congrats on the first round, by the way. You guys were amazing,” Kip nudges his arm beside him.

“Of course,” Ilya smiles proudly.

They won it in 4!

No thanks to Scott, who has been playing like shit the whole series. That might fly in the first round, but if they want to make it past the next, he needs to get his act together.

Elena comes striding into the Kingfisher like a storm, a take out bag in hand. “Extra cheese, no onion, extra chili, extra pickle,” she says as she hands Kyle a doggybag.

“Lifesaver!” He calls after her.

She gives Kip a side hug and ruffles Ilya’s hair affectionately.

“Oi!” Ilya dodges in mock annoyance before letting her tackle him into a half hug half headlock from behind.

“Good job on the game, babes,” she says.

“You watched?”

“God no. I have a job, remember?”

“Hey! I have a job,” Kip scoffs indignantly.

“And yet you still have time to watch this stuff.”

“I’m just… supporting my friend,” Kip laughs.

Elena frowns knowingly as she takes a seat beside him. On screen, the Voyagers are playing against the Bears, a rivalry of the ages played out on Boston’s home ice. Shane cuts through the ice with a speed only natural to him. He skates with all pistons running, snatching the puck from Hammersmith and dashing towards the O zone.

“Damn, he’s good,” Kip mutters.

"The best," Ilya hums in answer and watches the Bears chase after his tail. No one is quick enough to catch up to him but it’s closer than it used to be and Ilya feels an odd sense of pride. Both for his old team and his… something… on the ice.

The Voyagers rely too heavily on him. That hasn’t changed, and even as the shift changes, the Bears all flock to him with a minimal awareness of his line mates.

“Come on.” Ilya doesn’t know who he’s cheering for.

Marleau skates up to Hollander for a check at full speed and the contact sends Hollander slamming into the boards, loud enough that Ilya flinches violently.

“Oww, that’s gotta hurt,” Elena grimaces.

“Yeah,” Kip replies numbly.

Hollander isn’t moving on the ice, the medics are trying to get to him while his teammates have entered a scrum, but Marleau lets himself get pushed back without resistance, looking pale and horrified at the scene on the ice. Kip turns to the man beside him, all the blood drained from his face.

“Is he okay?” Kip wonders out loud.

Beside him, Elena squeezes his shoulder in a painful grip. The touch grounds him a little, lest he spirals out of control and into a panic.

His eyes are glued to the screen, to where the medics are wheeling Hollander off the ice with a neckbrace and for a moment, Ilya’s mind is lost in a different place. A different time.

A bottle of pills, a limp pale arm, limp blonde curls cascading off a chair.

His phone rings, jerking him out of his thoughts and he sees E Bennet on the called ID.

“Benny?”

“Roz. You watching the Voyager’s game?”

Ilya gulps, swallowing the panic threatening to spill out of his lungs. “Yes.”

“Shit. Okay. You okay? Do you need to get to Boston?”

Does he? His mouth runs dry, his thoughts refusing to catch up with the situation.

“I-I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “I- I need. I need to call Yuna.”

“His mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Okay. Breathe Rozy.” Ilya follows Benny’s calming breath, audible over the phone. “You let me know what you need, alright? I’ve got you.”

“Okay,” he breathes a little easier. “Thanks, Benny.”

The call disconnects and Ilya lets his phone fall onto the bartop. The game is suspended for the time being and Marleau’s name flashes across his screen. Thank god for Benny’s call. Ilya has gotten more of his bearings as he finds a more isolated spot and he braces himself for the call.

“Marley,” he greets.

“Roz. I’m so sorry. Fuck. He looked- I didn’t think- I couldn’t.”

Behind him, the team speak in hushed worried tones. They must have told the players to go back to the locker rooms while they were resurfacing the ice.

“Slow down, Marley.”

Fuck, he was falling apart, guilt wracking his voice as he took a deep breath. Even from New York, Ilya could tell his friend was rattled, his hands probably shaking as he holds his phone.

Ilya has to put his rusty captain voice again, calm and controlled even when he himself feels like shattering. This, at least, is a little familiar, and for a moment, he can pretend that wasn’t his heart bleeding on the ice.  “Start again.”

“I was going for a check,” Marleau starts. “Then he turned last minute and I couldn’t stop. It was clean, I swear I- Shit, Roz, he didn’t get back up.”

Ilya swallows the bile in his mouth and tries to remember all the information he read up on concussion that one time Hammy was hit during a game.

“Marley,” he barks, stopping the other in his tracks. “Did you hit his head with anything? Elbow? Stick? Shoulder?”

“No.”

“Okay, good,” he sighs. That rules out direct head impact. Most likely secondary impact then. “Good. Was he awake when they wheeled him out?”

“Y-yeah,” Marley breathes.

“Okay,” Ilya says. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching his brows together. “It’s an accident, Marley. It happens. It’s part of the game.”

He knows, but fuck does it suck.

“Yeah,” Marley tries to convince himself. “Yeah, I know, but… Shit I’m so sorry, Roz.”

“Why are you apologising to me? Is clean hit.”

“Yeah, but he’s your boy right?”

Your boy.

Ilya swallows the lump in his throat. There’s a persistent heat behind his eyes and really, isn’t this the thing Shane was talking about?

He avoids Marley’s words completely and clears his throat, ignoring the itch in his throat aching for a clarification. “Get back to the boys Marly. I’ll let you know if I get anything.”

“Okay,” the captain breathes. “Okay. Thanks Roz. Fuck this captain shit is hard. I don’t know how you do it.”

Ilya learned far too early on not to react to pressure, to turn it into white noise until you couldn’t tell the difference between a cheer and a jeer. Now he is surrounded by way too many people who panic under pressure. He should start charging at this point. “Practice,” he says far too honestly and ends the call.

His hands shake when he presses Yuna’s contact, not sure if she’s even willing to answer him. He can’t imagine how they must feel, being hundreds of miles away and seeing their son laid out on the ice like that.

His vision blurs as he stares at the screen back at the bar. The game has resumed, and both teams push on with great intensity. Ilya isn’t sure if he would’ve been able to continue the play when even watching from afar makes the bile run up his throat.

His phone vibrates in his hand and he takes a deep breath before picking it up.

“David.”

His voice shakes as he answers. “Ilya, son.”

Ilya’s eyes water at the ease in which he says it, even if he knows it’s a common term of endearment in North America. Like ‘love’ in the north of England, or ‘dear’ or ‘sweetheart’ in the south. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and lets himself pretend David means it.

He jumps straight into it. “Is he okay?”

“Stable,” David answers calmly, though his voice betrays his worry. “His head hit the boards on the way down and he’s got a fractured collar bone, but stable.”

“Okay,” Ilya breathes.

“Yuna and I are trying to book the next flight out to Boston. They say he’ll need surgery and… we want to be there when he wakes up.”

“Of course,” Ilya sniffs. “I will book for you.”

“Ilya-”

“-No, David. I insist. Is quicker. My friend will pick you up from airport when you land.”

“We really can’t accept-”

“-then think of it as paying you both back for welcoming me into your home.”

David falls silent for a moment. “We don’t need thanks for that, kid. We’re happy to have you.”

“And I was happy to be there. But I will also feel better if you are in Boston.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces.

Ilya hums in agreement.

“And what about you?” David asks.

“What about me?”

New York ended their game in 4. They were simply waiting for the other teams to finish their series before moving on to the division finals.

“When are you flying in?”

Ilya blinks. “Me?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t really know what to say. “I don’t know if-”

I should be there. He wants to say.

It feels like an intrusion on a very delicate moment. But he needs to know that Shane is okay.

“He’d want you here, kid,” David says gently. “We’d want you.”

He doesn’t say anything about the next round of the playoffs, or optics, or fans that might spot them. And maybe that is why Yuna relies on him so much.

“Okay,” he answers weekly. “I’ll drive up tonight.”

“Alright. See you, Ilya.”

“Bye.”

The call drops and Ilya breathes. It looks like he is going to Boston.

Ilya is no stranger to Boston in the cover of the night, yet it feels strange driving down his old stomping grounds and not feeling anything for it other than a muted sense or nostalgia. It’s like walking into your childhood home only to realise just how much you’ve outgrown it, the furniture feeling oddly shorter and the ceiling lower even though nothing else has changed.

“He’s stable,” Ilya mumbles to himself in Russian as he pulls into the hospital. “He’s fine. Yuna and David are with him.”

Sveta had picked them up an hour ago and brought them straight to Mass Gen and sent him the VIP room number.

He reaches the hallway and sees his best friend standing with the Hollanders. Her hand drops from Yuna’s hands as she spots him and walks towards him. In any other situation, Ilya would find the way she turned the hallway into a runway as she covers the distance in her long elegant strides and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he breathes against her shoulder.

“Any time,” she says sincerely. She pulls back and cradles his face. “But you owe me an explanation after this, okay? This is not how I imagined meeting Ilya Rozanov’s future in-laws.”

He gives her a teary smile and promises to catch up over the summer before letting her go.

Yuna takes Ilya’s hand in hers as he walks up to them.

“How is he?” he asks, his voice shaky.

What’s the damage? How bad is it? Is he ok?

“He just came out of surgery,” Yuna starts. “But he is stable. Collarbone fractured in 3 places and a mild concussion. Out for the playoffs, for sure.”

Ilya’s mouth presses into a thin line. “But he’s okay.”

“But he’s okay,” Yuna reassures him. She rubs her hand comfortingly over his arm.

He feels stupid. This all feels backwards. These are his parents! Their son is lying in a hospital bed! It should be him comforting them, not the other way around.

