Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

[taps mic] is this thing on, Autistic Shane Hollander, Disordered Eating, Outing, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Misogyny, Sexism, Slurs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, your honor they're absolute fucking dumbasses, Jealous Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, slow burn but they're fucking the entire time, Dirty Talk, Chekhov's fisting, Communication Issues, but they're trying I swear, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Possessive Shane Hollander, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, I like my fictional men to be like Comeau's entire existence: pathetic, weaponized jewelry (trust me bruh), Racism, Microaggressions, fuck AI - no AI used here just lots of clown makeup and unresolved trauma x, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

Language:

English

Collections:

our writing group's place to share! ♥︎

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-30 Updated: 2026-08-18 Words: 155,505 Chapters: 7/11

Slow Dancing in the Dark

Summary

There were things about Shane Hollander that existed only in the dark, and those things were most of him.

or; a moment of vulnerability at a team gathering turns into a viral scandal overnight when a video of Shane coming out is leaked to the press.

Suddenly, everyone is watching. Everyone is talking. Everyone is judging.

It all goes to hell—until maybe it doesn't.

Notes

🔸 Unless you count business proposals, bullet journals, and grocery lists, I haven't written a single thing in approximately 10 years. It figures that Heated Rivalry would be the fandom that drags me back in.

🔸 I use a lot of commas, run-on sentences, italics, and em-dashes. I've been using them since I was a teenager. AI fuckin' wishes it was writing Schweinsteiger/Podolski RPF with the same blind dedication of me at 14.

🔸 We're going canon divergent from 2016, and we're currently before Tuna Meltdown.

🔸 Protect your peace - there's a lot of nasty stuff in here, a lot of slurs in this chapter especially. Please read the tags before starting 🩷

Chapter 1: past where our feet could touch

Chapter Notes

March 2016
Montreal 

Shane’s covered in sweat, muscles straining with effort. He’s so close he can taste it.

“What are you wearing?” he breathes into the phone.

There’s a pause on the other end, then Hayden lets out a choked laugh.

“Buddy I'm flattered but I'm married," he replies, the glee evident in his tone.

“You moron.” 

Shane chuckles and counts through the remaining reps on his vertical leg presses, steadying his breath.

He's close, so close, to winning this bet he has with Rozanov on who can be the first to do 10 reps of 1600 lbs on a true vertical press; he's been working up to it all morning, and he's at 8 now, quads straining with effort, but he can do it, he knows he can.

“Jackie picked out some stuff for me so we'd kinda match, but in like a classy way, like William and Kate,” Hayden continues over the phone. He sounds all proud, like Ruby when she talks about beating Grace McNamara to the illustrious role of being a flower instead of a tree for the Christmas recital. 

It's fond, and it makes something hollow ache beneath his ribs in response. 

Nine, Shane thinks, shaking the feeling off by flexing his lower back and letting the plate come all the way down so his legs are pressed flat to his chest. He makes a blind grab for his phone, snaps a quick picture that shows off his thighs, the position he's in, and the amount he’s pressing. 

He breathes out, letting the phone drop back to the side of the machine, and pushes, up up up until his legs are straight again. Ten. There.

Shane engages the safety on the machine, and slowly brings his legs back to his chest, thighs buzzing, stretching them slowly side to side. “How cute. Did she also cut the crusts off your PB&J this morning?”

Hayden makes an outraged noise, “Fuck you, man.” A resigned pause. “But yes, yes she did. She luuuuuuvs me,” he singsongs, and in the background Shane can hear Jackie's nonplussed ‘Don't kid yourself, I’m only in it for the money’.

“Imagine being in the market for a sugar daddy and getting saddled with your salary instead,” he sits up and stretches out his spine. Hayden snorts again. “But really Hayd, what are you wearing?” 

I should get a stylist, Shane thinks, not for the first time. He's getting tired of having to check in with his best friend every time there's a social engagement with a vague enough dress code. He thinks it was fine at 20, 22, maybe even funny, but at 24 it’s not fine anymore. Definitely not funny at all. 

“A shirt, pretty nice. It's green. And some dark pants.” 

“Okay but like, not elegant, no? No jacket? No tie?”

Hayden makes a pained noise, “Dude, it's just Comeau’s home, not the Met Gala. Just because he said to ‘dress up' it doesn't mean they're gonna block you at the door unless you're wearing a tux… you're the fucking captain, you could probably wear something stupid like an inflatable dinosaur costume and they'd still let you in. Like, they'd have to.” 

Shane's not sure what kind of beef Hayden has with inflatable dinosaur costumes, but it sounds personal.

“Okay, yeah. Okay. I'll just. Put something on then. I guess. Not green. Wouldn't want to also match. I like crusts with my PB&Js,” he says.

“See, we both know you'd never even touch a PB&J unless you were under extreme duress. Maybe if it was the zombie apocalypse and you’d already eaten at least one of your dead frie-hey!”

There's sounds of a scuffle on the other end of the line, and Shane hums in recognition before grabbing the cleaning spray and wiping down the vertical press machine. 

“Hi Jackjack.” 

“Hi sweetness,” Jackie finally says, a bit breathless as she wins control of the phone. “How are you?” then lower “Stop, stop it now Hayden, get away from me you godless heathen.” 

He grabs his towel, phone, and water bottle, turns off the light on his way out of the gym. Next is laundry, then shower, then clothes, then the team event at Comeau's house. He can do this. It doesn’t matter that it’s been a long, difficult week, he can do this. 

“Shane, I couldn't help but overhear my husband say something completely out of pocket to you just now, so I feel like I have to intervene.”

“Out of pocket? Your husband? I'm shocked and appalled.”

He folds the used towel into a neat square, and places it in the hamper on top of another pile of dirty towels, then strips and sorts each clothing item into the appropriate receptacle. He would love to stay home tonight and do laundry instead. Relax. Maybe call Rozanov and relax before bed.

“He's wearing a blue shirt and a pair of dark wash jeans. Not whatever he said. He's just confused. He skipped his nap today.”

‘Girl, fuck you,’ Shane hears in the background. ‘It looked green, okay.’ 

“And,” Jackie goes on, raising her voice over Hayden's, “I think you should wear the nice ivory sweater we got you last Christmas. And slacks. Dark. Not black though. Very respectable captain attire, but also very hot because I know Martine is bringing her cousin over for you to meet.”

Of fucking course, he thinks bitterly. 

The endless parade of cousins, siblings, random relatives, and sometimes people plucked straight from a Montreal club the night before had started about a year prior, because according to most of the older men on the team it was “unreasonable” for Shane to still be single at 23. Not while being such a “hot commodity”. 

So, whenever they had this type of gathering, Shane spent the entire time pretending he cared enough about finding a girlfriend to make small talk with whatever woman was introduced to him, all while his brain played a loop of 10 minutes of screaming goats set to Taylor Swift.

Hi Kylie so nice to meet you oh wow you're single? What a coincidence. Technically so am I, but I'm fucking Ilya Rozanov on the side. From the Bears? You know him? Yeah I've grown quite fond of the way he just folds me in half like I'm a difficult batch of sourdough and he's the world's most dedicated baker. And then fucks every single one of my conscious thoughts into the stratosphere. Have you tried the shrimp salad by the way? Oh wow you're a yoga instructor? How cool. I'm so interested in you alluding to how flexible you can be during sex because it’s definitely not something I leverage constantly while I sext a rival player in the league. We should totally hang out. I'm definitely looking for a girlfriend and you seem exactly my type on account of being 5’3, about 110 pounds wet and, most notably, a woman.

Shane scans the pants section of his walk-in closet. “Dark grey?”

“Yes,” she says. 

“Okay, thanks Jackie.” a pause. “Any chance you could tell Martine not to sic her cousin on me or…”

“Not a chance. See you later, loser! Bye!” 

Shane exhales, bumping his head against the closet door a bit too forcefully and getting rid of his headphones.  

Shower, then clothes, then at least 2 hours of engaging his subpar people skills on a half empty social battery. He can do this.

Maybe. 

The thing is, it's been a bad week. 

Marchant, the first line center from Nashville, had a sex tape leak. Normally it would be a point of pride for any guy across the league, except Marchant had the audacity to get recorded while being tied up, with his wife’s fingers in his ass. 

And that was a cardinal sin.

No matter that Marchant was clearly having very rewarding sex with a woman who most definitely knew what she was doing enough to tie him up in a pretty rope formation and milk his prostate - Shane's teammates for one had had so much to say about how emasculated they'd feel in his place. How emasculated anyone should feel in his place. About what a freak Marchant was for letting his girl do that. What a pussy. He was enjoying fingers up his ass a bit too much, what a faggot. 

Hayden had tried to say, “There’s literally a naked woman making him come so hard his legs are shaking?” but then the others had started making fun of him instead, asking whether he felt a sense of camaraderie because Jackie also did that, and was that why he hadn't scored in 2 games? Because he was too busy being queer in the sack?

And so on, so forth, with Shane tiptoeing around the dressing room, skirting around social media’s merciless response, even going as far as pirouetting around pundits on ESP on what had to have been a glacially slow news day.

Friday hadn’t come a minute too soon, except unfortunately Friday meant Saturday was next. And Saturday meant it was time for the Voyageurs’ monthly "family hangout," and there was absolutely no way the topic wouldn't come up as everyone got progressively more drunk. 

The anxious buzz that's been settling under his skin as the week progressed has now reached the point where Shane is seriously considering coming up with some mysterious family emergency so he can spend the night home doing sudoku, doing laundry, sorting through his bookshelves and reorganizing spreads in his reading journal, cleaning his fridge, anything, but he knows he can't. 

He knows that, as captain, it's his responsibility to show up to these things and support his community. That technically, organizing an event like this should have fallen to his own WAG. Failing that, one of his Alternates' WAGs. In the end, the job had landed with Jackie and Elyse Comeau, thanks largely to the fact that JJ remained stubbornly, chronically single. 

There was a difference, though, in the way JJ was allowed to be single and Shane wasn't, and Shane knew it.  

This difference existed in the liminal space between the time he turned off the light on his bedside table, and the automated rising of the electric curtains at dawn. There were things about Shane Hollander that existed only in the dark, and those things were most of him. 

JJ was different; he didn't exist in the dark, probably never really spent too much time there either. He was larger than life and commanded attention in any room he entered, so he was allowed to be The Voyageur Bachelor, as they sometimes called him with reverence in their tones. JJ was allowed to go to a team gathering without Martine Drapeau introducing her cousin to him, and whereas Shane had been somewhat fine with this before, the cage had started to chafe now. Had been for a bit.

He closes the bathroom door behind him and turns the shower on, letting the steam fill up the room and start soothing his muscles as he waits, phone in hand. 

“Told you I would beat you,” he captions the gym picture, and sends it to Lily. 

He doesn’t bother setting his phone on the counter, knowing Rozanov’s attachment to his phone these days mirrors Shane's own. The reply comes less than a minute later. 

Lily

Fuck Hollander
yeah you did 
Hot
What are you wearing?

Shane smiles.

It's become sort of an inside joke between them, Rozanov asking him what he's wearing and Shane replying something absurd back.

As most things between them, it had been about sex in the beginning. A way for Shane to practice his (frankly abysmal) sexting chops in a simple way, but had evolved into something of a greeting, a way for one of them to say ‘I'm here, thinking of you. Where are you?’ that the other could take in whichever direction they wanted, safe or not safe for work.

He backspaces on "nothing but a drop of Chanel #5" because he knows that if they start down this route he's truly never gonna make it to Comeau's, at all. 

Jane

The skin of a human being named Shane Hollander

Lily

still hot. good skin
ask me what I'm wearing

Jane

What are you wearing?

Lily

baby vomit

Jane

I hear it's all the rage in Paris

Lily

i am babysitter for marly's sister tonight

Jane

Does Marleau’s sister know that?

Lily

no, i kidnapped baby greta, is too cute. her whole head fits my hand and I can squeeze like an orange to see if it's ripe

Jane

Let's maybe not do that

Lily

i would never, she is too precious. i would eat her instead like world’s most delicate blini

Jane

I hope the FBI agent reading through this has already called a swat team to your location 

Lily

ah but what would you do without me if I go to prison? then you would be prison wife no? 

Jane

I'm pretty sure that's not what a prison wife is

Lily

i know you hollander. I said what I said

Shane chuckles to himself. What an asshole. A small knot of anxiety has loosened in his chest, though, as it always did these days when they talked. 

Rozanov used to exist in the dark, too. 

In the quiet of Shane’s fingers tapping messages on his phone, then in the gossamer-light whispers of Rozanov's voice as it enters Shane's ear and caresses down down down his body, licking around his spine like a question mark.

These days though (and probably for longer than Shane was comfortable admitting to himself), Rozanov has taken to glowing a little too brightly to still exist in the dark, no matter how hard Shane tries to leave him there, push him deeper into the space made of things that are Shane rather than Hollander, trying hard to look at him only from certain angles, only indirectly so Shane’s eyes wouldn't hurt from the light. 

Jane

I have to go take a shower, enjoy your baby vomit 

Lily

enjoy the skin of Shane Hollander, mister alien 👾 

These days it really was a problem. 

—

In a shocking turn of events, it takes almost a whole hour before someone brings up Marchant’s sex tape.

Shane has already made it through meeting Martine's cousin, rejecting said cousin's invite to have coffee at her coffeehouse, and excusing himself to go grab another drink.

He sips his ginger ale, looking around the backyard for something to do before Martine Drapeau inevitably finds him and coaxes him into going out with her cousin, as if his ‘no’ meant ‘I'm actually just playing coy, please harass me some more about this until my nervous system decides to completely shut down and I agree to whatever you’re saying out of sheer desperation’.

JJ's holding court for the rookies next to the barbecue, making wild hand gestures and talking so loudly Shane can practically taste the migraine cluster forming behind his left eye. 

He loves JJ, but Shane's social battery needs to be in optimal state to handle Party JJ, and right now the battery is depleted enough that Shane doesn't even want to be there at all, let alone try to engage in whatever wild tale JJ is recounting to their excitable baby ducklings.

He looks around some more.

Despite some of the people at their table, the least sensory offensive option seems to be the small group sitting poolside, consisting of Hayden, Jackie, Comeau and his wife Elyse, and Renard and his girlfriend (Katya? Shane isn’t sure).

He’s barely sat down before Renard throws the first punch.

“Did you hear about Marchant? They're saying he's gonna get traded.”

Traded, Shane thinks with dread. For that? 

“Who?” says his… maybe wife? Maybe Katya?

“The dude with the sex tape, I told you about him.”

Drew Marchant, 29, 27–44–71 last season, +14, 57% on draws. He's not a dude with a sex tape, Shane thinks, he's a starting center who's been in Nashville for six years and has won them one cup. 

He doesn't say any of it, just looks at the pool vacuum on his slow steady journey instead, and keeps sipping his drink. 

“What did you expect?” doubles down Comeau. “That gay shit doesn't fly, of course they're gonna trade him.”

“Wait, he's gay?” Elyse says. “I think we met his wife at some charity event last year, non?”

Comeau shrugs, “I mean yeah - you gotta be to like that shit, no?”

Shane can almost feel Jackie’s disapproving frown before it blooms on her face. His body’s immediate response are icy shards of dread creeping up his spine, because you are not supposed to engage with whatever bullshit his teammates say - you're supposed to be quiet and non-committal enough for it to qualify as plausible deniability in case questions are raised. 