“He was asking for you,” David breaks him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“When he woke up, he was asking for you,” David says in amusement. “He said you were going to worry, and he was right. You look like you just saw a ghost, son.”

It pulls a wet laugh out of Ilya and the exhaustion finally comes crashing into him.

“You should get some rest,” Yuna says calmly. “David and I got a hotel down the road. You stay here with Shane.”

Ilya looks up in surprise. “Oh, no no. You don’t have to do that.”

“He’ll want to see you,” Yuna insists. “It’s fine. We’ll come by in the morning, alright?”

He bites his bottom lip and nods reluctantly.

“Can I see him now?”

David holds out his hand towards the door.

Ilya walked into the room slowly, as though a sudden movement from him was going to disrupt whatever delicate balance was in the room. Shane looked so small, his golden skin paler than Ilya had ever seen it but his heart was beating strong on the monitor, his breaths long and deep despite the restless discomfort he seemed to be in.

Yuna presses a kiss to her son’s forehead as she says good night and the relief finally settles in Ilya’s bones. Shane is okay. He knows Shane is okay, but only now does his body believe it. Ilya digs the heel of his palms into his eyes and when he exhales, his breath comes out shaky.

His brown eyes are unfocused as they flutter open but the giddiness behind them was obvious.

“Ilyaaa,” he drawls.

God, they must have gotten him on the good stuff.

He presses his own kiss onto Shane’s hairline, a light brush of lips against the dark matted hair and Shane giggles to himself as he looks up at him.

“What?” Ilya prompts.

“You’re pretty,” Shane mutters softly.

“Wow, okay. Maybe nurse should lower your dosage a little.”

“Noo, come back!” he whines when Ilya tries to pull away. Ilya pushes him back down onto the bed with a gentle firmness, lest he jostles his injured side and does something stupid like rebreak it. He doesn’t know how he will explain it to Yuna if he does.

Only once Shane is holding his hand does he finally settle down with a self-satisfied smile.

“You scared me, Hollander,” he admitted softly and slumped onto the chair by the bedside.

“Yeah, well, I scared me too,” Shane admitted. “But I’m ok now.”

“Marley feels terrible. He didn’t mean to hurt you,” Ilya tells him.

“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually.”

“Right.”

He rubs his thumb on the back of Shane’s hand.

“I was looking forward to playing you at the conference finals.”

“No. It’s okay. We have next year, yes?”

“Yeah.” Though the despondent pout on his face does little to hide how dejected he was. “I had this whole plan to ask you something. I wanted to ask you in Tampa but… I got scared,” he admitted.

Ilya swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Shane, you need to rest.”

“I was going to ask you-”

“Hollander…”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” His voice slurs. “It's not a dacha, but it's nice. We’ll have so much fun it's so private.”

“Hollander, you know we cannot do that.”

Shane groans. “We can have a week or even two,” he sounded so hopeful it hurt. But it was hard to stop Shane once he started something. “We’ll be completely alone, together.”

It sounded like a dream. It tugged in Ilya’s chest desperately. A dream. One that would hurt once they woke up from it.

“Maybe. Maybe,” he conceded.

It was enough to placate Shane, knowing he could consider it, no matter how deluded or painfully it might end. He let out a long sigh and suddenly, he seemed so much more tired, the ache in his bones pulling him into a frown.

“When can we go home?” Shane slurs. He sounded like a child, desperate to find comfort somewhere familiar.

“Uhm,” Ilya turns back to the closed doors, where the doctors were talking to Yuna just outside, unsure of how to respond. “Soon. I don’t know. You’re not clear to fly but Yuna and David can drive you home, maybe. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane exhales tiredly. “Can we get those smoothies you always get me for breakfast?”

“Smoothies?”

“The green one with magnolia syrup.”

Ilya frowns. The green smoothies Shane always gets don’t usually contain any flowers. The only ones that do are the ones that Kip makes.

“The one from Strawberry?” Ilya clarifies.

“Yeah. It’s close to home, right?”

Ilya doesn’t even know if Shane is aware of what he is saying. Home, like the apartment in Gramercy deserved that name more than the house in Montreal, or even Ottawa.

“You want to go to New York?”

Shane looks up at him puzzled, as though he thought they were on the same page. But he nods regardless, and regrets it immediately as another wave of vertigo hits him.

There is a hand combing back his fringe, pinning his head back to the bed as it thumbs the crown of his head.

“Okay, don’t move your head too much. Mild concussion is still concussion.”

The gentle hand in his hair is nice. Really nice. And it helps to stave away the nausea threatening to come up again. Shane peers at him through heavy lidded eyes. It has been a long day for all of them, and despite the persistent discomfort of the ache in his clavicle, Ilya’s touch was a comfort he wasn’t aware he needed. Still, Ilya looked at him with soft uncertain eyes, his voice tender as he asked, “Are you sure you want to go to New York?”

Shane hums in confirmation. He was very very loopy from the meds and the exhaustion was starting to catch up to him. “Can we?”

Ilya’s mouth pinches into a tight line. “I will go tell Yuna, okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs. It’s not a no.

He doesn't know how much time has passed as he feels himself slip in and out of consciousness. Sleep threatens to overtake him more than once and as his mind slowly slips into slumber, he feels a kiss pressed against his forehead.

“Sleep, solnyshko,” the soft voice rumbles warmly. “I’ll take you home.”

Chapter End Notes

Magnolias have a floral, citrusy ginger flavour that I think Shane would love.

Also, fun fact, there's a variety of magnolias called the Jane Magnolia! it's very pretty. The underside of the petals are dark while the top sides are pale pink! Very deserving of our Jane ehe.

Kudos and comments appreciated!

Chapter 7: I Could Give You All The Olive Trees

Chapter Summary

I'd take you where nobody knows you
And nobody gives a damn

- I'll Believe in Anything by Wolf Parade

The playoffs are here and Scott still feels a little off kilter. Thankfully, he has someone he can talk to.

Chapter Notes

Home stretch!!!

A surprising amount of people wanted a double on-ice kiss and to you I say... Sliante

Don't ask me about the playoff bracket. I had it in my head then lost it lmao. Also, just as a side note, I know Ilya and Shane give Scott a lot of shit in general but I need you all to know Scott is aware that none of it is mean-spirited and that the two them are his annoying brothers.

It's also important to me that Ilya is an impefect ally. He doesn't always know what to say and when you get a little too comfortable, he says shit he might overthink later.

This is probably the most I've written for any fic ever and it didn't really feel like it so thank you for your support!!!

New York, April 2017

It’s round 2 of the playoffs. Devils versus the Admirals, New Jersey vs. Manhattan. Fans are calling it the Battle of New York. Yes, like the one in the Marvel film. No, RDJ isn’t there to fix their problems.

Ilya chews on the end of his reusable straw, brows pinched, one arm crossed on his chest, the other holding up the deli container of bone broth as he debated the merits of an alien invasion.

“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep that up,” Yuna brushes a finger against his forehead where the stress-lines had begun to form.

She tucks her skirt under her and sits on the armchair beside him. He forces himself to relax his face, the familiar blankness he always had felt so out of reach and it's place is something softer.

He turns to meet Yuna’s expectant gaze, patient as she waits for him to speak. There is no point pretending with her, no point trying to hide the bubbling urge to talk about it.

It has been a long time since Ilya has known what it is like to have a mother. And while Yuna is no replacement for Irina, the gentle care is a familiar balm.

“How is he?”

“Annoyingly stubborn as usual,” she rolls her eyes.

Her son is currently tucked into Ilya’s bed, sleeping off a headache he induced when he very brilliantly insisted that he had recovered enough to watch replays of Philly’s game against Carolina. Needless to say neither of them trust Shane to actually follow concussion protocol. Which is why Yuna is currently occupying the guest bedroom.

“Our bus leaves at 8 tomorrow morning. Full night of rest before game day after.”

Yuna hums in acknowledgement.

“You ready for it?”

Ilya sighs. “Yes. Team is also ready.”

“And Scott?”

He turns to her in surprise. Or, well, he supposes he shouldn’t be so shocked. Yuna Hollander has always been uniquely perceptive when it comes to hockey players.

Ilya briefly considers if it’s a bad idea for him to tell her about Kip when he realises he doesn’t have to be specific at all.

“He is distracted, I think,” he decides. A simpler version of the truth, just to gauge her perspective. “There is this… part of him that he has to hide. Very big secret. But it is killing him.”

To her credit, Yuna doesn’t ask for any details.

“He is… what Russians call sitting with your butt on two chairs. He is unhappy hiding in one place but afraid of the other thing even if it makes him happy. And it affects his hockey, I think.”

Yuna goes silent, lost in her own thoughts before she speaks.

“Shane used to be afraid of heights, did I ever tell you that?” Yuna starts.

Ilya looks at her carefully, not knowing what this has to do with anything. He collects the precious morsel of information and holds it close to his chest anyways. “No.”

He doesn’t look or act it, even when they were on the top of the CN tower that many years ago.

“When he was younger, he would get scared of balconies, stumbled on hikes and hated high places,” Yuna nods. “He would cling to my skirt and pull me away from places, telling me I would fall.”

“Then what happened?”

“He stopped.”

Ilya furrowed his brows in question.

“I asked him about it once and he said he was still scared. He just stopped looking down and focused on the point ahead.”

He had noticed that about Shane, that his eyes would drift down but never too low, fixed somewhere distant but never at his feet. It gave him an air of confidence, but it also let him observe the world around him without hiding in the liminal view the ground gave him.

“My point is,” Yuna clears her throat. “Sometimes, we spend so much time making sure that we don’t trip that we forget to enjoy the view.”