Except Jackie isn't part of the team - she's much better than all of them, and from a molehill a mountain is born.

“But why would he get traded for that? Isn’t he like, really good for Nashville's standards?”

Hayden's hand comes up to squeeze her waist, but she ignores it and settles in his lap more comfortably. 

“I mean,” she continues, “Why would you get rid of a good player like that? Isn’t winning more important?”

Comeau’s gaze has gone steely now, the cut of his mouth tight and thin. Renard doesn’t seem to notice as he drains the last of his beer and crushes the can in his hand. 

“Imagine going back to your team after taking it up the ass. After the whole world has seen you like fingers up your ass.”

“Okay,” Jackie says, as if she's expecting the sentence to continue and for a proper explanation to follow so she can understand why Marchant is getting traded mid season.

This time, Renard stares at her properly.

“Well, that gay shit isn’t gonna fly in the locker room. Gil said that already.” His tone is condescending, as if Jackie's stupid for not understanding, as if it makes perfect sense for Nashville to very likely lose their chance at a playoff run just because one of their player's privacy has been violated, and everyone not directly involved has decided what goes on behind closed marital doors is more important than anything else - more important than hockey.  

It’s important for people to perceive you a certain way, a voice inside his head remarks. It sounds suspiciously like his mom explaining why it's important for him to bring turkey sandwiches to school instead of TKG despite the fact that the texture is all wrong, that the flavour is just not what he wants.

It's important for him to be divorced from his mom’s culture, at least in public, and it's important for Marchant to maintain a masculine, straight enough appearance so that his team, the league, strangers on the internet around the world will respect him.  

And, according to public perception, he has failed. 

An uncomfortable silence has fallen over the group. Hayden squeezes Jackie's waist again, murmuring something in her ear and kissing her there. Jackie blinks a few times, then plasters a smile on her face. “Sorry, sorry - I get it, I do. I’m just a bit shocked because he’s a pretty good player. But at least now he's getting traded, right?”

“That’s right,” Comeau says, relaxing his shoulders. “I would not want to be in the locker room with a guy like that.”

Shane makes a non-committal noise, lingering on the irony of that statement for just a second.   

“Come on Gil, you don't think there's anyone in our team that is a bit... adventurous in bed?” Elyse teases as she gets up to collect empties from the overcrowded table in front of them. 

“Not like that,” he slides a hand up her skirt, making her fumble the bottles. “Your pussy and ass are all I need.”

Elyse swats his arm away, visibly embarrassed. “Gil, stop that!” 

“Stop means yes, yes?” laughs Renard. “I’ve heard that one before.” Maybe girlfriend, maybe Katya laughs. 

Shane's spine has gone so rigid there's a distinct possibility it's going to crumble in on itself from sheer pressure. 

“Besides,” Comeau continues, shifting his attention to Shane, “We all know that if there was a fruit on our team it would be Hollander.” 

Renard, in the process of taking a pull from his beer, chokes on it instead as he lets out a loud bark of laugh, and then starts coughing wetly. 

Good, I hope you choke and die, Shane finds himself thinking, trying very hard to only let the correct type of emotions surface for the others to see. 

“Very funny, ha ha guys.” 

He spits the words out with what he hopes is enough sarcasm, sure that the smile he's trying to mimic is a grimace more than anything else. His skin feels clammy and other, like he really is an alien wearing Shane Hollander instead of the man himself.

More people are looking their way now, attracted by Comeau and Renard's bouts of coughing and laughter. He can see JJ making his way over with the rookies, and feels like the neckline of his sweater is choking him.  

“Shane, can you please get my sweater?” Jackie says. “I'd send this one but he's too good of a chair” She rubs her hand across Hayden's raised shoulders.

He gets up from the chair on stiff legs, spine stacked and rigid. “Sure thing, Jackie.”

“We’re using the nursery as wardrobe,” comes Elyse’s voice. She's back in Comeau’s lap, and for that Shane admires, despises, and pities her in almost equal parts. 

—

One, two, three, four, hold, he thinks as he regulates his breathing, his legs somehow carrying him inside despite how unsteady he feels. 

One, two, three, four, he breathes out, and if the hand setting the ginger ale can on the kitchen counter is shaking, no one's there to see it anyway. 

—

Shane finds the nursery on his second attempt, and instead of sorting through the pile of clothes on the bed he lets himself spill into the rocking chair next, hands raking through his hair, rubbing at cheeks painfully.

He knew this was gonna happen, so why the fuck was it hitting him so hard this time? It really was nothing new, he'd even heard that same joke before, but the way Comeau said it this time had been … pointed. The kind of sting that didn't just hurt, but was engineered specifically to bury itself into flesh and tear when you tried to pull it out. 

He'd said it the same way he talked to women and WAGs who tried to engage in a hockey discussion instead of fawning over their muscles and celebrity. Like he knew better, and Shane had... frozen. It was like Comeau had seen right through him.

I know what you are. You're not fooling me. 

There's a soft knock on the door, and before Shane can come up with something to do that doesn't make him look like he's tearing at the seams in his teammate’s nursery room, Hayden comes in.

“Hey buddy,” he says, soft and sad. He goes to kneel next to the rocking chair, a hand on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Are you okay?” 

He snorts. “Yeah, I’m great. That’s why I’m three seconds away from having a panic attack in baby Marc Comeau’s bedroom.”

Hayden squeezes his shoulder again. “Asshole,” he says, but fond, like a kindness. A whisper in the space between the two of them. “Do you feel like telling me what you're having a panic attack about? Or do you just want me to sit here with you?” 

It really isn't like Hayden, to be so delicate around words. He normally barrels through conversations with the same grace of his own toddler, without measuring the shape and meaning of his sentences before they leave his mouth, and that’s what gives Shane pause. 

He looks up from his hands, holding Hayden’s gaze and searching. 

They’ve known each other for years. He was there when Hayden and Jackie met. He was best man at their wedding. He was there for each of Jackie’s births. Each baby shower. Each birthday, each family dinner that somehow included Shane, too. Each invite to hang out and just be. Each board game night. Each time they'd trusted him enough to let him babysit the kids so they could have some time alone. He was godfather to each baby Pike.

He and Hayden live in each other’s pockets more often than not, on the ice, off the ice, and all this time Shane has been halfway hidden in the shade, existing in between the things he says and the things he is.

He feels like crying. Like throwing up. Like apologizing. Like this is just another item on the long list of things that are killing him.

Hayden is looking at him like he's thinking, I know what you are. You’re not fooling me, but it's gentle, like being held instead of being pushed. I see you, Hayden's saying. Even when you hide. And if you want me to, I'll see you in the light too. 

The fight goes out of Shane. 

“You know,” he says, and it's not a question. 

“I know, but you don’t have to say it if you don’t wa-”

“I’m gay,” Shane says, fighting against the way his throat immediately starts closing up. “Pretty sure at least.”

Breathe in one, two, three, four, hold.

“I thought,” one, two, “I thought I could like both, but I… really don't think I can…?” Three four, hold one, two, three, four. 

Hayden’s face has gone blurry in front of him. 

“Hey, hey, Shane,” he says then, the hand on his shoulder grabbing and pulling until he’s sliding off the chair and into Hayden’s arms. “It’s okay, it’s all good.” 

Breathe out one, two, three, four. 

“I'm sorry I kept this from you for so long. I'm so sorry.” In one, two, three, four. “I love you, you're my best friend, and I'm sorry I kept this.“

Out one, two, th-

Hayden cups a hand around his nape, cradles him like he’s something precious, rocks him back and forth like he's seen him do a thousand times when Jade or Ruby are crying. “Hey hey, hey buddy. It's okay. I love you too, you know?”

Shane's arms have a mind of their own as they shoot up so quickly, grab onto Hayden and hold on for dear life. He knows he’s crying, hates himself for it, but he can't stop.  

“I’m ruining your green shirt.”

“Fuck you, you can buy me a new one,” says Hayden, not unkindly. 

In the quiet semi dark of the room, knees on the floor and Marc Comeau's host of stuffed toys witnessing the scene from the shelves, Hayden’s reassuring voice and presence feel like absolution. 

“I’m really sorry about Gil.”

“Like it's your fucking fault, Hayd.” 

The other shrugs, and Shane detangles from the embrace, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“I fucking hate when he says shit like that. It's gross as hell. Groping your wife in front of your friends is gross as hell.”

“Yeah.” Hayden shifts with a wince, sitting down on the plush carpet now that the moment has passed. “I don't really know how his wife hasn't left him yet.”

“And I fucking hate that, instead of saying something, I came here to have a fucking panic attack because I'm a fucking coward.” 

Shane rests his head backwards, thudding it lightly against the rocking chair. “I really am a spineless fruit.”

“No you're not, what the hell Shane?” Hayden checks him with his shoulder. “First of all, ‘spineless fruit’ sounds like you're a villain in an episode of Veggie Tales, which, fucking weird. Second, we both know what saying something would mean, in a team like this. You've seen how they reacted to Jackie. It wouldn't…” 

“I know,” he says quietly, closing his eyes as his heart finally starts settling in his chest.

“It's like when Jackie says she hates men, right? Like, some of us are okay… but as a whole… except it's the opposite for the Voyageurs. The whole is lovable but the single parts are… not always worthy of that love…?”

“What the fuck are you even saying right now,” Shane moans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids. 

“I don't know man, I'm shit at emotions and stuff, and I've never had to gently nudge anyone into telling me they're gay before, so I used up all my skills on that. I got nothing left.”

Shane hums. “Congrats on being an ally, I guess.”

“Fuck you, Hollander.”

“No thanks, you're not my type.” 

It's a joke he never would have let himself make before. It feels weird in his mouth, unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant.

“Oh my God fuck off,” Hayden giggles, sounding like wind chimes rustling in the aftermath of a storm. 

Shane chuckles. It's still a bit brittle and wet, and his brain's still a loud mess, but his heart - his heart is back secure in his chest, even after Shane's grabbed a handful of it and exposed it to the elements. He's still here, and his best friend is laughing, and maybe, maybe it will all turn out okay.

—

It does not turn out okay.

—

These are some of the things that exist in the dark with the rest of Shane Hollander.

The comments Theriault makes about LA's Pride Night game and rainbow stick tape, the sneer on his coach's face as he calls one of his own rookies a pussy for skipping practice after his grandma dies. 

The Timmie’s barista whose gaze lingers a little bit too long, almost knowing, and the way Shane lets himself be looked at for a second wondering what if? instead of immediately switching to deflection.

The way Rozanov's muscles shift like molten gold under Shane's hands as he skates them down his arms, catches the chain dangling between their chests and holds it in his mouth as Rozanov moves inside of him in a slow drag, gripping Shane's thighs harder, spreading them open wider. 

Man in the Crease making an off-color joke about South Carolina’s Neil Josten coming out a month into his retirement and announcing his marriage to another athlete, a goalie from the National Lacrosse League. How a large part of the fan base doubles down on the jokes in the comments, while positive voices get told to “kys you social justice pussy,” slurs thrown around like confetti.

Hayden frowning as Shane only orders green tea when they sit down for lunch, and the way Shane's own stomach constricts at the sight and smell of Hayden’s steak. How he lies about having already eaten at home because he was just so hungry after practice, sorry Hayd. How he'd instead looked at his post-rink meal and told himself he hadn't earned it, so he'd left it in the fridge.

The colour of the bruises he finds on his ribs after they play against Boston one fall, and how there's no misunderstanding the imprint and shape of fingers for anything even remotely hockey related. The way he presses his own fingers against phantom ones, and feels warmth blossom in his stomach at the dull ache. The way he feels marked and owned, and how that settles something in his chest.

—

The video is leaked on Tuesday, just as Shane starts to settle back into his skin. 

Chapter End Notes

Yes, I absolutely did kiss the brick before throwing it.

I'm not done yapping apparently so have a couple more notes:

🔸 The amazing poolside conversation actually happened at a work event, and I adjusted it for hockey relevance since it seemed like a waste to let such beautiful takes go unused. At least my trauma is good for something.

🔸 I know like 5 things about hockey, sorry to any Marchant out there, I wasn't trying to single you out but I do hope my Marchant is out there somewhere getting edged to death by his wife.

🔸 I will update the tags with each chapter, hopefully I don't make an absolute mess of this. Please let me know if I do.

🔸 Shane is So Important to me, and even though his own creator will not address Certain Things about him, I will.

🔸 Shout out to Nora Sakavic's All for the Game, because you never forget your first love. The tattoo on my forearm is a testament to that.

🔸 I don't have a beta; if the writing and mistakes get too annoying feel free to volunteer for the job so you can slap me around on GDocs as much as you want. I will probably like it.

🔸 I will do my absolute best to keep to a weekly schedule; I already have Chapter 2 finished, I'm just playing with it.

🧚🏻‍♀️ Come talk to me on Threads @shanesgingerale ✨

Chapter 2: like a time bomb in a storm

Chapter Summary

Here's a joke--Shane wakes up, and his life's on fire.

Funny, uh?

Wait, why aren't you laughing?

Chapter Notes

hi omg your hair looks great today??? I know I left last chapter on a terrible note but here's 10k of aftermath please don't kill me???

🌜 First of all, thank you SO MUCH for the amazing reception you gave this thingy. You have no idea how happy each comment, thread, DM, bookmark, kudo has made me. I'll do my best to kep this entertaining and worth sticking around for 🩷
🌜 A lovely commenter made me realize I immediately messed up my own timeline in Chapter 1. I keep forgetting Shane and Ilya are 1991 babies and not 1990 like me so I said we're in 2015 when instead we're in 2016. I've already edited out the mistake, but if you happen to notice the time skip here… just know it's due to me being a clown more than the fic having a proper time skip lol. Thank you Liebling13 for immediately sniping my bullshit lol
🌜 Throughout the fic I play fast and loose with canon events and their timeline, so don't get too surprised if you see something and think "that did NOT happen in 2016". Except for, you know, the thing I just said I got wrong and didn't even realize.
🌜 Last but DEFINITELY not least, I am so, so happy to let you know there is now a wonderful Beta holding down the fort and making sure I'm actually writing something that makes sense. Thank you so much Medley_Lover 🫶🏻🩷 Any remaining mistakes are mine because, as we've already established, I'm a clown.
🌜 Thank you to the lovely carraxxess for looking over DeepL's terrible Russian translations and making them better 👑✨

⚠️ I've updated the tags, but I'm saying it here as well; please note that there is a very brief mention of self-harm. This is NOT the direction I will be taking the fic in, but the mention is there anyway. It's in the part where Shane calls Hayden, so be careful if it's a potential trigger.

He's walking around the woods, feet confident and purposeful on the mulchy ground. It rained last night. 

The yellow warblers are chirping, chasing each other, calls bouncing off the canopy of leaves above his head. He catalogues each tree as he keeps walking, deeper into the woods, so deep that the branches overhead twine and thicken to the point they start dimming the sunlight. It filters through in pale fingers, creating weird shapes on the ground.

He keeps walking, until he realizes the birds have stopped singing. He was alone before, but now he feels lonely too. 

It's a full second between that realization and the sinking. Molasses-slow, and then all at once. 

Free falling. 

The earth around him starts to compress against his skin, dirt packing tight against his feet, legs, arms, fingers trying to dig in, scrambling for purchase. Lungs trying to take in air, instead taking in only wet mulch and worms and roots, knots of wood like snakes slithering down his throat, wrapping around his trachea, a cruel vice that tightens and tightens as it breaches his bronchi, floods the alveoli and suffocates him, slowly but surely, as his body is powerless to do anything but suffer the agony of a slow death, dirt in his eyes, in his nose, compacting around him until he's nothing but food for maggots and scavenger beetles. 