“Shane does not enjoy views,” Ilya deadpans.

“No, he doesn’t,” she laughs. “He spends all that time looking at how far he is from the top that I think he sometimes forgets to see how far he had come.”

Ilya purses his lips. “You think it’s enough for Hunter? For him to enjoy the view?”

“Maybe,” she nods. “But maybe he just needs someone to listen and understand. I don’t know him well enough to say.”

He considers it for a moment and nods.

Yuna smiles at him. “Let him come to you. And when he does, remind him that maybe it’s time he stopped looking down and starts looking forward instead.”

Yuna is right, of course. She always is, but she didn't say anything about snooping around. You know, just so he isn't caught off guard when the time comes.

“I’m gone for one weekend and everything goes to shit,” Ilya groans at the counter.

“A few weekends, actually,” Maria tells him. Taking a sip of her own smoothie. “You’ve been really busy.”

“I know so.”

Early mornings at Straw+berry were quiet, the hum of the store’s central heating filling the space with grey noise. Outside, the city begins to wake.

Back in his apartment, Shane was fast asleep. Ilya was hoping to get his usual smoothie order before he wakes.

“So,” Ilya slides onto the chair by the counter and dropping his palms on the table facing up. “What did I miss?”

Maria looks away nervously. “About the shop? Or…?”

He tilts his head with an expectant look. She was playing dumb. “Hunter and Kip. They were okay before I went to Tampa, then not ok when I came back. Now we’re about to start round 2 of the playoffs and they are very far from ok. Kip is moping and Hunter doesn’t remember how to score, so something happened. What is it?”

A conflicting expression crosses Maria’s face as she considers what she knows. She gives up with a sigh and leans against the counter with her elbows.

“This stays between us,” she tells Ilya lowly.

“Of course.”

“Kip cannot know that I told you, alright? This didn’t come from me.”

“You have my word.”

She bites her lip as she starts. “Hunter… wants to keep the relationship hidden; wait until he retires then maybe come out.”

Ilya might joke about his age, but a hockey player reaches his prime between 24-32. He knows Scott still has another few good years left in him. “But Kip does not want to wait,” he concludes.

“He says he doesn’t mind,” she shrugs. “But Elena doesn’t think so. She says it’s killing him inside.” Maria sighs. “They’re on a break, now, and he’s miserable.”

“They both are,” Ilya corrects.

“He didn’t give Hunter any ultimatums or anything but it’s tough, you know? Being someone’s dirty little secret. I know Scott is super nice and he doesn’t treat him that way but Kip feels like one.”

He knows a thing or two about those.

“And you don’t exactly come from the most accepting sport,” she finishes.

“No, I don’t.” Ilya’s lips tighten into a thin line. He understands this dilemma all too well. “Bad timing though.”

“Yeah,” Maria scoffs.

Scott wants to talk about Kip. He wants, no needs, someone to tell him that he isn’t crazy. But also, he is starting to understand what Sheryl from admin meant when you meet someone so amazing you can't keep it all in your chest and you're just dying to tell someone. This secret, this little part of him that isn’t as little as it once was, is banging on the door, demanding to be let out. It was killing him, and the only person he can talk to about it is frowning aggressively at his phone before a game. A playoff game.

For a brief moment, Scott envies him, the ease in which he carries himself, the carelessness in which he seems to treat any and all life-changing decisions. Ilya Rozanov was the definition of a free-spirit. And yeah, he had gotten to know the guy a bit more and he has since realised Rozanov was just a persona to hide his much kinder personality.

Fuck. He needs to talk to him pronto.

They lose the 1st game at home and Scott resolves himself to talk to the Russian. They have a genuine shot at the cup this year, and if Ilya can help him make sense of it, maybe even fix his relationship problems, then win win. So while everyone is checking into the hotel in Jersey, Scott approaches the two roommates.

“Hey, Benny. Mind swapping rooms with me?”

Ilya’s brows shoot up in surprise. Even Benny looked over at his usual roommate with a skeptical look.

“Uhm, yeah. I mean sure. If Rozy doesn’t mind.”

Ilya simply shrugs.

“Thanks.”

The walk up the elevator was awkward, Scott not really trying to initiate any conversations and Ilya not bothering to try. They didn’t do this… talking stuff. Despite being his A and getting along pretty well on the ice, they never really talked. Not alone anyways.

Sure, he went out on that weird lunch thing with Yuna Hollander, and yeah, they’ve gone out a couple times with the women’s teams and ok, he knows about his potentially career-ending secret, but it was never really the two of them.

The room lights up once their key card slides into the slot and Ilya drops onto the bed unceremoniously.

He gives Scott and expectant look. “So?”

Scott looks at him warily. “So what?”

“Oh, my god Hunter. Don’t be so boring,” Ilya drags his hand down his face. “You wanted a sleepover? You got sleepover. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“What if I just wanted to get to know my A better?”

Ilya rolls his eyes and groans, flopping onto the center of the bed.

Ok, so they’re doing this.

Scott sighs as he copies Ilya’s position, lying on the center of the bed.

“I’m gonna ask you something. But you’ve gotta promise not to laugh.”

“... Okay?”

“Do I suck?”

Ilya turns his head and deadpans. “I don’t know. Ask your boyfriend?”

Scott tosses his hands and rolls his eyes. “See, this is why I don’t talk to you.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You were not specific.”

“Ok, fine. Do I suck at hockey?”

Ilya seems to tilt his head side to side as he considers an answer. “Sometimes yes,” he admits. “But sometimes no.”

Now it was Scott’s turn to look at him.

“You have solid basics,” Ilya continues critically. “But you think too much. Your brain is loud. Makes you stop for too long then your plays become obvious and it stops you from playing at 100%”

There was a time when Ilya's talent scared Scott, when the possibility of a rotating captaincy or a demotion into a team with 2 As constantly loomed over them. Scott doesn't know when that fear went away. He just knows that one day, he looks up at Ilya and thinks to himself, I can trust him. Yes, he'll be annoying about it. Yes, he's still a little shit daily, but he isn't mean about it.

Ilya was a spectacular player, and his personality shone through on the ice, but he loved the team and he looked out for them in the most unexpected ways.

This was the first time Ilya had ever told him what he thought about Scott’s plays.

“Not as good as me or Hollander,” Ilya adds, seemingly for the sake of it. “Nowhere close-”

“I get it. You and Hollander are the best. Number 1 and 2. Silver and gold,” Scott waves off.

Case and point.

“Yes, but listen. You forget that there is a bronze, yes? That podiums have 3 spots? Or that there are runner ups. Top 10s.”

“Yeah, I know. I was at the bronze medal games, dude. At your home Olympics. Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Fuck, I’m the wrong person for this conversation,” Ilya drags his hand down his face.

Scott frowns at him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he dismisses.

Scott bristles as Ilya tries to find his words. They’re not close enough for this heart-to-heart. Still, who else would he talk to? No one else gets it. Not the pressure, not the circus around it, not know how much weight a single stranger could make.

“How many teams are there in the league?” Ilya prompts.

“32,” he says automatically.

“How many players?”

“At least 640.”

“How many forwards?”

“At least 384.”

“Right. So Hollander and I are 1 and 2 out of 384,” Ilya states logically. “Top,” he pauses to calculate mentally. “0.5%. The best of the best. But you are,” he snaps his fingers. “What is your ranking?”

“Right now? 6th.”

Ilya tilts his head side to side. “Ok, so, still top 2%.”

“After Larsen, Barrett and Kent,” he finishes.

“Seriously?” Ilya looks at him in disbelief. “Larsen, I understand. He is very good. But you let Barrett and Kent get ahead of you?”

He spits the names out like venom and it does the job. It stirs this spiteful urge in him to push back.

“Fuck off,” he laughs.

“Next you will tell me Pike is right behind you.”

“Dude, lay off him Pike is a pretty decent player.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath.

It breaks the tension, and slowly, his muscles begin to unwind. All of a sudden, Scott finds himself a lot calmer. He never finished the thought but Scott understood the sentiment. Ilya would never give him a genuine direct compliment but the perspective he gave him was surprisingly… profound. Huh.

“Damn, you’re pretty good at this emotional stuff,” Scott smiles.

“Thanks,” Ilya responds dryly. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Who knew, right? The Russian Terror, hockey’s biggest headache is actually a softie.”

“Take that back! Nothing about me is soft.”

“Right, no. Russians don’t so soft,” Scott rolls his eyes.

“Exactly.”

“Empath then.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Okay.”

The silence that sits in the room this time is comforting, a moment of quiet before he jumps to the next thing. And Ilya definitely could sense that there was a next thing, if his own silence is anything to go by.

“But do you think I’m over reacting?” he asks after some time. “About the whole Kip thing?”

Ilya shrugs from his side. “I’m not close with you or Kip. Cannot say.”

“You were at his birthday party.”

“Eh, wasn’t really a party. Just a couple drinks and cake.”

“Still…” Scott frowns. “I really tried to be there.”

Ilya hums, acknowledging his words.

“Do you think I’m an asshole for not going?”

To his credit, Ilya seems to consider this for a moment before answering. “Is scary for you, so maybe not asshole, but still sucks.”

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “But you went. Didn’t it scare you? What people might think?”

“Not really. I’m a good liar.”

“Great.”

“Also, I don’t care what people think.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

“I know,” Ilya nods earnestly. “I think Kip knows this, maybe. Is why he doesn’t blame you for not going.”

Scott’s thoughts drift to the banana socks in his bag, well loved and well cared for. He loves his life, he loves the people in it. His coach and his team were great people and he has achieved so much in his life, even if the 1 singular big thing looms largely in the room. But still… his life feels… empty, lonely. Kip brought so much colour into his life. Suddenly he was seeing the world like one of those mantis shrimps Benny was talking about with way too many cones in their eyes.