200 pounds of muscles rendered completely useless. Mere decorations he adorned his body with in life, the strength he’d worn so proudly now softening into rot, sinking back into the earth in wet strands for roots and insects to strip clean. 

One of his fingers stretches minutely, scraping at the compact wall of dirt that's encasing him. A fossil in the making. Something unearthed a thousand years from now by strangers who will speculate about his life without ever knowing who he was.

A hockey player with a Stanley Cup, a Gold medalist, an award winning professional athlete–none of it mattering to the archaeologist in the future because there is no evidence of those achievements here with him in his tomb, none of it has followed him into the earth. 

Only bone. Only roots. Only dirt.

His finger keeps scratching, some blind animal instinct still trying to claw its way free despite the certainty that there is no escape.

He is dying. Here. In the dirt. 

Beetles skitter across his skin now. Into his ears. His nostrils. Along the roots holding his mouth open like hooked fingers.

In a thousand years, no one will know his name.

So dies Shane Hollander, not with a bang but a whimper.

And then, he wakes up.

 —

March 2016
Wednesday 05:00 a.m.
Montreal 

The first thing that happens is this; Shane wakes up, and he has 30 missed calls but only three texts. 

Actually, back up. 

Technically, the first thing that happens is this; Shane wakes up less because of his alarm and more because of his nightmare. In its aftermath, eyes snapping open and hands clawing against his throat–his first instinct is always to struggle–the ringing in his ears finally lets up enough that he can hear again.

The sounds of his surroundings start trickling back into his consciousness.

Shane feels like he's been cut open, emptied and refilled with rocks. 

He hadn't had that nightmare in a long while, and was all the happier for it. 

He draws his knees to his chest, bending so his forehead touches his kneecaps, rubs against them and closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe.

Against all odds, the sound of the incessant rain that’s been covering Montreal in cold sleets for the past two days calms him down.

The rhythmic sound of drops hitting every surface settles the feeling of wrongness in his bones to the point where he almost lets himself be lulled back to sleep. It's 5 a.m. though, and he has to get up and start his routine, so he shakes off the tiredness instead.

The second thing that happens, just then, is that he picks up his phone. 

One text is from his nutritionist, confirming their regular Friday appointment. Nothing too unusual there. 

The second text, however, is from his parents, who are letting him know that for some reason they're abruptly ending their vacation in Osaka and "Flying over, be there soon. We love you,” and it's enough to dial the panic all the way back up.

If he were any less self-aware, he might think something had happened to his parents, bad enough that they wanted to tell him in person. But Shane’s the one with the thirty missed calls at five in the morning, and more importantly, the one with the text from Farah:

If you don’t pick up your goddamned phone in the next thirty minutes I’m signing you up for a Calvin Klein commercial, I swear to God Shane.

She wouldn’t. Probably. But he understands the gravity of the situation anyway.

The thing is, only 12 of those 30 calls are from Farah. The others are from Hayden (in this day and age his best friend knows better than to try and reach Shane after 9 p.m. on a weekday, but he’s tried to call 4 times since 10 p.m. last night), one from Jackie, and… thirteen from Lily. 

Thirteen, one-three. 

Lily never calls without texting first and, more importantly, doesn’t call unless it's for sex. One of the last shreds of pretense they're still keeping up with. 

There's no texts this time.

Just 13 calls, grouped together in small clusters that span throughout the night, and stop at 4:45 a.m.

Maybe Lily was drunk. Maybe horny. Maybe bored. Maybe all of the above. But Rozanov didn’t cold call Hollander thirteen times in one night, and he definitely didn’t start at 10 p.m.

Shane takes mental stock of the worst-case scenario; despite the somber tone of everyone’s messages, no one seems to have died, no one's hurt, injured or otherwise maimed, as if that were the case Farah would have sent someone from her team over to Shane's condo. 

And Lily has called him thirteen times without texting, not even a miserable ‘What are you wearing?’ and that more than anything else is what cinches it.

Eliminating all the other possibilities only leaves one thing: media circus. 

And he knows, he knows in his goddamned bones that it can only be one thing, one thing about him that would make Hayden and Rozanov call him like that, that would make his agent react like that. There really isn’t much to Shane Hollander that would bring out that kind of response in people.

Except one thing.

But that’s not possible.

Is it? 

How would that even happen? No one knows - no one knows for sure, except his best friend and Rozanov, and Shane is pretty sure that neither man would ever even entertain the idea of setting Shane's life on fire on a random Wednesday. 

And even if they did, if for whatever reason they did decide to take a match to his soul and set it ablaze for the world to see, there would be no concrete proof for them to use. There would only be hearsay, speculation, and speculation is unpleasant, yes, but relatively easy to control. He's been doing that for years. 

Indisputable proof, the absolute truth at his core, only lives in the dark, with the rest of Shane. 

His fingers fly to the Google icon quickly, typing out his name and then clicking over to the News tab. The most recent results are from Tuesday evening, 6-8 hours ago, a timeline that makes perfect sense considering that’s about the time when he’d put his phone on DND and crawled under the sheets to read The Crazy Game before falling asleep to the sound of rain. 

Every headline confirms what he already knows, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things entirely.

It stings that it's the Montreal Gazette that broke the story. He's been giving them exclusives for years, and they didn't even attempt a courtesy call before going to print with an evening scoop more suited to a tabloid than a respectable publication.

Business is business, he guesses. There’s no kindness in hockey, and even less in journalism; they're all just walking through a minefield, and Shane's stepped onto the wrong patch of ice. 

So dies Shane Hollander, not with a whimper but a bang.

He clicks the article before he can stop himself, memorizes the journalist’s name automatically, like it matters to know the name of the person who sold your soul to the devil. 

The first paragraph makes his stomach drop. By the third, he’s rolling onto his side and vomiting onto the floor beside the bed.

And that’s how he finds out that, against all odds, there is concrete proof. 

— 

That was a lie, by the way. 

The one about how they never called each other, unless it was for sex. 

Technically, it had been true for years–up until New Year's, when Rozanov had called him out of the blue. 

For the first time since he could remember, Shane was alone on December 31st. 

His parents had stolen away for an impromptu vacation, Hayden and Jackie were stuck at home as both twins had gotten sick with chickenpox, and JJ had cancelled his own party to fly to Bali with a woman he'd met recently. 

There was no way he was going clubbing–even though Miitka did ask after JJ had let them know of his new plans–so Shane was now alone, blissfully sprawled on his couch with ginger ale and a charcuterie board he'd spent half an hour assembling, making sure the pickled daikon, cucumber, and burdock root were fanned out prettily, the black sesame rice balls cut into neat wedges, and each bit of sweet potato, tofu, and roasted chestnuts was laid out in perfect position. He'd even allowed himself the absolute languid thrill of three Medjool dates, lined up on a smaller serving dish next to the brown rice crackers. 

It was a good night for Shane Hollander.

He had every intention of ignoring 2015 ticking into 2016 by savouring his food while marathoning a 4 part docuseries on the 1972 Summit Series he’d gotten as a Christmas present. 

He’d texted as much to Rozanov when the other had last checked in a few hours before to ask what Shane was wearing. 

So, the phone lighting up with Lily's name at 11:55 p.m. had made a jolt of intrigued electricity course through Shane's body.

He'd given himself only a handful of controlled seconds before picking up, half expecting Rozanov to say something like ‘wrong number,’ before hanging up. 

Instead, Rozanov had said “Hey.”

Like this was normal. 

“Um, hi,” had been Shane's eloquent response. 

They'd both been quiet for a couple of minutes then, Shane straining to catch and catalogue any sort of background noise or clue that would tell him what was happening in Boston. Judging by the loud music and cacophony of voices, Rozanov was in some sort of club. 

As midnight inched closer, and both of them stayed resolutely silent aside from their initial greetings, Shane heard someone on the other end shout ‘Dude, where are you going?’ and after a couple of seconds there was a sinister creak, a bang, the noise on Rozanov's end becoming muffled enough that Shane could finally hear something other than Uptown Funk.

He listened to the rumble of cars driving by, a few excited voices laughing as what he presumed was the door to the club creaked open and banged closed once more. Someone close by asked for a lighter. Shane heard the snap and flare of one, and was instantly transported to Saskatchewan, to the way Rozanov had looked at him. The way each word had sounded in his mouth as Rozanov chirped him for the first time.

Shane had felt so sure of the trajectory of his life, back then. 

He could hear the people at Rozanov's club starting to count down to zero, still plenty loud despite Rozanov being outside and the cluster of smokers nearby.

Three. Two. One. Happy New Year, he'd thought, unsure of how to keep this little thread alive between them, unwilling to break the silence just to realize he wasn't supposed to. 

Rozanov had waited a few long moments then, letting the silence stretch between them like toffee–thick, heavy, and sweet. 

And then Rozanov had broken the spell himself, saying ‘Happy New Year,’ and hanging up without waiting for Shane to say it back.

Shane had just stared at his phone in a daze then, wondering if he'd hallucinated the whole thing, but no, there it was, a call log for Lily - incoming - 11:55 p.m.

The other had never mentioned it again, so Shane had done the only sensible thing and gone on pretending that moment hadn't altered his brain chemistry forever. 

Pretending that handful of minutes between them hadn't singled out the Rozanov-shaped crack in his veneer with laser-like precision and wedged itself tightly in, just festering, allowing feelings to pour out in a steady trickle that Shane hadn't even really tried putting a stopper to.

It was just a phone call. Rozanov hadn't meant anything by it.

Right?

—

“...der? Hollander, are you there? Fucking answer me!”

Shane blinks back into himself. 

He's still in bed, but his phone is now pressed against his ear, and he could have sworn he just heard-

“Hollander I can hear you hyperventilate from here, mat' tvoyu—just fucking breathe okay, just breathe. You don't have to talk, just fucking breathe.”

“Rozanov,” he tries to say, but it comes out strangled.

“Thank fuck. I'm here, Hollander,” he says, and Rozanov's voice is immediately calmer, steady on the other end. “Breathe for me. One, two-”

-three, four, hold, Shane finishes in his head. 

He doesn't remember picking up the phone. Doesn't remember calling Lily. Doesn't really remember anything after reading the words ‘exclusive video’ and emptying his stomach on the floor. 

But somewhere between these two points in time, he must have rolled back on his side, faced the windows and the Montreal rain, and asked his phone to call Lily.

“Good, Hollander, that's good. More. One, two-”

He closes his eyes and keeps breathing.

Three, four.

Hold.

—

Here's something else that lives in the dark.

Ilya Rozanov has gentle hands. 

Not when he's checking Shane into the boards, not when he's slapshotting the puck into the net, not when he's pushing Shane's face into the mattress, not when he's grabbing Shane's hips and shoving him backwards to sink on his cock. 

After.

When Shane's lying on the comforter, boneless and exhausted, mind not really present, just drifting somewhere above it all, quiet and sated. 

Rozanov's hands are always gentle, then. 

He runs them through Shane's hair, down the slope of his back, over his hole, inside it, lazy strokes that light Shane up from within and make him feel like he's actually there, fully situated in his skin, seen and cared for.

Rozanov's hands are gentle then, almost reverent, and every touch feels like a prayer. 

—

“What did your agent say?”

He's still in bed, but has managed to uncurl from the fetal position and is now resting against the headboard. 

“I don't know, I haven't called her back.”

Shane's looking at his hands, at the tremor that goes through them. Realistically speaking, he knows those are his hands, but they don't feel like they belong to him. 

Are these the same hands that he had yesterday, when he was still in the before? They don't feel the same. Maybe they look the same, but they don't feel the same.

Rozanov makes a noise on the other side of the line. “Your mom, then?”

His mom. 

Fuck.

Shane's parents went on vacation to Japan only once a year for their anniversary, and Shane had ruined it for them, maybe forever, because now every anniversary of Yuna and David Hollander was going to be a reminder of the one where Shane's life had blown up to pieces, and he will always be 24 with his parents jumping on a plane to Montreal because Shane was gay. 

Fuck.

“None of that, Hollander. I hear you breathing. Stop.”

A strangled noise forces its way out of Shane's throat. “Stop breathing?”

Rozanov mutters something in frustrated Russian, away from the phone, and it feels so familiar that Shane experiences a jarring moment of normalcy before the truth comes crashing back in. 

“Not stop breathing, stop breathing like that. No panic. Breathe normal.”

“You mean breathe like I didn't force my parents to drop what they were doing and fly 13 to 15 hours from Japan to Canada?”

There's definitely something wrong with his hands. They don't even look like his hands at all. Was that mole always there? If it was, Shane's sure he'd have seen a dermatologist about it by now, but he hasn't. So the mole is new. Because these are not his hands.

“... yes. Like that. What did they say?”

“I don't know. I haven't talked to them.”

Your mom said they love you in their text, a voice inside him points out. You haven't earned it, but they said they love you. You've ruined their lives too, you know that right? What are people gonna say to them now? At work? Your mom's managing other players now, what if they think she can't be trusted because of this mess you made?

Then breathe, Shane thinks, at the same time as Rozanov says “That's good. Good breath. Give me one more.”

He complies, but that doesn't change the fact that Shane has ruined his parents’ lives, and that his hands are not his own anymore.

“Do I have a mole on my left hand?” 

Rozanov makes a questioning noise, “What?”

“On, like, my thumb. At the base. Do I have a mole there? Pretty big.” 

“I'm not sure. Why?”

That proves it, right? Wrong hands. 

“These aren't my hands.”

A beat of perplexed silence, then: “What?”

Shane is getting annoyed now. “I said these are not my hands. They don't look like my hands. I don't have that mole. You said I don't.”

“I said I'm not su-”

“You’ve probably seen my hands up close more than anyone else, Rozanov. If you don't know then it means there's no mole and it means these are not my hands.”

Rozanov takes a deep breath. Shane mirrors it automatically, still looking at the offending mark on his skin. 

If those are not his hands, and hands are connected to the rest of the human body through tendons and skin over bones, does it mean that's not his skin anymore either?

“Send me picture then.”

Shane trips over his thoughts as the train derails. “A picture? Of what?”

“The hands you have. Show me. I will tell you if they're yours.”

“You will?” 

The words click in his throat as he swallows around the incoming tightness. He doesn't know why, but now he feels like crying. 

As if the thought alone was enough, his eyes well up with tears.

“Yes. Come on, picture.”

Shane snaps a photo of his left hand and wrist, and waits.

“As always, you are wrong,” Rozanov says. “That is yours, I know it.”

Shane uses someone else's hands to dry his eyes roughly, and circles back to being frustrated. “It's not mine. Don't patronize me.”

“No, look. You have a scar near your pinky. It goes around your finger, yes? I always feel it when you jerk me off. Look. It's in the picture.” 

Oh, Shane thinks. Yeah, there it is. It does wrap around his pinky in a jagged line, raised and angry enough that Rozanov probably wasn't exaggerating about being able to feel it on his cock. 

“And your middle finger is crooked. See?”

He'd broken it during summer camp, when he'd gotten lost in the woods, and it never set properly. 

“Mh, you do have mole there. I will pay more attention next time, but this is your hand.”

The hand in question is full-on shaking now, Shane turning it over repeatedly to stare at his palm, at his knuckles, at his finger pads, at his nails. 