It made his chest fuller, yet so much lighter. He wants to scream it from the rooftops. So he supposes the least he could do was tell one person about it. It takes him a few shaky breaths, steeling himself for what he was about to say. Finally, the words leave his mouth.

“I love him.”

“Okay.”

The simple answer makes him blink.

“I’m serious.”

“No, I believe you.”

Scott props himself up on his elbow and turns to face Ilya. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“I’m not!” Ilya insists.

He slumps back onto the bed. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Silence washes over them once more, far more awkward than it was previously. Scott is glad Ilya believes him, but something in his chest itches for more. To argue maybe, or to weigh his thoughts out loud.

“It’s just… my parents died when I was 14.”

“Nu uhh, you don’t get to play the orphan card, I am also orphan,” Ilya points to himself.

“Shut up, asshole. Not my point.”

Ilya waves his hand around, essentially telling him to get on with it.

“I lost my family pretty early on. Hockey gave me a second chance,” Scott starts again. “It gave me a home when I didn’t have one, and a family while mine is dead. It’s everything. Without this, I am nothing. But now, there is someone who sees me and sees ‘Scott’. Not ‘Hunter’ or ‘Captain’. Just ‘Scott’. But if I want to be with him, I have to force him to hide, and it’s killing him.”

“It’s killing you too,” Ilya points out.

“I’ve been fine my whole life without it.”

Ilya doesn’t even bother correcting him. Far be it for him to make someone confront their deeply rooted denials.

A loud sigh breaks the silence.

“Listen, Captain America,” Scott glares at the name. “Kip loves you, yes? And you love him.”

Scott nods. “He makes me happy. Really happy.”

“You’re… good for each other. Make each other better,” Ilya agrees. “But hiding is hard.”

Scott purses his lips. “It is.”

“It’s tiring, yes? Takes a lot of your time and energy. Always terrified someone will catch you.”

His description hit a bit too close to home, too personal, and it made Scott antsy.

“Speaking from personal experience, huh? You gonna tell me you’re hiding some super secret paramour next?” He laughs nervously.

He doesn’t notice the frown on the other’s face.

“To answer your other question, no. I don’t think you’re over reacting. Some people… they are worth it.”

“Worth losing your second family over?”

Ilya goes quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling. “I read something on the plane, back from Moscow. Boring article Hollander sent me.”

Scott rolls his eyes. This kid really can’t resist the urge to chirp, huh?

“There is a phrase, yes? Blood is thicker than water?”

“Yeah?”

Ilya shakes his head. “Is not true. Real phrase is ‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’.” He turns to Scott. “Brothers can suck, family can suck, even second families, but we are not stuck with them. We can choose our family. And maybe, the idea is not so… rigid.”

Scott turns the phrase over in his mind.

“The Bears are my brothers,” Ilya continues. “This team too. But if they hate me for who I am, then maybe they were never my brothers to begin with.”

It was a surprisingly heartfelt piece of advice Scott didn’t think he would ever think would come out of the league’s biggest playboy and most infamous deviant. He takes this to heart and nods. “Dully noted.”

“Good,” Ilya nods. “Now get out of my room. Benny and I need to finish Anna Karenina.”

New York, May 2017

It’s…. 9 in the morning. Scott thinks as he takes a quick look at his watch.

He lasted 1 week without talking abour Kip ane now he’s here, at Ilya Rozanov’s doorstep in a pretty nice part of Gramercy.

The Admirals normally have morning skate at 7. Which means Ilya’s biological clock would have absolutely woken him up already. So it’s not inconsiderate for him to be here. Yeah. Not inconsiderate at all.

Scott raps his hand on Ilya’s front door. His feet tap against the floor impatiently before he knocks again more urgently. Then again. Then again until the front door swings open to reveal an irritated Ilya Rozanov, lips swollen and pink tinged and hair sticking out in every direction.

“What?!” Ilya barks.

See? Awake.

Scott pushes his way past his front door. “Roz. I need to talk to you about Kip!” He says urgently.

“Who the hell is Kip?” The familiar voice came from deeper inside the apartment.

Scott freezes and turns to see none other than Shane Hollander lying down on the couch, drinking a green smoothie with Straw+Berry’s logo printed on the side.

“His friend,” Ilya says.

“My boyfriend,” Scott says at the exact same time.

Shane nearly chokes on his smoothie. “You’re gay?”

The two Admirals look at each other with wide eyes.

“Wait, he doesn’t know?”

“No!”

“I thought you tell him everything.”

“Not everything,” Ilya rolls his eyes. “You think I would out you to everyone close to me?”

The mild hurt on Ilya’s face in response to Scott’s silence tells him everything he knows.

“Right.”

30 minutes later

“You know,” Hollander chews casually around his straw. “This is all starting to make sense.”

Scott was trying really hard not to question why the Montreal captain was recovering from a concussion and a broken collarbone in Ilya’s apartment in New York when he could be in Ottawa with his parents.

“It is?” Scott asks.

“Yep.”

All things considered, coming out to Hollander felt a little less daunting than Rozanov, accidental bump ins at the smoothie shop aside. Hollander was a good kid. Polite chirps, never initiates fights, never says a bad thing about… anyone really. Except Rozanov. He seems to be very firm on his stance of Rozanov being an asshole. 

Ilya Rozanov, who kept his secret and was friends with Kip long before Scott walked into his small quaint smoothie shop. Who stepped out of his own apartment half an hour ago to run some errands.

Okay, maybe he was the asshole in this situation for thinking Rozanov would out him to his best friend. Shit.

Hollander was a lot more pragmatic. Impartial. Though Scott is slowly learning that he wasn’t any better.

“You spend so much time isolating yourself that it tires you out mentally and physically. By the time mid-season comes along, you’re burnt out. Then once summer comes, you recharge. Rinse and repeat.”

“Hey, you don’t hang out with your team much either,” Scott points out accusatory.

“Yeah, but I don’t let that get in the way of my hockey,” Hollander rolls his eyes.

Ilya was really a bad influence on him.

“Maybe you just need to get laid,” Hollander shrugs.

“Oh my god. Now you’re really starting to sound like him.”

“What? It’s true! Isn’t that why we're here?”

“No. I’m here because the final round of the playoffs starts in 3 days and Ilya thinks I play like shit.”

“Well, you do play like you did early on in the season,” Shane says in consolation. “Which was shit. Incredible amount of assists, but shit.”

Scott grimaces. “He says it’s because I’m distracted.”

“Well, are you?”

“I’m not.”

Hollander looks at him unconvinced.

“I’m not!” He insists.

“Did you, or did you not get into a fight in Dallas just last round?”

He did. He got maybe 4 punches in before Ilya hooked his arm around Scott’s elbow and pulled him off the guy.

“Scrums are normal,” he insists. “Your buddy Rozanov gets into them all the time!”

“Yeah, but we’re not Rozanov,” Shane states obviously.

Scott waves his arms. “Why are you even here?”

“I wasn’t cleared to fly.”

“Still?”

“Subway’s flooded.”

Not a lie. A big rain storm just hit Montreal a couple days ago and now parts of the city are underwater.

“... Okay?”

Scott should really give up trying to understand those two.

“Invite him to the games,” Shane suggests. “At least the home games. If you win all the odd numbered games, then even if you take it to game 7, you can win. And he will be there in the stands.”

“You think we can do it?”

Shane shrugs. “If you don’t play like it’s the beer league, sure. I played better in fucking TimBits for fucks sake.”

Ouch.

So it turns out Shane Hollander can in fact be an asshole, he just hides it very very well.

The front door opens and Ilya’s head lifts towards the guest in his home. “Still doing historical enactment?”

“Reenactment,” Shane corrects, even though Scott was pretty sure this was another one of the Russian’s roundabout ways of calling him old.

Ilya slumps onto the couch right next to Shane, pressed flush against his uninjured side despite the ample amount of space beside him. He swirls the lollipop in his mouth and pulls it out. “So, you told him your Kip problem?”

“I don’t have a Kip problem,” Scott insists as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No,” Ilya agrees. “You have a Kip-less problem. And bad timing.”

“He’s right,” Shane speaks around the lollipop in his mouth. When did that get there?

Scott buries his face in his hands and groans. “I don’t know what to do.”

Todd was already up his ass about staying in the closet, but he doesn’t know if he has it in him to lie any longer, not when his feelings for Kip feel so big and so bright it no longer fits in his chest.

“Well, you have two choices, yes?” Ilya says through his lollipop-free mouth. “Come out and be with him and win cup, or stay in closet and be sad and maybe lose him and the cup.”

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, not everything is about hockey,” he grumbles.

The pair of them look at him like he’s stupid which… fair. What exactly was he expecting saying that to the two living embodiments of hockey?

“Why am I even talking to you two?” Scott wonders out loud. He walks to Ilya’s pantry and helps himself to some of the orange juice in the fridge. He opens the fridge door and is stunned by the sheer amount of soup. Bone broth, if the labels were to be trusted. And ginger ale.

The work of Yuna Hollander, no doubt.

Apparently Yuna makes gallons of it during playoff season, to help with injury recovery and hydration. And now that her son was out of the playoffs. She redirects her attention to the blonde on the couch.

While his back was turned, Shane pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, offering to Ilya who takes it back into his mouth without hesitation.

“Okay,” Scott sighs with a glass of cold juice in his hand. He pauses when he looks at the candy in Ilya’s mouth and frowns. “Where’d you get the lollipop?”