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay, thanks for checking.” 

“Yes.”

Shane presses his hand against his thigh to stop the shaking.

—

“...all asleep?” 

Shane blinks back into himself. 

“Hollander?” it's soft, said with a care Shane doesn't feel like he deserves right now. 

“I'm here,” he rasps out.

His head hurts. It feels like hot needles clustered right behind his left eye, pushing and twisting and scraping. 

He's suddenly aware he has been crying–his waterline is still wet; tear tracks pull tight on his cheeks.

“Okay. Did you eat breakfast?”

Shane huffs, sinking back into the pillows and curling up tight, eyes closed against the grey of the rainy Montreal sky. “I’m not hungry.”

“Is not what I asked.” Rozanov says, unimpressed.

It's almost 7 a.m. now, and instead of getting ready to leave for Brossard, Shane's still in bed. 

The longer he thinks about it, the shallower his breathing gets. His teammates. His coach. 

Fuck.

The words tumble out before Shane can even think about stopping them. “I'm scared.”

Rozanov makes a noise, “Breakfast is not scary, is the most important meal of the day.” 

Unbidden, with no care for his current predicament, his lips curl up in a smile. “I have practice later and I'm scared,” he tries again. The words swish around in his mouth like he's trying them out for the first time. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says, not unkindly. “But you have to get there, yes? You have to get out of bed, eat, call your people. Is scary, but I know you are brave.”

“I wish you were here.” 

It's another half formed, unfiltered thought that his brain is too slow to catch and reel back in before it's released into reality, and it makes Rozanov start with a sharp intake of breath.

Shane wants to walk it back. Doesn't know how.

It hangs in the air between Montreal and Boston, in the 492 km between Quebec and Massachusetts, directions that Shane keeps memorized on his phone just in case, but never uses. 

Autoroute 10 E to 35 S to I 89 S to I 93 S. Border cross. Three tolls. 4 hours and 55 minutes on a good day. 

“Yes,” Rozanov whispers. “Me too.”

The Venn diagram of the things they say and the things they want is practically two circles just existing in each other's periphery–until it isn't.

Shane looks out the window at the rain, and doesn't say anything.

—

It takes a while longer, but in the end Shane makes it out of bed, cleans the vomit off the floor, showers, and sits at his kitchen island, phone in hand.

Watches the video.

Tries not to panic again, thinks of Rozanov asking for a picture of his hands, ends up crying instead. 

After the fourth rewatch, he feels flayed open enough he knows he’s ready to start stitching the seams back up.

He calls Farah first.

—

The image is cropped close so that Shane and Hayden take up most of the screen, their surroundings blurred through editing.

In the grainy semi dark of the video, you can see the rocking chair, Hayden kneeling next to him.  

You can see the moment that had been such a revelation for him. You can read it on his face. 

“You know,” the Shane in the video says.

“I know, but you don’t have to say it if you don’t wa-”

“I’m gay,” his mirror says, sealing their fate. “Pretty sure at least.”

That's when he’d started to spiral, and in the video you can see that too.

“I thought,” he stammers, “I thought I could like both, but I… really don't think I can…?”

His mirror starts crying as Hayden grabs at him until Shane is also on his knees, half in Hayden's lap.

“Hey, hey, Shane. It’s okay, it’s all good.” 

Video Shane’s response is murmured straight into Hayden's shoulder, making the words unintelligible.

Hayden cradles his head, rocks them back and forth.

It had felt so precious. 

A kindness between the two of them, that Shane had gasped grateful lungfuls of, and tasted on his tongue as if it was honey. 

It looks wrong, now that it belongs to everyone else too. 

“Hey hey, hey buddy. It's okay. I love you too, you know?”

Shane's arms make a desperate grab for Hayden's shoulders. 

The video ends. 

—

Over video call, Farah is supportive, but less than thrilled about getting blindsided by the truth along with everyone else. 

“Trust me when I say I completely understand your reasons for secrecy, and I firmly believe you are entitled to your privacy, but… Shane, this is what you hired me for. If I don't know what to expect, I can't protect you, I can only react.”

His first instinct is to apologize, but the truth is he's not sorry. 

He's a hockey player. The only version of him that matters is the one on the ice. Anything else doesn’t belong on a stats sheet.

They hold each other's gaze for a beat longer, and when it's clear Shane won't voice his opinion on the matter, she gets to the meat of the conversation quickly.

Farah tells him she spoke with the Voyageurs’ PR team the night before. They’ve categorically vetoed any interview or social media post confirming or denying the truth of the video.

Shane isn’t sure what there is to deny. The words were spoken so plainly a child would understand them.

“They think you might want to release a statement about your sexuality,” she clarifies, catching his confusion.

“Hasn’t someone else already done it for me?” 

Farah's answering smile is sad, and Shane hates the pity in it.

“Yes, and that’s the point. I know you haven’t looked online–frankly I’d suggest you keep it that way for now, but there are a lot of people calling for the reporter’s resignation, and for the Editor-in-Chief of the Gazette to step down as well.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s not a comfort. 

“A lot of people are talking about ethics, journalistic integrity, and lack of safety for individuals marginalized groups, especially high profile ones.” She smiles again, albeit tighter this time. "Right now the league is trying to figure out what their official position is. If you speak first, they'll be reacting to you instead of controlling the conversation, and they can't afford that.

The Marchant mess is still making headlines. Now they've got a Stanley Cup-winning captain at the center of another privacy scandal.”

Farah shrugs. “Bad week to be the Commissioner, uh.”

The thing is, Shane is fine with radio silence.

He doesn’t want a statement. Doesn’t want to address the violation. Doesn’t want to put words how exposed he feels—like every nerve ending is scraped raw and buzzing under his skin. 

Drawn and quartered for everyone's morbidly voyeuristic pleasure. 

The idea of an interview, or even posting anything at all, makes his skin crawl.

What’s the point anyway? People already know he’s gay. There’s nothing left to clarify, nothing left to defend—just him, left scrambling for footing while everyone else watches from solid ground.

There’s a fear he has. One he doesn’t let himself think about, because if he does, it means something already went wrong in a way he can’t undo.

And maybe it already has.

A part of him—the same part still clawing for purchase at the edge of the cliff—tries to insist it can be fixed anyway.

Shane doesn’t believe it.

He looks straight at it anyway, whatever’s left of his nerve endings forcing him through it, and says, flatly:

“Farah… What's gonna happen to me? On the team?”

She rubs the bridge of her nose, sighing. “I know we made sure to add an NTC to your contract, Shane, but I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t tell you to prepare for anything.”

The words register only on a rational level. Emotion comes a second later—and it hits him straight in the solar plexus.

“It’s almost April,” she continues, “and you’ve been having an exceptional season. You’ve given the Voyageurs a real chance at a back-to-back Cup, but—”

The rest doesn’t need finishing. 

He supplies it anyway:

You’ve been outed. There’s a scandal, and you're at the centre of it. You're generating the wrong kind of press. Marchant was traded for less.

“In any case,” Farah says, steady again, “I’ve set up a meeting with us and the Voyageurs’ PR team for tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? Is that a good or a bad thing?”

Farah pauses, visibly searching for an answer that will not completely annihilate any remaining sense of hope left at the bottom of Shane’s soul. 

“It’s not bad per se, because PR being involved makes me inclined to think they’re looking at damage control strategies right now, but meeting today would have been better, given the time-sensitivity of the situation.” 

“I see.” He doesn’t, not really, but says it anyway.

“If it’s of any consolation, the majority of your biggest sponsors have reached out to offer their support.” 

What about the ones that haven’t? he thinks. My mom has wasted years of her life making sure people would look at me and see a safe investment with great return–so which brands are not emailing you now to say they’re happy I’m gay, because now I’m not only a race hire but also a sexuality one?    

Shane doesn’t say that either, but knows that the list of things he's lost in the fire just keeps growing.

He lets another piece of himself break off and fall away quietly.

“I haven’t spoken with Calvin Klein, by the way,” she goes on. “But, Shane, if you don’t add me to your DND exceptions list, I am going to sign you up for every single Pride themed campaign request I’ve got sitting in my inbox right now.”

The laughter is forcibly dragged out of him with claws, and it hurts scraping all the way up his throat, sounds all wrong. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Farah, I will.” 

—

Shane feels light years removed from his routine. 

He stares at the open fridge—pre and post-workout meals stacked between eggs and an oat milk carton, all labeled, all untouched.

He grabs a clementine instead, and closes the fridge.

—

The training facility is uncharacteristically quiet. 

He'd normally be able to see players and staff weaving in and out of rooms, hear the noise of weights being racked, colleagues laughing in the lounge. 

The atmosphere is subdued instead, only a few people milling about, an electrician tinkering around with one of the neon panels on the ceiling. 

Shane nods at him in greeting as he walks past on his way to the dressing room. 

“Hollander,” a voice calls instead from an open door to his right. 

Shane freezes like a deer in headlights, shoulders raising to his ears instinctively. 

He counts his breaths as he walks to Theriault’s office and sits in a chair.

“Good morning, coach.”

This is one thing he hadn't had time to think about yet, not really. How every single interaction in the aftermath was going to feel like ripping a band-aid off, what with all the ugly cracks of himself showing plainly on his controlled exterior for everyone to see. 

This man has seen you cry in your best friend's arms as he held you like a baby, he thinks, and keeps his gaze downcast.

“Have we been good to you?”

Shane frowns, looking briefly at Theriault and immediately losing the staring context.

“Sorry?”

“The team,” he says, irritation plain in his voice. “We have been good to you, haven't we?”

“Yes, coach.”

Theriault makes a satisfied noise. “Yes, we have. We drafted you, trained you for years, made you into a captain, into a star. We gave you a Cup.”

Shane manages to bite back the bark of hysterical laughter that's bubbling up his throat. 

It's funny, but he could have sworn it had been him giving the team a cup. 

“So explain to me why I wake up to the Montreal Gazette informing me you're queer.”

It's delivered with such a dispassionate tone, that Shane can't help but feel small and pitiful in contrast. 

He swallows, clears his throat. “I'm sorry, coach.”

What else is he supposed to say? What else is there to say?

“You better be,” Theriault says, and snorts derisively. “Now instead of a star center I've got a pansy ass captain on my hands, and a matchup against Carolina tomorrow.”

There is nothing he could say that would make this better, but he tries, like always. 

“I'm really sorry, coach.” he says it again, as if it's gonna make a difference. “This won't affect my game, I'll make sure to lead the team to victory tomorrow, coach."

He's pretty sure he's lying–at least partially. He will lead Montreal to victory, but there's no way his game won't be affected in the process.  

Shane doesn't want to think about what it will be like, to stare down the Reapers’ starting center at the dot, look into his eyes with all the confidence of someone whose heart has been ripped out of his chest and stitched on his jersey for everyone to point at and laugh.

Theriault's next words douse him in kerosene.

“You will do nothing. Boiziau will ‘lead the team to victory,’ as you so eloquently put it.” 

Shane looks at his coach now, and doesn't recognize what he sees. He holds the other's stare, searching a face he thought he knew for a scrap of understanding.

Theriault is holding a lit match in his hands, and they both know it. 

Shane is still looking at him when the other says, “You are a healthy scratch for the game. You won't be there.”

White-hot shame washes over him in waves as tears well up in his eyes. He looks away, but knows Theriault has seen them. 

“Yes, coach.”

He's a wounded animal, one limb trapped in a bear trap, and if he thought chewing off his own leg would help, Shane would do it. 

“Go home, Hollander. I don't want to see you at practice later. Management will decide what to do with you tomorrow.”

Shane nods, getting up from the chair just as Theriault deals him a parting blow. 

“Let's be clear about one thing, though. If it was for me, you'd already be on your way to an early retirement.”

Shane swallows around the knot in his throat. “I understand, coach.”

Theriault dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

—

He probably shouldn't be driving in this state, hands shaking and head spinning, but the thought of spending another second at the sports center is an impossibility.

Had he ever felt like this before? Safer leaving the ice rather than moving towards it?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, this is all your fault, you did all this. fucking. stupid. 

Shane drives.

—

If there is one universally acknowledged truth about Shane Hollander, it's this; he's never at home in his body, unless he's on the ice. 

Grounded on flat pavement, Shane feels clumsy and artless, lumbering through in a body that feels like it was built for someone else.

But on the ice–on the ice he's free.

—

His fucking hands still don't feel right.

He knows they're his; Rozanov had made it clear, had listed each reason why, so Shane knows those are his. 

They just feel fucking wrong.

He runs Rozanov's list back in his head, and watches another car drive past. 

He’d driven to the Pikes’ straight from the training facility, but had found the house empty.

For a brief, panicked moment, Shane had thought Hayden was gone, had packed up and just left–but his SUV was still there, parked outside the garage, which meant Jackie’s minivan was somewhere else, presumably with both Jackie and Hayden. 

He’s been sitting in his car in their driveway ever since, watching his fingers curl and uncurl around the steering wheel, processing the alien way in which they move, and cataloguing over and over again all the details that made them his.

He has the distinct feeling his respiratory system is on the verge of collapse, and if he stops regulating his breathing, if he stops counting, the whole house of cards is going to cave in on itself. 

He can't stop staring at his hands, and hates himself for it. 

He grabs his phone, and checks the message thread with Lily, compares the picture he'd sent this morning with the truth of the hand on the steering wheel. They're the same.

He has the sudden urge to text Rozanov then, wants to ask ‘What are you wearing?’, wants to cling to that one miniscule shred of normalcy. 

But what would he say back?

I’m wearing my gym clothes, but I was sent home to think about my sins instead, and he can't say that, not when Rozanov has already spent over an hour this morning just sitting there and talking him through his panic.

He takes a deep breath, and calls Hayden instead.  

The other picks up after a long while, when Shane's already secure in the knowledge that Hayden hates him now, doesn't want to talk to him, that his best friend is yet another thing he will never get back. 

“Shane,” comes the breathless answer on the other end of the line. It sounds like Hayden is in the middle of a schoolyard. “Hold on a second, let me go somewhere private–okay, I’m here,” Hayd says. “How are you? I know it’s a stupid question, but… yeah.” 

“I’m okay,” he lies. 

“Right, because that's totally believable.”

He shrugs, even though Hayden can't see him. “I’m sitting in your driveway.”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re at my in-laws, sorry about that. Jackie… she needed the support.” 

His throat clicks, “Oh.” 

The silence is loud, but Shane doesn't know how to fill it without splitting open at the seams again.

“I tried to call last night. I know you sleep early, but I tried.” 

Shane closes his eyes, thuds his head against the headrest. “Yeah. I know. Sorry, I will add you to the DND exceptions list. Adding a lot of people to it today.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mh.” a pause. “I was just at CN Complex, and Theriault–”

“Wait, you went there? But practice has been pushed back.” 

Despite clearing up why no one had been there, knowing he was purposefully left out of the loop only makes him feel worse. 

“I wasn't told.”

Hayden inhales sharply. “Shane…” 

He pushes the next words out before Hayden can end the sentence. “Theriault said I'm a healthy scratch for tomorrow.” 

“Yeah. Me too.”

He frowns. “You too? Why?” 

“What do you mean, why?” Hayden sounds surprised. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, why w-”

“Neither did you, Shane.” 

He ignores the weight of the words, choosing instead to barrel through. “Why would he do that? Just because I came out to you?” 

Another pause. “You really don’t know?” 

Shane’s annoyed now, balls his fingers into a fist and resists the urge of slamming it into his forehead. 

He can't catch a fucking break, he needs to breathe but the day won't let him, and he's so close to just driving his car into the Saint Lawrence and be done with it.

“No, Hayd, I really don’t.”

Hayden clears his throat. “Shane, did you watch it?” 

“You mean did I watch the video of me coming out to you, recorded with whatever the fuck video equipment nonsense was in Comeau’s nursery? Yeah, yeah I fucking watched it. Once or twice.” 

“I think it was a nanny cam,” Hayden says like a non sequitur. “I didn’t see a camera, or a baby monitor. I would have told you otherwise.”

“Okay,” he says, and suddenly feels like the stupidest person in the world.

Not once, not a single fucking second he'd been there, crying on Hayden’s shoulder, he’d thought there might be cameras inside the room. He hadn’t even looked around the nursery after spotting the rocking chair. 

“Shane, if you watched it… what did you think of it?” 

“The cinematography was a bit shoddy.”

Hayden’s chuckle sounds desperate. “That’s not what I meant?”

“No shit, Hayd. What did you mean?” 

Shane is so tired and annoyed, and he just keeps not understanding whatever subtext Hayden is coaxing him towards, and he tries, he tries so hard, all he does is try, try at being a good role model but also just a regular guy, try at being diverse but also marketable, try at being the best at hockey but humble, and he’s spread too thin, he can’t focus anymore, he’s tired of even trying.

“Shane–I said I love you, man.” A pause. “In the video.” 

“Okay,” he says again. Feels like a broken record.

“No, I mean–people think we’re in love.” 

The record scratches to a halt. 

“Fucking what,” he deadpans.

Hayden laughs, but it’s brittle. “I understand the idea of two gay players in the league having an affair might seem foreign to you, but that’s what they think we’re doing.”

Shane’s heart is in his throat. “What do you mean two gay players in the league…?”

“I mean, there can’t be just you, buddy. I know you are always on top of the world with no one else there beside you, but, like, statistically, there’s gotta be at least another closeted player.” 

I’m wearing my heart on my fucking sleeve, he thinks in blind panic. 

His heart skips a beat at the thought of another closeted player he knows very well. Right now I’m wearing yours too, and I hope I don't fuck this up.

“Right,” he says again, taking another step along the tightrope. “Yeah, I–I can understand that. I don’t know of any others, by the way. Before you ask.” 

“Okay,” placating. “But anyway, people think the two of us are fucking. There’s like. A lot of people who’ve been talking about Shayden for years. And now they feel validated, you know?” 

What the fuck is Shayden, he thinks, but he knows, he knows. He has been a living person during the height of Bennifer and Brangelina, inescapable even for someone whose center of gravity revolves around hockey, so he’s no stranger to portmanteaus. Fucking Shayden.

The next thought decks him in the face with the strength of a puck shot at 170 mph. 

What would you and I be? he thinks; Rozander? Shilya? then shakes away the thought.

There's no way people think Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are fucking–Shayden is way more plausible than whatever portmanteau could ever exist for them.

Shane doesn't know how he feels about that. 

He clears his throat. “Do they know that us having an affair means you’d be cheating on your wife?” 

“That… ah, that’s the… they think Jackie’s my beard.” Hayden's tone has completely sobered up now. 

“Oh. You said–you said she needed support. Earlier, you said.”

“Yeah. People started saying vile shit on her socials.” He takes a shaky breath. “She had to private Instagram because people were commenting on pictures of the kids, saying… questioning their paternity.”

He has the good sense to mute his microphone just then. 

If he had any food in him other than the one clementine from earlier, Shane knows he’d be throwing it up. As it is, his stomach does its best effort at lurching out of his throat in dry heaves. 

He rests his head on the steering wheel, feels his eyes burn from the tears that are forming at his waterline. 

That’s another life you’ve ruined, he thinks. She’s never been anything but kind to you. You’re godfather to her children, and now you’ve ruined them too. 

“Shane? Buddy?” 

He takes a deep breath, tapping back on the microphone icon with shaky fingers. 

They’re his fingers, he knows that, but right now they feel like steel rods someone has crudely bent and shaped into an approximation of claws. 

They look monstrous. 

“Hayden–Hayd, I’m so sorry. I’m really so sorry, I don’t know how to fix this for you, I'm s-”

“Stop.” 

He does, because if anything he’s always been very good at following orders in hope of being good enough for someone else to take notice.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, just to walk the thought in a different direction. 

“If you say you’re sorry one more time I’m driving back and shaking some sense into you.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but uses his monstrous claws to wipe the snot from his face. 

“You didn’t do this, Shane. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to fix anything, you didn’t break anything.” 

“But Jackie…”

“She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. It was just scary to see those comments on her personal Instagram, not the WAG one. So we decided to take the kids with us and drive to Jackie's mom’s instead.”

Shane takes a steadying breath. “How are Jade and Ruby?” 

“Are you kidding me? They got to skip school, they’re the happiest I’ve ever seen them in my life.”

Shane huffs out a small laugh, wiping his hands on his track pants. “Good. And baby Arthur?”

“He’s good too. He told me to tell you goo goo ga ga.” 

His heart constricts in his chest, and Shane has to press the heel of his hand against his sternum to soothe the feeling. “Tell him I said goo goo ga ga back.” 

“Will do, buddy.”

They sit in silence for a while as Shane tries to process everything that's happened to him since waking up, but it's a pipe dream.

His head is so full that he has to actively refocus on Hayden when the other starts speaking again.

“Buddy, I’m sorry but I have to go, I don’t want to leave Jackie alone with her mom for too long, she was trying to get Jackie to teach her how to use Snapchat and I don’t want my wife to go to prison for matricide.” 

“Wow, big word,” he jokes.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too, Hollander. Later tonight, according to my very busy Ashley Madison calendar. Same sketchy alley, same time?” 

Shane snorts. “A sketchy alley? I'm the love of your life, not some twink you picked up in a club at 2 in the morning. We're getting a hotel room somewhere and stealing a couple of hours to ourselves to have desperate, mind-bending sex, like all respectable closeted hockey players.” 

He slaps a hand on his mouth immediately, eyes widening with the instinctive panic of someone who's just said a little too much.

On the other end of the line, Hayden's laughing.

“Okay, okay, talk later dude. Hey,” he says, as an afterthought. “You know it will be alright, right? I know it sucks right now but you’ll come out on top, I know it.” 

Shane doesn’t, but chooses to say nothing instead. 

— 

There is an elephant in the room. 

The room is, specifically, a nursery. Gilbert Comeau's nursery. Where–Hayden was probably right–he kept what had to be a nanny cam, judging by the angle of the shot and the very little he remembers about the layout.

A shelf sat opposite the bed and rocking chair. Books. A framed photo of Elyse Comeau, smiling and pregnant. Stuffed toys lined up with careful, patient symmetry, all of them staring.

It had been a nanny cam. That made sense.

What didn’t make sense was how the footage had been cut, edited, and leaked to the Montreal Gazette. It wasn’t like the teddy bear could have done it itself.

A brown bear in a Voyageurs toque and jersey had watched from the shelf, as if it had been there for a reason. 

But the bear was a toy. 

The elephant stares back at him.

—

When he gets home, it's close to 8 p.m., and Shane is so exhausted he briefly entertains the idea of skipping everything–yoga, shower, reading–and just collapsing into sleep.

After talking to Hayden he'd spent about an hour driving aimlessly before finding himself near Parc Angrignon. From there, it had been an easy decision to leave his car and head into the southwest wooded section of the park, sunglasses on despite the steady rain and his Voyageurs windbreaker worn inside out to try and reduce the chances of being recognized. 

Shane had spent the rest of the day walking along the swampy trails, sitting on mossy rocks and letting his mind rearrange itself in the quiet of the woodland.

He hadn't quite managed.

Shane drops his training bag at the bottom of the stairs and walks to the fridge for something to drink. He bypasses all his prepped meals and makes for a ginger ale, but stops just short of the closest can. 

If he has a ginger ale now, there's no guarantee the action won't forever be tarnished by the events of the day. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his life thinking of today every time he reaches for his favorite drink, so he grabs one of the 7-Ups he keeps in the fridge for guests. No one ever drinks those, so he's probably safe.

Shane cracks the can open, and leans against the counter. 

There’s an open gash inside of him. 

It used to be a crack–small, unassuming–but it has been spreading for a long time. It runs from his throat to just below his navel, and up until this morning he thought he’d been pretty good at keeping it stitched shut.

Right now, in the dim light of his kitchen, he realizes glue-stick fixes and spit were never doing much at all. There’s an open wound in his chest, and everything feels like it’s spilling out.

It had tried to scab over during the day, but Shane is good at picking at himself until there’s nothing left to hold together.

He’d been on the way to practice, and thought of thirteen calls on his phone. He’d been walking into Theriault’s office, and part of his brain was meticulously going over Rozanov describing Shane’s own hands back to him. He’d sat in his car in Hayden’s driveway, thinking, 492 km to Boston; what if instead of driving my car into the Saint Lawrence I drive it down Autoroute 10, all the way across the border? How fast can I get there?

And–just yesterday–Shane would have said he was very good at many things–mostly hockey, mostly holding himself together in the dark so nothing showed.

Today, he's not sure he's ever been good at either of those things. 

So he texts Lily. 

Rozanov calls him twenty-five seconds later. Shane counted them. 

“What you mean healthy scratch?” 

He says in lieu of a greeting, sounding so offended by the mere idea of Shane not being allowed to play.

Shane is just bone tired from the stress of the day, completely void of anything that is not an unequivocal need for closeness, for someone to hold him in the palm of their hand, pick up the weight of it all, and carry it for him, even if just for a bit.

Whatever composure was left in him breaks.

“Please, can you come over?” he says. 

Rozanov goes completely silent on the other end, so quiet that Shane feels compelled to check the phone for a second to make sure the call is still connected, and then thinks, fuck, what the fuck did I just say to him? 

Before Shane can take it back, his doorbell rings, making him jump. Someone immediately starts knocking at his door. 

“Who’s that?” Rozanov says. His voice sounds thin.

Shane checks the doorbell camera and immediately panics. “I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up, already opening the door.

Hayden storms past him into the apartment without taking off his shoes, and Shane has to bite his tongue to stop himself from reminding him to do so, but Hayden’s already in the kitchen anyway, so it’s too late now. He'll have to mop the floors tomorrow instead of waiting for Sunday.

Not like he has anything to do anyway, now that hockey’s off the table. 

Hayden rakes a hand through his hair, jaw flexing as he looks around searching for the words. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, slow and purposeful. “I’ve been thinking that I might be dumb as hell. That I sat there on my mother in law’s porch and tried to explain to you that people on the internet think hockey players secretly fuck each other. But you know this already, don’t you?” 

Shane doesn’t say anything. Doesn't do anything. He isn’t anything at all. He’s just a hollow husk of a man that maybe once upon a time used to be things, but he truly is nothing now.

“I went back on Reddit and people–people were saying… there was a poll about like, which player they think you’ve been fucking–I’m still in the lead, by the way, just in case you're curious, but in the comments someone was arguing over you and…” he drops the sentence, and Shane doesn’t pick it up.  

There is an elephant in the room.

Shane can see it so clearly with his mind’s eye. It’s gigantic and carved out of marble, a statue so imposing in its physicality that’s always been very hard to ignore, even though he’s spent the entirety of his adult life trying. 

The elephant is standing in the middle of his living room, in the five feet between him and his best friend, flooding the space with texts, and thirteen phone calls, and the way Hayden’s always telling him to ‘either stop blushing at your phone, or marry that girl’.   

“Shane, who’s Lily?” 

The elephant looks at him. ‘Address me,’ it says. 

His phone starts ringing, because of course it does. 

Thirteen calls in two days–sixteen with this one, part of him chimes in softly–and of course Rozanov is calling him again. 

Like he knows Hayden is there, looking at Shane as if he already knows the answer to this question, but wants Shane to fess up instead. 

The phone keeps ringing, and this entire day, this entire fucking life it feels like, he's been running on fumes, picking at his skin until he's confronted with he gaping oceanic fissure that bisects him in half. 

“Who’s Boston Lily, Shane?”  

‘Address me, you fucking coward,’ says the elephant.

He looks down at his hands, and knows they’re his because this morning Rozanov told him so. 

Shane uses them to drop his phone on the kitchen island, to push it towards Hayden in answer. 

The display is still lit up with the name Lily, and Hayden takes the call, taps the speaker icon. 

Boston Lily's agitated voice immediately breaks the silence. 

“Hollander? You are there? What happened, who was it?” 

Hayden’s expression hardens, then goes still. He slices Shane open with his unforgiving gaze. 

“You are okay, you are safe? Hollander? Khvatit menya, blyat', ignorirovat'! Kakogo khera–Hollander. Fucking say something.”

Hayden is looking at him like he’s never seen him before.

Like Shane was supposed to be a foregone conclusion, but turned out to be a cryptogram instead, and somewhere along the decryption he’d gotten a letter wrong, and now Shane is an intelligible jumble of sentences instead of an open book. 

He’s ripped open in the middle of his kitchen, judged by his maybe best friend and found wanting.

“Who was at the door? Make noise if you can't talk. Just–Shane, just do something. Please.”

His next breath almost breaks him in half. 

Shane–Shane, Shane, Shane, you said my name–raps twice on the counter, focus pulled between the way Rozanov had said please and the way Hayden's standing, rigid and unmoving.

Hayden follows the gesture, arms crossed against his chest. 

“Okay. Who is there? Are they safe for you? One for yes, two for no.” 

Shane taps once. Hayden's eyes snap up to his. 

“Are you breathing? I can't hear you breathe.”

He taps once again. 

“You know what, fuck this,” Rozanov says on the phone, and ends the call. 

Somehow, Shane is still standing upright under the other's cold stare. 

Hayden walks past him without a word, and Shane knows that he’s not gonna like what comes next–the sitting down and talking about it. 

In his mind, he's already working on a draft that condenses years of history into an abridged version of events. 

How do you explain to someone that the core of who you are is inextricably linked to someone you've spent years publicly pretending you hate?

That you didn’t just tell all these lies, you also took care to make them pretty, wrapped them up in glossy paper, tied them off with a bow?  

The front door slams closed somewhere behind him, and Hayden is gone.  

Shane's knees buckle, and he finally sinks to the floor.

‘Now you’ve really done it,’ says the elephant, and then it is gone too.

Chapter End Notes

Listen, I swear I'm not doing it on purpose????????
- me when I'm doing it on purpose.

 

On a completely unrelated note, have you ever dissociated so thoroughly that your best friend had to videocall you from a different country and prove to you those were, in fact, your hands?
Haha me neither. That's crazy.

Anyway.

 

🧚🏻‍♀️ Come talk to me on Threads @shanesgingerale ✨

Chapter 3: like i'm not made of stone

Chapter Summary

If your name is Shannon, I want you to know you deserve justice.

Chapter Notes

hi bestie you're looking so hot today, is that a new outfit????? [kicks feetsies and giggles]

 
✨ once again, thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos. They literally mean the world to me 🩷
✨ my wonderful beta graduated this week and is dealing with real life important things, so this chapter was not beta-ed. All atrocities committed in the name of mutual pining are solely my own.

People always tell me, “Don’t put the cart

before the horse,” which is curious

because I don’t have a horse.

Is this some new advancement in public shaming—

repeatedly drawing one’s attention

to that which one is currently not, and never

has been, in possession of?