“From clinic. Was updating tetanus vaccination. See?” Ilya pulls back his sleeve to reveal a children’s dinosaur bandage on his bicep. “Has your yearbook photo on it.”

“Oh, fuck off, Roz,” he waves off. “You know what? I need a walk. See you two weirdos around I guess.”

“Bye Scott,” Shane waves from his spot on the couch.

“Bye, rook!”

The front door closes and all the tension finally hisses out of Shane with a sigh. He slots himself more comfortably against Ilya and tucks his head under his chin.

“Fuck. That was crazy,” Shane breathes out.

“Mhmm.”

“Scott Hunter is gay? And he’s having a gay crisis? About his gay boyfriend?” His voice was pitching higher and higher with each thought.

“Yes.”

“We’re not the only ones,” he gasps at the revelation. It was reassuring, realising they were not alone, tormented by the oppressive nature of the sport they loved.

“That’s statistically impossible.”

Shane sits up and glares at Ilya. “And you knew!”

Ilya shrugs casually. “Was not my secret to tell.”

He swallows. “True.”

Still, the thoughts come racing into his brain. They’re not the only ones! Somewhere out there, there were more queer players in the league, hiding in locker rooms and masking to fit in.

It doesn’t really change their situation,  he’s certain there weren’t any other players sleeping with their rivals at the highest level of the sport, but it does settle the perpetual panic inside him to a far more manageable level.

The fight drains out of him completely and he lets Ilya pull him closer, running his hands softly through his hair.

He settles into the comfort the silence here brings him. Not the yawning emptiness of his apartment back home or the constant hovering of his parents in his childhood home, but the sound of Ilya's breathing and steady sound of a strong heart pumping against his cheek.

His finger traces mindless circles on Ilya’s cargo pants and he leans into the arm wrapped around his shoulder.

He likes this, he thinks. He had been scared to think they would start hating each other the longer they spent together, but the last few weeks have given him an escape he didn’t know he needed. Safe, comfortable, cared for, tucked away in an apartment in a city that had better things to do than wonder what Shane Hollander was doing on a random Tuesday.

He wants this. More of this. Not just the 3 times a year he is in Manhattan, or the handful of weeks he’s in Jersey or Elmont.

And it makes him greedy.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts softly.

“When are you not?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs.

“Ok, what is it?” Ilya nudges his head against Shane’s.

He falls silent.

“Do you want to do a training camp together this summer?”

Being around Ilya made him impulsive. It made him want to try new things he might not be ready to do, or ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. But damn he wanted to do it anyway.

Ilya frowns into his hair. “Shane-”

“It’s not weird, you know? Guys train with players from other teams all the time. We can say we became friends during the All-Stars game and … we always played our hardest against each other. Who better to sharpen our skills?”

It made sense, even if it was a little risky. But maybe… Ilya hasn’t been a Bear in 2 years. And yes, some of that residual expectation was there, but they aren’t expected to play rivals anymore, not really. So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

“That makes sense,” Ilya finds himself saying.

“It doesn’t have to be just us either, you know? We can invite other guys like… I don’t know. Marleau?”

Ilya smiles at the idea even though he knows he won’t end well.

“Babson & Alieva?” Ilya offers.

“Sure,” Shane hadn’t thought of inviting girls along but it was a pretty good idea. “Blyth and Campbell?”

“4 girls and us 2, huh?” Ilya laughs. “You invite Campbell, you have to invite Riley.”

“That’s fine. Then maybe Hayden, to even out the numbers.”

Ilya makes an exaggerated gagging sound and Shane shoves him playfully.

“No Pike.”

“He’s not that bad,” Shane rolls his eyes.

“No Pike, or I’m not coming.”

That was probably as close as Shane could get to an agreement, so he might as well strike while the iron was hot.

“Deal.”

“But first, I have a cup to win.”

He laughs at the dramatic groan Shane lets out against his collarbone.

New York: May 2017 - Day Before Playoff Finals

“Hey, Roz, can I talk to you for a moment?” Scott catches him in the deserted parking lot after their final tape review. He looked nervous, jumpy, like a deer in headlights.

Ilya shoves his hands into his pockets. “No, I will not sleep with you.”

“No, what?” Scott looked at him in disbelief. “Why the fuck would I-,” only then does he notice the other’s crooked smile. “Oh, fuck you!”

Scott looked marginally less nervous now.

“Okay, what is it then?”

He looked around, making sure no one was left in the parking lot before saying it, into the damp spring air.

“I’m gay,” he says.

Ilya looked at him expectantly, like he was expecting a follow up and blinks up at him once the silence settled for a beat too long. “Okay?”

“Oh, fuck you. I was trying to be serious.”

“Yes, but… I know this.”

“You do?” Scott looks at him quizzically.

“I know Kip, remember?”

“Right.”

Scott stares at the ground, seemingly now embarrassed he didn’t think about it and Ilya sighs. This is the 2nd time someone has come out to him and honestly, he still doesn’t know how to react. He’s honoured they feel safe telling him, he just knows fuck all about… saying supportive things.

“Is good practice, though, yes? Telling someone?”

Scott’s secret was out. To one person who already knew, but it was out in the open nonetheless and it felt good.

“Yes,” Scott admits.

Telling Ilya was easy. He was an ass, but he wasn’t an ass about him being gay, and somehow, that made it feel normal, like it wasn’t a big deal. There was a strange comfort about it that Scott doesn’t pretend to understand.

“I… want to tell the guys.”

Ilya’s eyes are wide in surprise. “Wow, ok. That's a big step.”

"It's a lot, I know."

He doesn't get a chirp for it, not even a nudge of encouragement. Just an acknowledgement that what he was about to do is scary. He needed that more than any blind positivity.

“Can you… be there? When I tell them.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course.”

“Thanks,” he sighs in relief.

“You’re not doing this because of Kip, right?” Ilya tried to ensure.

Scott smiles. “No,” he shakes his head. “I’m doing it for me. I’m tired of hiding.”

“Good,” Ilya smiles at him. “Because you’re absolutely terrible at it.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he laughs.

“I’m serious. Giraffe has better hiding skills. You’re lucky hockey players are stupid.”

There was a carelessness to his care and he loathed to admit it but it was endearing. Fuck, they were friends, weren’t they? This fucker is his friend.

Game 4 brings with it a deep ache that seemed to live permanently in Ilya’s bones. He barely had the wherewithal to stop his front door from slamming shut, jamming his foot in front of it before letting it close with a gentle click. Dim lights cast warm shadows across his home, the city lights twinkling brilliantly outside his window.

He shucks his jacket off and kicks his shoes beside the rack before dropping his bags by the couch and dragging his feet deeper into the apartment. The cool glass of water does little to settle the ache but it does the job of waking him up, just enough to brush his teeth and wash the smell of recycled air off him.

As he walks into his bedroom, the noises of the city fall away. Ilya sits by the edge of his bed and lets himself admire the figure in his bed. Tucked under his softest, heaviest comforter, Shane is fast asleep on his stomach with Ilya’s pillow tucked against his chest.

His nose twitches as he burrows his face deeper into the pillow, his light snores washing over Ilya like a lullaby. It makes his chest feel all gooey and soft and giddy.

Ilya couldn't resist the urge to touch him. His fingers dance lightly down his spine, the smooth warm skin on his back rippling beneath his touch. It meant more to him than he thought, having Shane here for the playoffs. It was a tiny slice of domesticity Ilya didn’t think he could afford, melting any of his inhibitions away as he leans forward to press a kiss behind his ear and nuzzles against him like a cat marking its scent.

Shane groaned at the feeling of his stubble grazing his soft skin. His eyes flutter open, heavy and unfocused with sleep. For a moment, Ilya let the warmth of his gaze melt the remnants of the day and he settled against the cool sheets.

Eventually, the gravitational pull against his lids becomes too heavy for him to bear and Shane closes his eyes.

“Hmm, good game,” he mumbles sleepily.

Ilya hums softly in return. A strong arm wraps around his neck and he be manhandled into Shane’s cocoon of warmth. Warm calloused hands settle against his nape, tangling into his hair and slowly but surely, sleep pulls him under.

He falls asleep with his lips pressed against Shane’s neck and his nose against his pulse. Maybe one day he will get to have this everyday. For now, he will let himself drown in this little slice of peace they have carved for themselves.

New York, May 2017

They make it to Game 6 before Scott’s frustrations overtake his nerves and he finally stops stalling. Somewhere in New York, Kip was watching him with a bittersweet smile. They had agreed not to make any big decisions before the end of the playoffs. It was either that or rip the bandaid off and call it quits. Scott doesn’t know which one would hurt more.

He tells Murdock first, then he rounds up the boys in his apartment for one last hang out before the finals.

“When you said you were going to tell guys, I thought you meant the whole team,” Ilya mumbled, dumping a bunch of chips into a large bowl.

Scott shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can do that yet.”

If he was any braver, he would admit that he was scared. Murdock had taken the new well, but it's him and Ilya versus 18 other guys. Like it or not, the moment the words leave his mouth, things in their team will change.

The look Ilya gives him is unreasonable. He never pushes, not when it comes to this stuff, and he appreciates it, even if it was difficult to get past the prickly appearance of his intentions.

“Sup Cap!” Carter says walking into his penthouse.

Scott nods nervously. Behind him, Eric and Greg walk in casually and slump onto the couch. They crack open a couple beers and made themselves at home.

“Why the scary look on your face, Cap?” Greg asks.

Scott takes a deep breath, looking over at Ilya for reassurance. “So… I called you guys here to tell you something important.”

Just like that, the three of them snapped into attention. Whatever joke it was Eric was making had laid forgotten. Carter lowered his bottle onto his lap and Greg crossed his arms in wait.