If ever, I happen to obtain a Clydesdale,

then I’ll align, absolutely, it to its proper position

in relation to the cart, but I can’t

do that because all I have is the cart. 

One solitary cart—a little grief wagon that goes

precisely nowhere—along with, apparently, one

invisible horse, which does not pull,

does not haul, does not in any fashion

budge, impel or tow my disaster buggy

up the hill or down the road.

*

(My Invisible Horse and the Speed of Human Decency - Matthew Olzmann)

Shane's been staring out the window unblinkingly for what feels like forever.

He'd gotten into bed in a daze, completely disconnected from his body, rising from the kitchen floor and walking up the stairs almost on autopilot.

He hadn't even stripped, had just laid down on top of the comforter and started looking out the window.

Realistically speaking, he'd always known he was one strong breeze away from the whole of his scaffolding caving in, but knowing it in the back of your head and being in the eye of the tornado are two very different things. 

Once the dust settles, will there be anything left for him at all, or is he just going to be standing in the middle of a barren field, completely alone? 

So out the window he stares, watches the lights turn on inside buildings one by one, other people's lives glowing against a sky that's growing darker and darker still. 

When he closes his eyes and finally falls asleep, it's out of sheer exhaustion.

—

The parts of Shane Hollander that are Shane rather than Hollander haven't always existed in the dark.

They used to live out in the open, on full display for everyone to see, but then he'd started chipping at them. Shaving off a corner here, a spike there. Rounding out an angle of himself that had made people look at him and sneer. Sanding himself down into something easier to look at.

He's turning twenty-five this year, and aside from hockey, the smooth exterior he's built for himself doesn't really match the jagged shape of what's underneath.

There’s bound to be a dissonance between your exterior and interior, sure, but the gap between the two feels so vast that Shane is not sure how he's managed to walk the tightrope in between them for so long.

He's tired now, and even being the best equilibrist in the world had not saved him from getting distracted by the cracks starting to show. Twenty-four years of practice hadn’t been enough to make sure that, when he looked back, he didn’t lose his footing. 

So he’d twisted his ankle, and fallen. 

Maybe in more ways than one. 

—

March 2016
Thursday, 2:17 a.m.
Montreal 

He jolts awake, ears ringing. 

Shane blinks in confusion.

He's still facing the window, but by now the view is dark, the lights across the Montreal skyline long since extinguished. It's stopped raining now, but he can still taste dampness in the air. 

Did he dream the doorbell, or did it actually ring? 

Shane stretches, reaching for the curtain remote and letting them close over the outside. 

He's just flipped his pillow over when the doorbell rings again. 

A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells him it's 2:20 in the morning, and now there's someone knocking at the door. 

Hayden, he thinks with a sudden frisson of hope.

He scrambles out of bed and bounds down the stairs, yelling “Hayd, I'm coming!” loud enough he hopes the other can hear it from outside. 

Shane all but tears the door from its hinges in his rush to open it, and then his brain short-circuits. 

“You are waiting for Pike? One day being public gay and there is already line of men coming to you in the night?”

Rozanov smirks.

Shane looks at him in shock for another second, then claws his fingers into the front of the other’s leather jacket, pulls him inside and slams their mouths together with no finesse. 

What the fuck, he thinks in the second between Rozanov kicking the door closed and bending to grab Shane's thighs, picking him up. 

You're here, he thinks all the way up the stairs, Rozanov refusing to break a sweat at having to carry all 200 pounds of him. 

Shane can't help the shower of kisses he rains all over Rozanov's face as the other carries him to his own bedroom with the practiced ease of someone so familiar with the layout he could probably navigate it with his eyes closed.

He drops Shane onto the mattress, takes off his jacket and crawls up Shane's body, hands grabbing at the elastic of his briefs and sliding them off in one fluid motion. 

Shane is already so hard he feels lightheaded. He buries his hands in Rozanov's hair, pulls at the curls a little to make sure the other is really there, and the answering moan is delivered in the crook of Shane's thigh. 

Rozanov licks a stripe up Shane's length, worries at the slit with the tip of his tongue before swallowing him down to the root. 

Shane tries to curl in on himself, but the other's hands on his legs are keeping him spread open, and Rozanov is here? Sucking Shane's cock with military precision, here in Shane's bed in… Montreal? That's not right, is it?

“Stop,” he says, pulling harshly at the curls still twined around his fingers, and Rozanov does.

He pulls off and kisses the tip of Shane's dick. “You don't want?” 

Shane shakes his head, grabs Rozanov's shoulders and drags him up until the other is resting between Shane's legs and they're face to face.

“Like this,” he says, breathing heavily in the scant inch between their mouths. “Like this, please.” 

Rozanov's gaze softens, and Shane can't look away as he spits into his hand and wraps it around Shane's cock, stroking him firmly. 

“Like this?” he asks.

Shane nods, tilting up his head and kissing Rozanov's chin, his lips, opening his mouth so the other can slip his tongue inside and claim.

You're here, he thinks again, and then he mercifully stops thinking altogether.

—

“Wow,” Shane murmurs into the crook of Rozanov’s neck as the other kisses a line from chin to forehead. 

With one last kiss, Rozanov lifts from where he's pressed against Shane's chest, and walks to the en-suite.

Shane's brain isn't really back online yet, his head pleasantly empty in the way only this can make it. He breathes heavily while staring at the ceiling. 

The other comes back with a damp washcloth, cleans him up and hands him a glass of water. Shane takes it unthinkingly, lets Rozanov move him around the bed like a ragdoll until they're both on their sides, facing each other. 

“You're here,” Shane says, letting his hand drift to the other’s shoulder, curling in around his bicep.

Rozanov cards his hand through Shane's hair, scritching the scalp soothingly. “Yes.”

Shane hums, eyes closing against the feeling of fingers caressing his head, of being held. It makes him bold enough to ask. “And you're staying?” 

“Ah, no. I have to go soon.”

He keeps the lines of his body relaxed, tries his best not to let his disappointment show. “Oh. Of course. Early flight?”

Rozanov sighs, tapping Shane's head with his knuckles until he opens his eyes and sees the other's smile.

“Hollander,” he sounds so unbearably fond that Shane almost has to close his eyes again. “Of course I'm staying. You asked me to come. I came. Now I'm staying.”

Shane's breathing stutters. They haven't done this before, never, not even once, but Rozanov makes it sound so simple that Shane is having a hard time remembering why exactly they've never spent the night together.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Rozanov shifts, stroking his fingertips against the apples of Shane's cheeks. “Also, I drove here. I am pretty sure even boring Canadian border patrol would not be so okay with orange Porsche Cayman driven by celebrity crossing the border twice in same day. 

And I told them I was visiting Canada for fun. Returning before breakfast makes it look like Canada wasn't fun. I am, how you say–committing to the bit.”

Shane suddenly feels more awake. “Is that what you told them? What the fuck Roza–wait, you drove here?”

Rozanov tilts his mouth, thumb tracing down the bridge of Shane's nose.

“You drove five hours to come here?”

Rozanov shrugs. “Who said five? Was four.”

“Google says five.”

“Google was not driving.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. He searches Rozanov's eyes. “You drove four hours to come here?”

“Was more like four and half. Maybe forty minutes.” 

He shrugs then, like he didn't just show up at Shane's house in the middle of the night. Like he does this all the time. Like he hasn't just cracked open Shane's chest and poured molten sunlight into it.

Shane curls up on himself, shifting closer to the other. 

Rozanov hums his approval, and presses his leg carefully up between Shane's, until he has to slide his thighs open and hook his calf over Rozanov's leg to accommodate him.

“Did you really tell the border patrol you were visiting Canada for fun?” 

He looks amused. “Was going to say ‘why officer, I'm crossing to dick down Shane Hollander,’ but I thought it would sound weird.”

Shane laughs, halfheartedly shoving Rozanov's chest. “Dick down?”

“Perez Hilton comment section taught me.”

Shane laughs again, bumps his head against Rozanov's chest playfully, and can't stop himself from sliding his arm around the other's waist. 

“What the fuck are you even doing on Perez Hilton?”

“Rookies were watching your video,” he says, kissing an apology into Shane's forehead.

“Oh.”

Right. The video.

For a moment there he had forgotten. 

“They won't anymore,” Rozanov murmurs, pressing closer and dragging his lips down Shane's nose, kissing his upper lip.

Despite the other's best efforts, Shane's brain is starting to come fully online at the mention of the video, so he doesn't let Rozanov deepen the kiss but frowns instead. “That sounds like you murdered them. What did you do?”

Rozanov looks embarrassed, which only serves to worry Shane more. “Ah, let's just say I was a good captain setting boundaries about locker room talk, and leave at that, yes.”

“Rozanov…”

“Hollander, is fine.” 

He grabs the meat of Shane's thigh and hauls him closer, until their fronts are fully pressed together and his chin is resting on top of Shane's head. 

Shane understands the closeness for the peace offering it is, and lets himself accept it even as there's part of him screaming that he shouldn't, that it's gonna be so much harder now to let go when the other does leave.

He noses at the hollow of Rozanov's throat. “Did you… watch it?”

“No.”

“You can watch it.” Shane says; “Something tells me that my being gay won't come as a shock to you, so you can watch it.”

He doesn’t really know how to put it into words, but thinks that Rozanov watching him unravel in Comeau's nursery might somehow make the whole thing easier to bear.

Rozanov makes a shocked gasp. “You're gay? I thought you were just heteroflexible.”

“Your grasp of the English language should be studied. Where the hell did you get heteroflexible from?”

“Reddit,” he says.

Shane groans. Fucking Reddit. “Did you also see the poll about which players I'm dicking down?”

“Voyageurs' fifteenth best player would not know what to do with your ass,” he drawls, giving said ass a light smack that makes Shane's breath audibly stutter. 

Above him, Rozanov makes an interested noise, gives Shane's ass an appreciative squeeze, and then drags his hand back up to rest in the curve of Shane's waist. 

Shane can't stop himself from whispering the next words into the other's neck. “He hates me now.”

“He is homophobe?” Rozanov sounds surprised. 

“No, just… he found out… about…”

Rozanov stills. “Ah.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

“Is okay.”

“He said on Reddit people were arguing about me and you, and he–he asked me who Boston Lily was, and you were calling so I let him pick up to–I shouldn't have done that, fuck, what if he says something?”

Rozanov holds him tighter. 

“Hollander, is okay. I don't think Pike hates you, and I do not think he will tell. Do not panic. We are having a nice time, yes?” 

He rubs Shane's back in soothing circles.

“Yes,” he acquiesces, tension slowly dispelling under Rozanov's touch.

“Is okay,” he says again, and Shane's not entirely convinced but lets himself relax anyway, trusting that at least right here, right now he's okay.

“Tell me something… I don't know, tell me something funny.”

“I just talked about Hayden Pike, now you want more comedy?”

Despite his best efforts, Shane snickers. “Asshole,” he says, like a favorite pet name. “I mean distract me.”

“You have me in bed and need a distraction?” 

“That's not what–”

“I stopped for coffee at your Ultramar on the way. You know you are on the cover of Cosmopolitan?”

Shane chokes, “What?” 

“Yes. Big list about hottest athletes under 35. You are on the cover. I am too, of course. So is Cristiano Ronaldo.”  

He can't help but ask, "Which one of us was higher on the list?”

Rozanov hums in dismissal. “Is not important. Everyone knows Cosmopolitan writes lot of bullshit. They publish many stupid articles, but many pictures of beautiful women. You would hate it.”

“Oh fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Not now. You need to sleep. You have designer bags under your eyes,” he swipes his thumb under Shane's eyes, rubbing at the dark circles there. “Is not fitting for Cosmopolitan second hottest athlete under 35.”

Shane bites his lip to try and hide his disappointment. He wouldn't even have put himself on the list in the first place, but it did still provide him with an excuse to compete with Rozanov, and knowing he lost still stings a little. “Oh. So you got number one?”

Rozanov snorts. “I got number six, Hollander. I told you Cristiano Ronaldo was on the cover.”

Shane lifts himself up, staring at the other in disbelief. “Six?!”

Rozanov smirks. “Ah but looks like I am number one on your list, yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes, absolutely certain he's blushing. “You're maybe fourth. Maybe.”

“You wound me, Hollander. Who is before me? Hayden fucking Pike? I don't think so.”

He hums, rooting inside his head for the name of a random NHL player that looks absolutely nothing like the one he has in his arms right now. “Ryan Price is pretty cute.”

“Price?! I knew you were size queen, Hollander, but Price might be too much even for you.”

Shane's laughter is sudden and unguarded, and makes Rozanov's eyes go soft, a proud smile blossoming on his face.

“Where did you get ‘size queen’ from, was that also on Cosmopolitan?”

“I’ve been fucking you for six years. I know what a size queen is. Learned it my first year in America. Marly was very proud.”

Shane frowns, “Do I want to know why you and Marleau were talking about that?”

Rozanov smirks again. “You are cute when you are jealous. Of straightest man alive Cliff Marleau.”

“I'm not jealous,” he lies, settling back down and shimmying until he's on his other side, back to Rozanov's chest. 

It's as much of an explicit request for more cuddles as he's able to make. 

Rozanov kisses the back of his neck, turns off the light and presses flat against Shane's back, wraps an arm around his midsection. 

“Sleep now,” Rozanov murmurs. “I give you Price's number tomorrow.”

Shane laughs again, slapping away the hand that's all but groping his pec. “Asshole,” he says, but even to his own ears it sounds like thank you instead.

Rozanov noses his hair, presses a kiss there. “That’s me,” he says, and it sounds like you're welcome.

Shane falls asleep, he and Rozanov slotted together like puzzle pieces.

—

Waking up on Thursday morning is a jarring affair. 

The first conscious thought that filters through is of pure bliss, driven entirely by the muscle memory of release, of another warm body pressed close to him for hours, of another heartbeat against his ribcage. 

And then he remembers about yesterday, about the fact he’s now living in the after, and icy fingers immediately start skating up his back, leeching away the warmth. 

Then it shifts again; he thinks back to the body that was pressed against him throughout the night, thinks about Rozanov driving to Montreal because Shane had asked him to, about Rozanov staying and holding him. 

He touches the other side of the bed, feels the residual heat there, and smiles. 

He knows yesterday still happened, but allows himself a few more minutes of bliss before reaching out a hand for his phone.

The DND exceptions list has been dutifully updated, so the fact he hasn’t been woken up means at least there haven’t been any new call-worthy developments. 

There are no messages either, except for Farah’s reminder about the meeting with PR this morning at 10:30, so he knows Rozanov is still here. He trusts the other wouldn’t leave without at least texting first.

Not after driving five hours to Montreal. Not after yesterday. 

He gets up and looks around the bedroom, spots the hoodie Rozanov had been wearing when he got there, and pulls it on, together with a pair of joggers from his dresser. 

Shane finds Rozanov puttering around the kitchen, drinking coffee from a Welcome to Montreal cup that Hayden had gifted him during his rookie year. 

“You are aware that cow milk is not going to kill you, yes.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, grabbing his favorite mug from the cupboard and turning the kettle on. 

“There’s oat, soy, and almond in the fridge. I’m sure even your superior taste buds can find something to their liking.” 

“My superior taste buds like dairy, Hollander. Milk, cheese, Nutella. Your fridge is making me cry. Your eggs are not even eggs.”

“I do keep eggs. I’ve just run out earlier than usual this week. The nutritionist comes to restock on Fridays. There’s egg whites in the meantime.”

Rozanov makes a non-committal noise. “Yes, I see the ready meals. He brings them to you?” 

Shane hums. 

“There is a lot of them.” 

Shane hums again, suddenly disliking the direction of the conversation. 

“Too many if he comes Fridays. You eat yesterday?” 

Shane shrugs. 

He hadn’t. Not unless you count the clementine, and Shane knows one single clementine in 24 hours most definitely does not count as a proper meal. 

But he hadn’t trained yesterday, had he? He’d been sat down in a chair in his coach’s office and humiliated, and then he’d been sent home like an unruly child. 

Aside from freaking out throughout the day, and ruining the relationship he had with his best friend, he hadn’t really done much of anything the day before. 

Rozanov pushes a slice of toast towards him. 

Shane pushes it back. “I have to go to the sports center soon for a meeting,” he says, as if that’s an acceptable reaction to refusing a solitary slice of toasted brown bread. 

“Okay,” the other says, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and setting it down on the island between the two of them. 

Shane shakes his head. He had fruit sugars yesterday, he’s not about to have a banana of all things. 

“I’ll get something on the way,” he blatantly lies.

Rozanov arches a brow, and puts the banana on the slice of toast, sliding the plate back over to him. 

“I will, I promise,” he lies again. 

“Yes, I am sure you will stop at McDonald’s and get a McGriddle,” Rozanov sneers, but then leans back against the counter and miraculously lets it go. “Who will be there? At this meeting?”

He shrugs, “Farah–my manager–for sure. Voyageurs PR. Not sure who else.” 

“No Theriault?” 

If it was for me, you’d be well on your way to an early retirement, he remembers with startling clarity. 

“Probably. We spoke yesterday, but I had the feeling it wasn’t an… official… meeting.” 

“Yes,” he drawls. “When he said you were not allowed to play today.” 

Shane nods. 

“What else did he say?” Rozanov’s gaze is pointed, seeing right through Shane as if he’s made of glass. 

“He said… things.”

“That is usually how conversations work. What things?”

There isn’t much point in lying–who is he trying to protect? Himself? The man whose guidance he spent years blindly following as if he was a soldier in battle? Theriault didn’t deserve the kindness, and Shane was getting really tired of putting others before himself. 

“He said he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s got a queer captain instead of a star center, or something similar.” 

Rozanov takes a sharp intake of breath, sounds angry as he spits out his next words. “Fucking moron. What else?” 

“That… that if it was for him I wouldn’t play again.” 

“Good, then Montreal never wins another Cup and I take them all to Boston.”

It sounds insensitive, but Rozanov’s wrapped a hand around Shane’s wrist, and his thumb is stroking the back of Shane’s hand. 

He knows he should make a joke about Boston, keep the conversation light, but all of a sudden Shane feels like he can’t breathe.

“What if he’s right? What if I never play again? What if–” 

“What if nothing.”

Rozanov closes the distance between them and cradles Shane’s face in his hands, angling it so he has no choice but to look into the other’s eyes. 

“You are Shane fucking Hollander. Hockey was made for you. You will play again.”

His thumbs stroke the apples of Shane’s cheeks, eyes never leaving Shane’s.

There is a moment, then. A split second of appel du vide when he wants to say it–wants to say the crazy thing that’s been rattling around his brain maybe since New Year’s, maybe earlier, but for sure since Rozanov showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night, because Shane had asked. 

He holds Rozanov’s gaze for long seconds, and doesn’t say it.   

—

If a week ago you’d asked Shane if he ever felt small, he would have said no. 

He was one of the biggest hockey players in the world, physically imposing, incredibly high profile to the point where his face and body were on billboards from Montreal to Rome, crisscrossing borders and oceans and languages. 

Objectively speaking, he wasn’t small. 

That didn’t stop him feeling it, though. 

It wasn't always true, but it was there, in the way he adjusted for others. He made himself small. Twenty-four years, and he was still chipping away at himself, still shaving off chunks in an effort to be everything for everyone.  

Pretending he didn’t see things, didn’t hear things. Using all of his senses to erase the truth that yes, yes he felt small.  

He was young, but hockey was an unforgiving sport that made you give all of yourself to a team that sometimes chewed you up and spat you out with little to no care for the person inside the protective gear. 

You were a commodity. 

He’d heard of great players sacrificing their bodies and minds at the altar of a sport that didn’t love them back as hard as they did, because the sport went on with or without them. He’d be eighty, ninety, and hockey would still be there. 

How much more of himself was he willing to sacrifice for a team made up of people who hadn’t even texted him? For a Coach who’d all but told him to retire just because he’d dared be more different than he already was?

Twenty-four years of making himself small in the face of off-handed comments and jokes, of microaggressions he experienced almost every day in the locker room but accepted as the price he had to pay to be free on the ice.

He will be eighty, ninety, and he will still have won the Voyageurs a Cup after basically rebuilding the team from the ground up. He was going to give them another one this season, but life had gotten in the way–except it hadn’t been life, not really. It had been one of his teammates. 

Shane knew it wasn’t just random serendipity that had landed the video in the Montreal Gazette’s lap. 

He will be eighty, ninety, and the choice of coming out on his own terms will still belong to Comeau instead of himself, and there was nothing he could do to fix it, and that made him so viscerally angry all of a sudden. What do you mean he broke himself into pieces for years, scratching away at all his sharp angles until his nails broke and fingers bled, and it still wasn’t enough? 

He was Shane fucking Hollander, though, and hockey was made for him, so maybe there was a way to still come out on top, even if the top wasn’t going to feature a view of the Mount Royal Cross and Place Ville Marie. 

He looks down at his hands, and of course they don’t look right, but he knows they’re his. Rozanov had held them last night, and this morning, and he’d told him he’d play again. 

He sits in his car outside Centre Sportif CN, breathes, and tells Farah about Comeau’s comment. About all the comments, years of locker room talk that had excised so many pounds of flesh off Shane that he felt the price had been paid tenfold. 

He tells Farah about the nursery. About Theriault. 

She’s quiet for a moment, and he can hear the click clacking of her nails on the keyboard. 

“Okay, Shane, here’s what’s gonna happen.”

He listens.

— 

“Hello, Monsieur Hollander,” the man says. “I’m Théophane Latulippe, VP of Communications for the Montreal Voyageurs. I don’t believe we’ve met before?” 

He shakes the other man’s hand, “No, we haven’t. Pleasure to meet you,” he lies. 

On the screen, Farah nods, “It’s a pleasure for me as well, Monsieur Latulippe–I’ve only been in contact with Mademoiselle Pellerin until now.” 

“Yes, she is one of my wonderful Player Relations Managers, but I felt like today’s conversation required my presence.” 

“Of course,” Farah says, as if to her it makes perfect sense. “Before we continue, I would like to inform you that I will be recording this meeting.” 

Latulippe doesn’t seem fazed as he says, “I don’t believe that will be necessary, Miss Jalali. We’re just here to have a chat about the recent events.” 

She smiles. “I understand that, as I don’t see Camille there–she is still part of your Legal team, is she?”

Latulippe nods, “Yes, Madame Fortin is still the point of contact from our Legal department. But, like I said, this is just a conversation. We wouldn’t feel the need to get Legal involved at this stage.” 

“Understood,” Farah says again. “At any rate, if we're ready to begin, I will start the recording.” 

A saloon standoff between cowboys who've been in the game way too long. 

In the end, Farah comes out on top.  

“Very well,” Latulippe relents.

He then clears his throat, straightening his spine. “ First of all, Monsieur Hollander, let me just say how deeply sorry we are about the situation.”

David Hollander didn't raise an animal, so he says, “Thank you, Monsieur Latulippe.”

“Now, I will say–we at the Montreal Voyageurs were as shocked as anyone upon watching the released media, and I would be remiss in my job if I didn't ask; is there a reason why our department was not informed of the situation beforehand?”

There is a way PR people have of wrapping barbed wire inside feathers, and Shane’s never been more aware of it than this very second. 

But Yuna Hollander didn't raise a fool, no. She media trained one to within an inch of his life–and that, combined with Farah's instructional call in the parking lot, made sure Shane’s next words were spoken with a confidence he didn't really feel.

He clears his throat. “I'll be frank. I don't see why I should have informed anyone from your department about it. Or anyone from the organization in general.”

“Well,” Latulippe starts, smiling in a way that makes Shane think of hyenas, “As I'm sure Miss Jalali has told you, the job of a Communications team is to control information. If the information is not disclosed, controlling it becomes quite difficult.”

He nods. “But you–I mean, management–hired me to play hockey. I believe I've been doing that pretty successfully over the past few years.”

Latulippe smiles again. “More than that of course, but you are one of the best educated players I've ever had the pleasure to see on our roster, so I am sure you understand what I mean.”

Shane does. 

“If I may?” Farah clears her throat. “While of course I can understand your perspective, Monsieur Latulippe, I can also fully appreciate my client's. 

As I'm sure you're aware, nowhere in his contract is there a sexuality clause, or a personal life disclosure one.”

“Of course, of course; legally speaking, Monsieur Hollander has done nothing wrong.”

The ‘but’ is so loud it almost makes Shane's ears ring. 

“But you believe I did do something wrong.” He blinks. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. 

Latulippe's smile cools by a few degrees. 

“Not at all. I am only pointing out that the Communications department–and here I’m sure I speak for Management and the Coaching Staff as well–would have appreciated a little heads up with regards to any potential problems that might arise from relevant details of your personal life that might… cause a stir, let’s say.”

“Relevant details.”

He feels hollow. 

“Last year Drapeau cheated on his wife,” he says. “Did he tell you beforehand?”

Latulippe has the decency to look uncomfortable. “I'm not allowed to disclo–”

“I bet no, but he did talk about it in the locker room. Extensively. To anyone who would listen. That's how it ended up on Le Journal de Montréal.”

“Every media event develops differently.”

“The whole event lasted a week, and then no one talked about it again in the media.”

“I would have to double check, I am not sure about that specific detail.”

A non-answer. A shitty one, at that. 

Under the table, Shane’s hands curl into fists. 

“He played every game.” 

Latulippe clears his throat. “Monsieur Hollander, I am sure that if we sit and compare the situations clo–”

“But I'm not playing tonight, and I was forbidden from attending practice yesterday.” 

Latulippe closes his mouth and doesn't say anything, so Shane keeps going. 

“What is there to compare? It seems the two situations aren't the same at all.”

Farah interjects then. “Monsieur Latulippe, I for one am interested in understanding the Voyageurs' position regarding the whole matter of the blatant invasion of privacy suffered by my client–as well, of course, as the potential threat to his safety.

I love this sport as much as the next person, so you will forgive me for saying this–but historically hockey is not an environment where diversity is fostered, or allowed to thrive.”

Latulippe makes a non-committal noise. “I would not exactly say the same, but-”

“Given the circumstances under which my client’s sexuality has been disclosed to the world, and to the… shall we say, less than open-minded folds of the sport?, I am genuinely concerned that so far your organization has not released a public statement of support for Monsieur Hollander.”

No one says anything for a couple of seconds. 

Latulippe flares his nostrils, looks at Shane like he’s about to be the threat to Shane’s safety. 

Then he turns to the monitor. “We are currently considering every possible approach,” he says. “While I do, to some extent, understand your perspective, there are several concerns that have been raised by management, and it is my duty to address them in full before a statement is released.”

Several concerns. Not even a single concern. They have several. 

A lifetime spent making himself small and shapeless enough that he could be molded into whatever form was required of him, and now that people know he's gay, he's suddenly raising concerns.

“As for the perceived threat to Monsieur Hollander’s safety, I don’t believe a statement from the Voyageurs would be very helpful to assuage any potential animosity from devoted fans of the franchise.” He spreads his hands as if to say, what can you do?

“Monsieur Latulippe, just so I make sure to understand correctly–you don't believe that releasing a statement saying you support the pluridecorated Captain of the franchise, and condemn the person or persons who committed a crime, would help deter at least some homophobic fans of the Voyageurs, and reduce the amount of vitriol my client is currently subjected to on social media? I’m sure you’ve seen the death threats on Twitter and Instagram.”

Shane bites his tongue so hard he can taste copper in his mouth. The fucking what?

Farah hadn't mentioned there were death threats, and he knows she did the right thing, because he's spiralling right now, but on the other hand–he’s spiralling right now.

He starts counting his breaths, watches Latulippe struggle for a way to say ‘a statement wouldn’t do shit’ while holding the title of VP of Communications. 

“May I recommend an increase in personal security until the matter has been resolved?” 

Shane keeps counting his breathing while he thinks about Ilya Rozanov in his kitchen, trying to get Shane to eat a bite of toast. 

He thinks about the way Rozanov had watched him put his Reeboks on, then his coat, and had said ‘I’ll be here when you get back,’ and finds himself calm enough to ask.

“Would you trade me for this?” 

The temperature in the room lowers by several degrees. He doesn’t dare look at Farah on the screen.

This wasn't what they'd talked about in the car.

Shane was supposed to poke and prod without asking the question directly. 

Too late to take it back, he thinks, and forces himself to breathe through the ache in his chest. 

“No one is talking about trading,” Latulippe says, with no smile on his face this time. “All we are saying is, the Montreal Voyageurs have a certain public image to maintain, and high-profile scandals are not part of this image. 

As a result, and because of your position, we are considering several options, all with the aim to find a way forward that will be satisfactory for both yourself and the Organization.”

Shane thinks that still sounds like they're gonna trade him, but doesn't say anything. 

“Monsieur Latulippe. My client has been forcibly outed to the world through a frankly disgusting invasion of privacy,” Farah says on the screen.

It's bone chilling to hear her put it so bluntly, but then again–that’s what happened, even though Shane hasn't really thought about that part yet. 

“He did not–say–have a second family in Winnipeg, hire a prostitute, or crash his custom sports car into a school while drunk.”

Pelletier, Bancroft, and JJ, he thinks with a chill. 

Just how many of his teammates had been involved in a scandal in the past couple of years, and how many had sat in front of the VP of fucking Communications to discuss their shortcomings?

How many of them had instead strutted into the locker room the day after to catcalls and laughter, instead of complete character assassination?

JJ was one of his best friends, and after he'd crashed his car after a night out, Shane and Hayden had started taking his keys away when they'd seen him have one too many in their presence. 

He hasn't even texted me, Shane thinks, the wave of grief so overwhelming it makes his throat close up. 

Farah continues, direct and firm, and Shane is so grateful he's switched management from his mom to Farah, because he loves his mother to death, but he's not sure he would have been able to let himself trust her with this.

He would have been too mortified to let his mom defend him in this way, but Farah–Farah looks like some sort of avenging angel over the Skype conference call, and Shane knows he made the right choice, even if it had been a difficult conversation at the time.  

“Given other players’ indiscretions, I am very interested in knowing exactly which of the Montreal Voyageurs’ core values my client has compromised?” 

Latulippe makes a smile like curdled milk. “It is true that the, ah, circumstances surrounding Monsieur Hollander’s coming out were out of his control, however I would be remiss if I did not point out that he is currently implicated in a high-profile scandal surrounding a potential extramarital affair with a fellow player.” 

“I did not come out,” Shane snaps before he can stop himself. “I did not want to come out. Someone else did it for me.” 

“That’s semantics,” Latulippe starts, but Farah cuts over him, voice velvety and razor sharp at the same time.

“Semantics seems like a broad generalization of the difference between a crime–a hate crime–and a choice.” 