“I’m gay,” he finally tells them.

For a second, three pairs of eyes widened, not a word uttered between them. The silence stretched painfully and Scott began to fidget uncomfortably at the blank stares.

“Oh no, is it terminal?” Ilya says jokingly.

“Roz,” Scott groaned, covering his eyes with his hand.

“What? You say it's like it’s disease!” he says defensively.

And truthfully, for the longest time, Scott supposes he might have seen it that way. Being gay was the antithesis of being the league’s poster child and for the past who knows how many years, he had been living in fear, worried it might all be taken away.

Kip was right, it was killing him, keeping this secret. He was nervous, unhappy. He felt caged. But now it’s out. He’s out.

And now it is time to see if the world beyond the cage is scarier than the beautiful prison he had been trapped in all his life.

“You’re serious,” Carter says first.

“I am,” Scott says.

“Wow,” Greg rubs his hand down his face, stroking his beard.

“I mean, I thought you might be. Maybe,” Eric says slowly.

“Really?”

“I mean, I’m still shocked, but yeah.”

“Any other news we need to know about while we’re here?” Carter jokes.

Scott was about to say no when Ilya cuts in. “I’m bisexual.”

Now it was Scott’s turn to look at him. “You are?”

Ilya shrugs.

“Okay, that, I know,” Eric points out.

Scott looked at him in surprise. "You did?"

Thankfully he didn’t say anything else because while Ilya was acting like this didn’t bother him, he was a ball of nerves.

Greg looks between them suspiciously. “You guys are not… like.. Together right?”

“No, nono. God no,” Scott shakes his head and Ilya fake gags beside him.

“Okay, rude,” Scott admonishes.

“No,” Ilya asserts. “I am bisexual. I only date beautiful men and beautiful women. Not-” he gestures his hand up and down Scott’s figure. “Retirement home escapee.”

“And I don’t date immature hockey players who might as well have a residency permit in the sin bin!”

Ilya barks out a laugh. At least Scott has got some of his bite back.

“So you, like… have a boyfriend or something?” Carter quirks his lips.

“Yeah. His name is Kip.”

“Kip! Are you kidding, that’s adorable!”

“He is adorable,” Ilya nods. “But terrible taste in men.”

“Oh, come on! You’ve met him?”

“Unfortunately,” Scott mutters under his breath.

“Are you… going to tell the other guys?” Greg wonders.

“Yes,” he says confidently. “Eventually, I guess. I want to stop hiding.”

He turns to Ilya who shakes his head. “Not safe for me.”

“Right.”

The mood takes a sombre turn and Carter breaks the tension with a smile. “So theoretically… out of the four of us-”

“No,” Scott says firmly.

“Aww come on! Humour us a little!”

“Sure. Bennett.”

Eric barks out a laugh.

“Don’t worry Carter, I would date you,” Ilya pats his back in consolation.

“Thanks, bud,” Carter fake sobs.

And just like that, they were ok. God did Scott love them. Now that he has faced one giant, it was time to face the other.

For all his pride and bravado, Ilya has only been to the cup finals once before. The pressure is a familiar constant by now, like a weighted blanket that is heavier than it was meant to be. His nerves are worn down game after game until everything else feels like noise. He’s tired, they all are. His own ribs ache against his chestie and his wrist might as well be gift wrapped in K-tape with a bow on top.

Ilya looks up at the stands and sees Kip there, with his father and Elena by his side. He waves up at his friend and gets a small wave back. It did little to ease the turmoil in Scott’s mind, but it was enough for him to put up what was frankly the best game of his life.

He tore through the ice with unmatched resolve, slicing through seams in defenses and finding Ilya ready to receive the puck no matter where he went.

It was as if telling his friends the truth about himself had released some sort of power dampener he kept hidden. Someone tried to trip Wagner and Scott leans on Ilya's shoulder as the skate up to the refree. For once, he was happy to let Ilya take the lead on this. How the man has the energy to keep arguing was beyond him.

Despite his best efforts, Benny couldn’t make it a shut out. No one expected him too, this deep into their playoff run. Fuck, what was he talking about, this was the finals!

Scott crashed into the bench with Carter by his side, leaning on his knee as his lungs burned with effort. The score was 3-3 with less than 5 minutes left. Was he going to make it? Oh god, what if they don’t make it.

He felt a nudge on his arm and met Ilya’s calm gaze, steady despite his heaving chest, and found his nerve again. They were going to do this. They were going to be fine.

Scott pushed through the pain in his legs, his heart feeling like it was going to explode any moment and just kept pushing. In his glove, he could feel a blister on his palm. One of his fingers was broken for sure, and his knee was killing him but he just kept moving.

One of Detroit’s defenseman gets a penalty for trying to trip Matti (again) and Ilya leaps onto the ice for a power play.

Less than a minute on the clock. Scott volleys the puck against his stick and a leap of faith, he passes backwards without looking, trusting his teammate to catch it and releases his breath as he watches Ilya take off with the puck. He passes it to Carter, taking it as close to the goal. He fakes a shot, passing it with a backhand back to Ilya.

The goalie tries to poke check him and he jumps forward, swiping the puck into his stick, flipping it as he tumbles and into the net it goes.

The final buzzer rings and the whole team hops the boards and descend onto the ice. Ilya dodges someone’s glove and laughs when his own stick nearly trips Greg Huff as they all rush towards Benny. It’s a whole yard sale out there. His ears ring from the sheer volume of their cheers. Maybe the teams’, maybe his own. Who cares? Carter tackles him and they fall onto the ice, screaming at each other’s faces with a handful of each other’s jerseys.

Scott fall in beside them. Then Cameron. Then Wagner. Then his entire line and the next.

The team ends up in a dog pile, cheeks buzzing from all their cheering and when they finally wheel the cup in, their celebration starts anew. Scott lifts the cup over his head and presses a kiss to it, just as Ilya had just 3 years prior and his heart swells with emotions he could no longer contain. It was worth it.

The second hand gear, the jeers, all of it. He had proven he could do it. He had proven he was worth it.

‘This is for you, mom,’ Scott squeezes his eyes. He hoped she was watching, and he hoped she was proud.

He hands Carter the cup and the cup makes its way around the rink. All the loved ones slowly flood the ice and Ilya stands beside Scott. They have no one, no one they can bring onto the ice, no one to embrace and share this lifetime achievement. He pats Scott’s shoulder in solidarity and smiles as Bresbois’ wife comes to hug him, laughs when Gilis’ parents corral him into a photo. Off to the side, someone is kissing their baby, in another, children are running around the ice, trying not to slip.

By the time he turned around, Scott was looking out into the stands. Ilya follows his gaze and sees Kip, Elena and Kip’s father in the crowd. Scott is gesturing at him and Ilya holds his breath.

The air is stuck in his lungs, eyes blurring  and his chest refusing to cooperate as Kip makes his way down the stands. He’s stunned. He’s enraptured. He can’t look away.

He watches in absolute disbelief as Scott helps Kip jump the boards with a gentle hand and makes their way down the ice.

“Is he…,” Eric comes up beside him.

Scott holds onto Kip’s face like he is precious, cradling them in his hands and presses their mouths together. Behind them, the team explodes into cheers, wolf whistles and howling washing over them and Ilya is rooted on the spot, his arms limp on his side even as his teammates shake his arm in excitement.

One by one, the players rush past him to come up to Scott and congratulate him. One by one they shake Kip’s hand and the crowd is on their feet as they celebrate this historic moment.

He was surrounded by love and pride and the warmth of a team that welcomed him during a turbulent transition, but he felt an aching emptiness shaped like a specific Canadian hockey player split his chest open and cut his heart out with devastating precision.

Eric skates towards him with a sad knowing smile and pulls him into his arms. “I know, buddy. I know.”

Just like that, the dam breaks and he cries into Eric’s goalie pads.

“You stink,” Ilya croaks, eyes red rimmed.

“Hey! You better thank these stinky pads. We wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for them,” he pulls away. “You heading home to your man the moment this is all over?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ilya laughs wetly.

“Well, you earned it. Cup number 2 baby!” Eric skates away waving peace signs in the air, leaving Ilya to soak in the celebration.

Confetti makes its way down onto the ice, red with bits of blue and red. Ilya grabs a handful of the confetti and stuffs it into his gear.

He didn’t appreciate the first cup as much as he should. This time, he fully intends to memorialise every piece of it. He was halfway through rolling up a streamer when Carter barrels into him with a bone crushing hug.

“Rozy,” he’s sobbing. “I love you so much, man. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I don’t think Gloria will be happy you said that.”

“She’ll understand,” he pulls away and pats his shoulder. “I mean it man, you’re the best co-A ever. Let’s terrorise Hunter again next year, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ilya smiles.

Ilya skates over to Kip the moment Scott finally lets go of him and gives him a hug as well.

“I’m happy for you,” Ilya says honestly into his shoulder.

“Thank you, Ilya,” Kip breathes.

He steps back and smiles at him. “For what?”

“For everything. For being you.”

Fuck, he was going to cry again. He lets his arms hang dead on his side as Kip claps him on the back and rejoins Scott.

Scott gives him a nod, the smile on his face wider than he has ever seen it. Ilya watches their clasped hands with envy.

‘Together’. 

Shane had said that, high out of his mind.

All of a sudden, the idea of it doesn’t seem too far-fetched. A summer spent by a glittering lake just in sight, no longer seemed so terrifying.

The apartment door unlocks close to 2 in the morning and Shane stirs from the couch. Ilya places his bag down by the doorway, toeing off his shoes before stepping towards the couch.

“Hi,” Shane says softly, sitting up. He doesn’t even try to suppress the wobbly smile on his face.

Ilya’s breath catches in his lungs. “Hi.”

All of a sudden, a pair of arms wrap around him, careful of the arm in the sling. Shane settles into his tight hold and lets out a content sigh. Ilya is home in his arms and nothing else seems to matter.

He laughs wetly as Ilya tucks his face against his uninjured side, rocking them side to side as his free arm curls tightly around the other’s waist.

It’s late. Ilya smells like stale alcohol and cheap rink shampoo despite his best efforts to wash off the smell of gear and champagne and Shane’s arm aches from how it is being squished between them but it is perfect.

When he pulls back, Shane is struck by how devestatingly radiant he looks, hazel eyes bright and a smile breaking his face. He places a hand on his sharp jaw, craddling him like he is precious.

Their lips crash into each other like they have been starved for it and he melts into him. Shane sighs like an exhale he has held in his chest since Ilya had left the apartment that morning. He licks the seam of Ilya’s lips and shudders as their tongues dance, tandem and familiar.

“I love you,” Ilya croaks against his lips.

Shane has had weeks to process his words in Russian, waiting patiently until he was ready to repeat them in English, and the relief of hearing them filled his chest with warmth.

“I love you too,” he finally gets to say.

Ilya lifts his head, looking at him with misty blue eyes, wide and unsure and Shane cups his cheek.

“2 cups each,” he says with wonder. “Looks like we’re even now.”

“Yes,” Ilya laughs.

Now that he is home, warm and loved, the exhaustion of the day finally crashes over him and he leans dramatically into Shane’s good side, arms limp by his side.

“Fuck. I want to sleep for a whole week.”

Shane’s laughter rumbles through his front. “Done celebrating already?”

He remembers drinking himself into near alcohol promising the first time. Based on what Marleau said, the Bears had done something similar when they won.

“Okay, fine. We fuck all night, then sleep whole week,” he groans against his shoulder.

“Aww, poor baby,” Shane cooes, his hand smoothing dark blonde curls. He gives him an open mouthed kiss against his neck, grabbing his nape to deepen it until all he could breathe was Ilya.

His chest feels impossibly full, proud and fond in equal measure.

“Can we go to the cottage after the awards?” Ilya asks shyly.

Shane couldn’t help the smile that breaks across his face.

“Yeah, okay,” he says softly.

“Okay, but first,” Ilya’s hands slide over his ass, cupping them. “We celebrate.”

The lopsided smirk Shane gives him is cocky, so alluringly confident as he pulls Ilya towards the bedroom. Shane makes quick work of his shirt, smirking as he walks backwards and Ilya is hopeless to do anything but follow.

Chapter End Notes

Sike! The King was Scott all along AHAHAHA. Were we surprised? How are we feeling?

Kudos and Comments appreciated

Chapter 8: Qu'une envie, c'est de voir notre avenir, Petit à petit entendre nos fous-rires

Chapter Summary

Qu'une envie, c'est de voir notre avenir
Petit à petit entendre nos fous-rires

trans:
I just want one thing, to see our future
And hear us cracking up little by little

- C'est Toi by Satine

It has been a week since they have won the cup. The team has since drank enough alcohol to warrant an appointment with a hepatologist and done every press-obligation under the sun. They were up at the NBC office for the Today Show before the sun even rose, paraded around on a float, signed enough merch to give them carpel tunnel and made enough social media content to fuel the entire off season.

Was he forgetting something?

Oh, right. He came out to the world in the most dramatic way possible.

Chapter Notes

We have reached the end! Thank you everyone for your support. I'm working on a sequel but I'm not entirely sure when it'll be finished so bear with me ehe.

This chapter is just meant to be the icing on the cake.

P.S. I know the Stanley Pup is a very recent thing but I'm choosing to include it because I think Ilya would loose his goddamn mind over it /pos

The restaurant Vaughny had chosen was vetted by Gloria Grey herself. An upscale ramen joint, with VIP rooms, discrete bookings, and most importantly, private. Perfect for an intimate post-season dinner with the team before the start of their summer break. Scott sighs as he slips into the seat at the head of the table, having arrived first.

It has been a week since they have won the cup. The team has since drank enough alcohol to warrant an appointment with a hepatologist and done every press-obligation under the sun. They were up at the NBC office for the Today Show before the sun even rose, paraded around on a float, signed enough merch to give them carpel tunnel and made enough social media content to fuel the entire off season.

Was he forgetting something?

Oh, right. He came out to the world in the most dramatic way possible.

Surprisingly, his life hasn’t imploded. In fact, it has gotten better. He feels more settled, more steady on his feet and it's like he can see past the hazy undercurrent of fear and finally enjoy every experience to the fullest. He finally met Kip’s dad, Elena gave him a friendly punch in the arm and he finally stepped into the Kingfisher.

He had spent so long building up this place as this scary impossible place, a part of him he had to compartmentalise and lock away. But in the light of the early summer sun, all the shadows that threatened to swallow him scamper back, leaving a warm welcoming bar that smells of beer, leather and new memories.

“Sup, Scotty!” Vaughny walks into the room. He gives Scott a dab and takes a seat beside him.

“Glad you could be here, Carter.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course! But seriously, how’ve you been?”

“Honestly?” Scott considers. “Amazing.”

Winning the cup was this bright and brilliant thing. It was everything Scott had imagined it to be and he has Kip beside him the whole time.

Or well, maybe not all the time, but he stands amongst the other WAGs with a wide smile on his face.

Sure, opinions online were polarising and the league was being weird about it but Admirals management has done their absolute best to control their chaos and they have reassured Scott that they were fully behind him. And now more than ever, people on the streets were coming up to him, letting him know just how much his actions meant to them. He always knew New York had a strong sense of community but only now was he beginning to feel what that truly meant.

A few players have even messaged him in private.

He has gotten thousands of messages from fans and haters alike, and he knows his team has his back, yet a few stilted words of support from another hockey player was enough to break him into a sobbing mess.

He still has those messages saved on his phone.

Slowly but surely, the team began to trickle in, offering solid claps on the shoulder, dabs and tight hugs. Cleanly shaven, now that the playoffs are over, and Scott could once again recognise the familiar faces beneath the scraggly facial hairs. Fuck they all looked so young. Fuck they were all so young!

He booked 20 seats. A little optimistic, but fuck it, he was feeling more alive than he ever been before. He can count maybe 15-17 people at the table. Not a bad turnout, if he says so himself. Scott was just about to call the waiter to order when a familiar figure slumped into the seat beside him, looking more well rested and fresher than the rest of them.

“About time,” Scott smirks.

“Sorry, traffic,” is all Ilya offers nonchalantly.

“Where’d you even go, buddy? I swear we saw you like twice this week then you up and disappeared,” Greg asks from across them.

“Home,” the Russian shrugged. “Continued celebration at my place.”

“Oh. What’d you do?”

“Have sex,” Ilya answers dreamily. “Sooooo much sex.”

“Eww.”

“Actually, no. We watched replay of Stanley Pup finals, then had lots and lots of sex.”

Eric blatantly chose to ignore the last bit. “Oh, who were you rooting for?”

“Barker Vaughn! So cute,” Ilya fawns as he shows a screenshot of the rottweiler puppy they had chosen as their canine team rep.

“You know you’ve made it when you got a rescue pup named after you,” Carter shakes his head proudly.

“We should take a picture of him in a cup for being such a good boy,” Greg says. “If we haven’t destroyed it by then.”

“Girl,” Ilya corrects. Can’t believe the Stanley Pup was more inclusive than the actual league. “And we did. I saw dent after Breezy threw it into the pool.”

Scott winces. They had continued their celebrations at DiMarco’s place after the bars closed and may or may not have gone overboard. Why no one stopped them was beyond him.

“Cap! Can we order karaage?" said cup-thrower asks.

“Sure thing, kid,” Scott laughs.

“Wait, we can get appetizers? I want potstickers,” Wagner calls out.

“Second,” Gillis pipes in. “I want cheese on mine.”

“Order whatever you want. I’m buying,” Scott says.

Cameron is rubbing his hands together in a menacing way that makes Scott suddenly concerned for his wallet. “Sick.”

Conversations come to life, the boys checking in with each other after a crazy week, eyes twinkling with mischief as they talk about their cup days, and something in Scott settles.

“Does it ever get old?” He asks Ilya. “Winning the cup.”

“Never,” Ilya beams with a twinkle in his eyes. “But is like good sex, yes? Every time is incredible but first time is special.”

Scott lets out an exasperated laugh. “Why is everything about sex to you?”

Ilya shrugs.

The food comes and before everyone gets the chance to dig in, Eric clears his throat.

“Got a speech for us Scotty?”

“God, no,” he shakes his head. “I’ve given more than enough speeches for you fuckers.” The group lets out a light chuckle.

Scott’s eyes scan the room. Not all of them agreed with his decision to come out, not all of them supported him, but they all had his back when it mattered and that was everything.

“A toast, then,” Eric concedes.

He turns to Ilya, who raises his brows expectantly. Fine.

He picks up his sake cup and stands.

“I’ve said enough thank yous this past week and I have to do maybe a dozen more during the awards. It comes with the job. I’m sure Roz, here, can relate.” It earns him a snort from Ilya and a light laugh from the room. “I’ve thanked you all as Captain Scott Hunter, but I don’t think I have had the chance to thank you all as Scott, the boy from Rochester who just wanted to play hockey.

My whole life I’ve dreamed of winning the cup. And to do that, I thought I had to be this… perfect figure that everyone could look up to and say ‘I want to be like him’. Good grades, stellar records, clean plays, all that. An aspiration. A brand more than a person.

But along the way, I’ve realised that maybe a role model doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe you don’t even have to be the best of the best,” he looks down at Ilya, whose lips tug up at his words. “Maybe you just have to be the best version of yourself. And you guys did that. You gave it everything, and I couldn’t have been more proud to share that ice with you all.

A lot of people will tell us it was a miracle, that we only won it because blah blah blah was injured or blah blah blah tripped, well fuck them. It took a lot of hard work to get here. Years. Blood, sweat and tears.

So no, we didn’t beat the odds and win the cup, we deserved it. You guys are my brothers and seeing you all here means more to me than you could ever imagine.

To you I say, take it in, boys! We just made history.”

“To brothers,” Carter cheers.

“To brothers!” the room toasts.

New York, July 2017: NHL Awards

As much as he loved being nominated and receiving awards, Scott hated award shows. They were hot, the dry heat making him sweat underneath his suit. It was a good thing they decided to host it in New York this year. God knows how much he hated summers in Vegas.

Technically, Kip could have come with him. He was allowed to bring a plus one, afterall. But something in him wasn’t the fondest of the idea of him and Commissioner Cromwell being in the same room. Besides, the excessive media attention was starting to overwhelm the both of them.

He would rather sit alone with the knowledge that Kip is safe and comfortable at home than bring him here like a prized show pony to, what, prove a point? No. Not if he can help it.

Instead he resolved to sit and watch as people started entering the hall, a smile on their lips, a drink in hand. Some of the guys give him a cursory nod, a jerk of their heads in acknowledgement. Some of them even came up to him, offering their congratulations for the cup and a couple words of support. Others were polite but decided not to come over and greet him.

He gets it, really he does.

Coming out that publicly was a controversial choice. It was a highly debated topic that no one wanted to touch. Likewise, talking to someone out generated attention, the kind most players are afraid to navigate.

Even Hollander didn’t seem all that keen to approach him. He did, however, give Scott a small smile, a small tilt of his head before heading off to talk to one of the other coaches.

Hunter can’t say he has had that much experience with controversial topics before becoming one, but this is not so bad. Far better than he expected.

Sure, there were a few sneers here and there, and sure a part of him was a bit disappointed. But that’s because he expected better of some of these guys. Not because he actually cared what any of them think.

If anything, he was relieved none of them had come up to him and spit in his face. Though he wasn’t sure if it was because there were cameras everywhere or because of the scary Russian guard dog sitting next to him playing Candy Crush on his phone.

Admittedly, the scowl on his face was intimidating, but Scott has long learned that that’s just the way he looked when he was deep in concentration.

“You alright there, bud?” he asks when Ilya fails the level.

“No,” he straightens. “Give me your phone. Send me more lives.”

“Wha- hey! Get off,” he pulls his phone out of Ilya’s reach.

“Is ok. I promise not to sext you boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t afraid you’d do that but now that you’ve mentioned it…”

Ilya’s phone lights up with several text messages and Scott takes a peek at the screen.

“So uh… who’s Jane?”

“None of your business,” Ilya replies quickly.

The defensiveness in his tone makes Scott’s brows raise. Does he finally have something over him?

“Aww come on,” he goads. “Tell me. I promise I can keep a secret.”

“Hah! No. I think not.”

Scott decides to raise his hands in surrender.

“You know I won’t judge, though, right? If you’re out with a girl, it doesn’t make you any less…,” he waves his hand vaguely.

Ilya gives him a questioning look.

“Like… you don’t have to hold back on my account.”

Ilya’s brows raise in disbelief. “You think I’m holding back?”

“I think,” Scott starts carefully. “That whoever they are must be pretty damn special for you to be all defensive about them. And if you ever choose to tell me about them, or if word gets out about them, just know I have your back. Cover for you. Whatever you need.”

He wants to sigh at the skeptical look on Ilya’s face. The guy has always been a little guarded, if not distrusting in the face of kindness. It’s something Scott understands to a certain extent, if not with far less pessimism.

“Think of it as me repaying the favour, for supporting me in all this,” he waves his hand in the air once more.

“I’m not supporting you,” Ilya finally says.

“Sure,” Scott snorts.

“I’m supporting Kip.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that,” he rolls his eyes.

The hall darkens and the awards begin.

When Scott was in high school, there was this kid named Derick Martinelli. Derick was insanely smart. He got just about every academic award available. The only thing stopping him from a full sweep was Brandon D'Souza from class D. The first year, everyone who didn’t win was disappointed and swore to do better next year. By their senior year, no one expected anyone other than Derick and Brandon to win.

A couple outliers came up every now and then, but for the most part, every award announcement was met with an ‘of course’ and a roll of their eyes.

Hollander and Rozanov were the NHL’s Derick and Brandon. Any award a forward could win, they were nominated for it.

That isn’t to say Scott doesn’t have his own impressive collection trophies. Just that he isn’t surprised when they hand Ilya yet another Art Ross, and Hollander gets his, what, 5th Rocket Richard?

He appreciates the Ted Lindsay, isn’t all that surprised by the Hart or any of the leadership awards.

The Lady Byng, however, decidedly should not have gone to him this year. Not when he ended up in what is likely a personal record of scrums this year and had somehow managed to piss off Shane Hollander, of all people, by running his mouth that one time.

So when they call his name, he turns to Ilya with wide eyes and isn’t all that sure how he feels about it. Regardless, he takes the award, says his thanks and racks up just as much hardware as Ilya beside him.

Once the lights came back on, a lot of people came up to him to shake his hand, congratulating him on the cup and making jokes Scott was forced to laugh at. He tries not to look too relieved when he sees a familiar couple approach them.

“Ilya! Son!” David Hollander raises his arms.

Ilya’s eyes looked a little glassier than usual as he let’s the older Hollander wrap his arms around him.

“Congrats on the cup, kid! You’ve earned it!”

He moves on to give Scott a firm handshake while Yuna greets Ilya with proud smile.

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” she says.

Her voice carries such an open warmth with it. She presses a kiss onto each of Ilya’s cheeks and blinks as she pulls away.

“Oops. Sorry. Got some of my makeup on you.”

Yuna rubs the smudge of gloss off Ilya cheeks as the blonde lets himself be fussed over.

“There,” she says once she was done.

“Am I pretty now?” Ilya asks impishly and Yuna’s hands were back on his face immediately.

“Aww, the prettiest. Always,” she cooes as he fucking giggles.

This would have been the perfect moment for Scott to chirp him, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter a single word. He had never seen Ilya this light before. And as someone equally deprived of parental affection, he didn’t have the heart to deny him that.

“Brave thing you did,” David tells him casually. “Takes a lot of guts to put yourself out there. It’s gonna mean a lot to a lot of people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hollander. I hope so.”

“I know so. And please, call me David,” he corrects.

Scott nods. “David then.”

“Ilya, son! Still on for brunch tomorrow?”

“Would not miss it,” Ilya smiles honestly.

“Try not to have too much fun tonight, alright? I’ve been dying to try this place out and getting a reservation was so hard,” Yuna groans.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“I doubt that,” Yuna laughs.

They wave Hollander’s parents off and Scott feels far lighter than he did moments before.

“Ready to go?”

Ilya nods. “Let’s go.”

The Kingfisher was brighter and fuller than Ilya had ever seen it. It had to be, for Scott Hunter Night.

Ilya wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but he was impressed nonetheless. Up on the wall, right behind the bar, a Hunter jersey was displayed proudly and the walls of the bar were lined with Admiral red and blue. He steps in and looks at the decor with a raised brow.

You could be deluded into thinking this was a Voyagers themed party.

Ilya walks up to the bar and spots his teammates. He recognises a few faces here and there. More than he expected, less than he was hoping for.

Larsen, from Philadelphia. Diaz from Vancouver. A handful of guys from Ottawa. They all turned to him expectantly.

“What?” Ilya asked them. “None of you want to drink?”

Most of them looked some shade of uncomfortable, as though sitting on one of the chairs was going to make you gay.

“Rozy!” a familiar voice bellows from the door and Ilya turns to see Marleau coming in.

“Marley!”

Marleau hugs him, clapping him on the back loudly and Ilya laughs. “Get off me you ugly oaf.”

“Aww come on,” he laughs. “You win one cup without me and this is how you treat me? Fucking hell, Roz!”

“Dude has forgotten his roots,” Carmichael shook his head.

“Bro, you gotta go out with us next time you’re in town. It’s not the same without you!” Hammersmith whines.

Beside them, St Simon walks up to Kyle and speaks with far less decibels than his captain. “What beers you got?”

One after another, Boston’s first line begins to file in and that seems to break the tension and the boys begin to actually sit down. They can hate the Bears all they want but they can’t deny Boston’s ability to change the tone of a room.

As the host of the party, Scott had to greet everyone that passed through the doors, and he does so with a straight back and a stiff gait. Ilya watches as Scott gives the boys a jerk of his head. “Marleau.”

“Hunter,” Marley lifts his beer. “Nice place you got here.”

“Yeah, it’s not so bad,” he shrugs with a quirk of his lips.

“Decor needs some work, though. Think about adding some black and gold?” Marley hides his smirk behind the rim of the bottle.

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs.

Ilya finds Kip’s group sitting in their usual booth, Maria and Elena standing up to kiss him on the cheek while Kip gave him a hug.

“Thanks for being here, man. You know how much this means to Scott,” Kip tells him.

“Meh, I’m here all the time anyways,” Ilya shrugs.

“Yeah, but… You’re not just here as Ilya, you’re here as Rozanov.”

Ain’t that a reminder.