Latulippe nods curtly. “I misspoke, my apologies. However, the crux of the matter still remains; we have a Captain who has been revealed to be homosexual, is currently rumored to be in a relationship with one of his Assistant Cs, and therefore also implicated in a cheating scandal.” 

“Hayden is my best friend,” Shane says. He feels small again, humiliated, but the anger just keeps mounting at the same time. “He is my best friend, and his wife is my best friend, and I babysit their children–who are my goddaughters and godson, by the way–almost every week. Just because I like dick, it doesn’t mean I like his.”

Latulippe opens his mouth as if to say something, but Shane keeps going, wanting to be the one throwing punches for once. 

“Inferring that a gay man will be attracted to any man and will prey on the married ones, trying to seduce them and take them away from their families, is a very homophobic thing to say… don’t you think so, monsieur?” 

The man reels back as if slapped. 

If he wasn’t mad as hell, Shane would feel a little bit of pity for him.

Poor guy, who thought he could come into this room and jerk Shane around like a dog, clipping the leash shorter and shorter, making Shane feel smaller and smaller, and instead Shane was sitting there barking, tugging at the length of rope the Voyageurs had wrapped around his neck. 

Farah makes a curious noise. 

“I am wondering,” she says, “How exactly this situation came to be. Shane, from what you told me, I believe the moment in question–the moment that was recorded against my client’s knowledge and consent–is from Saturday afternoon, when you were at a fellow player’s house for a team event?” 

Latulippe goes completely ashen, and his mouth clicks shut. 

In that instant, Shane knows that–regardless of how this turns out–he is going to give her a bonus.

“That’s right, Farah,” he says, sounding calmer than he feels. “That is what happened.” 

“How odd,” she hums. “It’s almost as if someone that was present, and had the means to do so, took possession of a clearly private moment between two friends, and decided to disclose it to the press instead of looking the other way.” 

The weight of the implication hangs in the air. 

Latulippe straightens his tie and looks at Farah with eyes made of steel. 

“Miss Jalali, surely you are not implying what I think you’re implying,” he says. 

“Oh, I’m not implying anything. I am just wondering. I am as concerned as you are about the reputation of the Montreal Voyageurs–a truly venerable franchise that drafted my client when he was but a kid, and has enjoyed a remarkable rise back to stardom ever since.” 

The bonus is going to be humongous, Shane thinks. 

“In fact,” she barrels through with the poise of a cobra ready to strike, “I do believe we should conclude the meeting now. Given the situation, as well as the importance of the Voyageurs' immaculate reputation, I do believe it would be in my client’s best interest to have legal counsel present for any further discussion of the topic.” 

I will buy her a house. A car. Five cars. A boat? 

He shakes off the distraction of writing a Dr Seuss rhyme listing every single thing he could buy Farah to thank her for existing, and says his piece.

“I agree with Farah. Obviously, this isn't a reflection of my feelings towards the team. I love the Voyageurs. I grew up hoping to play here. I am proud of the work I've done since rookie year, proud of being part of this winning family, but I also have a reputation to protect.” 

There’s a pause during which Shane is stunned by how fake the words sound to his own ears. 

Were they ever true?

Surely, at some point they must have been. He wasn’t sure the rose tinted glasses had come off all at once; it had probably been a slow, repeated effort, like water eroding jagged cliff faces into smoothness. 

But now, sitting here in this office, being treated like he’s done something wrong just for committing the egregious crime of existing in a way and shape that does not benefit the narrative, Shane finds that the words aren’t true anymore.

Latulippe shakes the acrid expression from his face and nods. 

“Very well. I will reschedule for another day, when further relevant parties can be involved.”

“Much appreciated, Téophane,” Farah smiles, saccharine and false as anything. 

Shane is a little bit in love. 

“Actually, while we are at it, why don’t we agree that no one from the organization will contact my client privately again?”

A frown briefly passes over the man's face; “Again?” 

Over the phone, Farah had told him that, if things started going a little too south, she was going to mention what happened with Theriault the day before. Shane takes a deep breath. You are Shane fucking Hollander. Hockey was made for you. 

“I did have a brief conversation with Coach Theriault yesterday,” he starts. 

You’re about to detonate your whole career even further, he thinks. 

He says it anyway. 

“It left me with the clear impression that he would not appreciate my presence on the team any further–and, to be honest, the lack of support from my own coach was really disheartening.” 

Latulippe’s looking a little green now, and it confirms what Shane thought: Theriault was not supposed to talk to him–especially since what he said had sounded nothing like a PR-approved statement.

The man opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, trying on sentences for size. 

In the end he goes with “I was not aware Coach Theriault had reached out. I will ensure communication follows the appropriate channels going forward.” 

“I appreciate it,” Shane says, and leaves it at that. 

He nods at Farah, and gets up from the chair, leaving the office and his career as Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs behind. 

—

It's only later, sitting in his car in the garage, that the full brunt of the last few hours hits him square in the chest. 

He's not playing tonight, and if things go the way he thinks, he's never going to wear Voyageurs blue ever again. 

Farah's telling him she's going to ensure he's kept out of any direct meetings from now on, just as he'd asked her in the morning. 

“I'm very happy to stonewall everyone for you. That is literally what you pay me for.”

Shane smiles a little, but feels sad all of a sudden.

He doesn’t do well with change and surprises, and there’s been so much of it in the past two days that his nervous system doesn’t know how to regulate itself anymore. The grief is all encompassing, and it makes it hard to breathe. It’s wave after wave after wave, each one washing away any residual hope he might have had of things resolving smoothly.

“Farah,” he says, voice wavering. “I want to play hockey. I don’t–I don’t want any of this.” 

He sounds childish to his own ears, but Farah’s response is gentle instead of derisive.

“I know, Shane, and I am going to make sure you continue doing so.” She’s quiet for a second. “Perhaps… perhaps it won’t be with the Voyageurs, but I will make sure you keep playing hockey.”  

The words still echo in his mind, carrying the same kindness he'd been craving all morning.

Hockey was made for you. You will play again.  

“I want to play where I am wanted,” he says, and his voice breaks on the last word.

Fuck, he thinks, watching the dashboard of his car start to blur in front of him. 

“I will find you that place, then,” she says. 

Shane nods even though she can’t see him, and closes his eyes.   

—

He eventually makes it to the garage exit, and rides the elevator all the way up to his floor. 

He wants–needs–Rozanov to fuck him. 

To pin him to the bed and press him down into the mattress and not let him think anymore. He’s done enough thinking for two days. Now it’s time to switch off his brain and let go for an hour or two. 

They’ve never really had more than that before, but now Rozanov is here, waiting for Shane in his apartment, and the beautiful impossibility of time stretches out before him. 

He knows Boston are playing on Saturday. The same part of his brain that insists on memorizing the Bears' entire calendar keeps him perpetually aware of where Rozanov is in relation to Shane, which means the other will probably have to leave tomorrow. But they have time now.

They have time, and a bed, and a half empty box of condoms that Shane is determined to have finished by the time Rozanov leaves. 

The elevator dings open, and the anticipatory smile dies on Shane's face as he sees his parents in front of his apartment door. 

Fuck.

“Mom, Dad!” he says a little too loud, rushing to stand in front of the entrance. 

They drop what they’re doing (namely, trying to open Shane’s door with a key that Shane is absolutely going to have to take back, right now) and immediately start fussing over him. 

“Oh, baby,” his mom says, hugging him so tight Shane almost can’t breathe. 

“We’re here,” says his dad with a show of jazz hands. 

How could he have forgotten about his parents? His mom had said they were flying over, so Shane should have known to expect them, so how could he have forgotten? Fuck, he thinks again. What’s he gonna do now?

As soon as Yuna releases him, David immediately takes over hugging duties, tucking Shane’s head into the crook of his neck. 

“We brought you lychee Ramune from the duty free,” he greets Shane. 

Shane hugs him back, panicked as anything but incredibly overwhelmed by this love, and how immediate and unconditional it has always been.

“Thanks dad,” he murmurs into his shoulder. 

“Let's get inside, then we can show you what else we got from the duty free,” Yuna says, and the panic mounts again so quickly Shane’s head starts spinning. 

“Inside?” he croaks. 

You mean inside where Ilya Rozanov is probably naked on the couch watching porn? 

Realistically speaking, he knows Rozanov wouldn’t–maybe wouldn’t–just sit around naked in someone else's apartment watching porn at noon. 

But fantasies are fantasies, and he can’t help where this one goes.

“Yes sweetheart. I am so tired,” his mom says. “First there was a delay, then Air Canada lost our luggage—”

“Then we had to take an Uber because National was being unreasonable with their car selection, and you know how your mother feels about Hertz,” continues his dad. 

“Let’s go out for lunch,” Shane says, and almost slaps a hand on his mouth because fucking what. 

His parents, who have known Shane for a very long time–literally all his life–look at him like he’s just grown a second head. 

“You… uh, you want to go to a restaurant? Outside? In public?” 

Nevermind the fact he’s never really been big on going out for food, his parents just flew an ungodly amount of hours straight from Japan, have suffered what seems to be many hardships to get to him, and haven’t had time to experience the couple of stages of grief Shane’s had the pleasure of going through over the past day or so. 

There is absolutely no way he would ever willingly walk into a restaurant with his parents in the immediate aftermath they're all standing in.

But Rozanov is sitting on his couch. Naked. Watching porn. Hands folded behind his head, showing off his muscles. Waiting for Shane to come home and kneel in between his legs.  

Shane clears his throat, shaking the thought from his head and sacrificing himself for the greater good. “For sure, uh, let’s–”

When he looks at her, his mom’s eyes are filled with tears. Great, now you’re acting so fucking weird you made mom cry, he thinks.

“Shane. Baby. You don’t have to do this. It’s just us, and we just want to talk, so why don’t we go inside?”

And that’s another thing. Of course they want to talk.

They just flew twenty-something hours from Osaka and all they know is that their son’s gay, and they’ve probably seen him cry in Hayden’s arms in that cursed fucking video.

He’s gonna have to go through it again. All of it. 

Through waking up, and being sick, and panicking, and driving to Brossard, and dealing with Theriault, Hayden finding out about Lily—all while Lily is in there. Naked on his couch. Jerking off to Public Disgrace’s back catalogue. Flexing his biceps for Shane and telling him to get on his knees and suck his cock. 

Fucking focus, he thinks. He’s not feeling very good right now, can feel himself not taking in enough air to breathe properly.

He tries counting, but the numbers keep slipping out of sequence, overlapping with having to explain to his parents that he was asleep when the video leaked, that’s he’s ruined things with his best friend, that none of his teammates even texted him, that he’s lost sponsors, and there are death threats, and he’s probably never gonna play for the Voyageurs ever again and–god, Yuna Hollander is in a committed decades-long relationship with the fucking Montreal Voyageurs, and Shane just got back from a meeting where he’s annihilated any chance to ever wear their jersey again.

All while Ilya fucking Rozanov sits on Shane’s fucking couch. Naked and watching porn. Waiting for Shane. 

He notices his dad has started working on the door again only when he hears the double clack of the key turning in the lock. 

“Wait,” he tries, spots blacking out his vision now as he hyperventilates. Is he gonna fucking faint, like a–like a Victorian maiden? What the fuck?

“Wait, I have to tell you something,” he shakes his head, trying to get rid of the spots in his vision, but that only serves to make him lose his balance a little as he follows his parents inside.

“Uh–what… what?” says his mother, looking straight at the living area of Shane’s open floor plan, and why the fuck is everything open space these days, what happened to rooms, where are you supposed to put your vacuum cleaner if everything's an open fucking space, and Ilya Rozanov is sitting on his couch.

Fully clothed. 

Holding a gigantic Starbucks frappuccino, and a copy of Cosmopolitan. 

Watching The Nanny on Shane’s TV.

He doesn’t even look embarrassed. He just puts the magazine and Starbucks on the table, with no fucking coaster, the absolute sheer audacity of this impossible man, and then he gets up, walks towards Shane and his parents, and stretches out a hand. 

“Hello,” he says.  

“Hello,” says David, shaking his hand with a perplexed face. 

“Shane?” says Yuna, looking at her son. 

Shane bypasses language entirely, crumples in on himself, and fades to black. 

—

When he comes to, he’s in bed. 

The electric curtains are still up, but the gauzy decorative ones his designer insisted on getting are drawn, and billowing in the afternoon breeze. Shane lets the darkness envelop him, and takes stock. 

He’s in his briefs; his clothes have been neatly folded and set on the dresser. 

He feels cottony all over, throat scratchy, but there’s a glass of water on his bedside table, so he helps himself to it. 

He can see Rozanov’s duffel bag sitting in front of his closet, so maybe he hasn’t been deported yet–or at the very least he hasn’t left yet. 

Shane’s life is made of rugs, and they keep getting pulled from under his feet. 

He takes a deep breath, grabs some clothes from the dresser, and makes his way downstairs.

It’s very quiet, so unless a multiple homicide has taken place in Shane’s condo, something had to give at some point while he was out.

Rozanov is, once again, standing in the kitchen, an almost perfect mirror from this morning, except now he’s cutting a pear into slices and using the wrong type of bowl to plate it. 

Shane surprises himself by not mentioning it.  

There’s a tray of food on the counter, and the other stacks the fruit on it together with half of Thursday’s allotted meals, properly laid out on actual ceramic instead of just resting inside their containers like Shane normally does. 

“I was just about to come wake you,” Rozanov says without looking up. 

“Oh. Thanks,” he says, and walks closer to look at the food. There is so much of it, including two of Shane’s favourite protein bars. “Where are my parents?” 

The other scrapes the peels off the kitchen island and into the caddy, rinsing the knife before putting it in the dishwasher. “Yuna said they are getting a room at the Humaniti, and you can call when you wake up.”

Shane blinks. “Yuna.”

Rozanov’s eyes zero in on him, roaming over his face to quickly try and ascertain whether Shane’s just being a little slow on the uptake or actually needs a doctor. He correctly diagnoses him as the former, and relaxes his shoulders.

“Your mother? Beautiful woman, looks like you, married to your father?”

Shane doesn't point out the sheer absurdity of him being on a first name basis with his mother when in six years first names between them have been withheld with the same ferocity of nuclear launch codes in a John le Carré novel. 

“What did you tell them? About, you know.” Shane makes an aborted hand gesture between the two of them.

“Nothing.”

He makes a pained noise in his throat, because come on. “So what, they just thought you were in the neighborhood?”

Rozanov arches a brow, setting a can of ginger ale on the tray and giving Shane a pointed look. “No. I tell them nothing, but your mother is smart. Your father probably figured something is going on when I picked you up and carried you upstairs like Sleeping fucking Beauty.” 

Oh, he thinks, disappointed to have missed out on the experience. 

“Did… did you…” Shane clears his throat. “Take my clothes off?”

Rozanov doesn’t look very impressed with Shane at the moment. 

“Yes, Hollander. You were wearing outside clothes, and I needed to put you in bed. So I took them off.”

Oh, he thinks again.

The other points at the tray of food. “You want to eat in bed or here?” 

Shane would normally balk at the idea of bringing food into the bedroom, but this day has already been surreal enough that one more act of disruption can't really derail things much further. 

He thinks about burrowing under the comforter and taking bites of the pear Rozanov has painstakingly cut up for him in the contained microcosm of the bed where he’d laid Shane after taking his outside clothes off, where they’d both slept last night after he drove over just because Shane had asked, and knows his answer immediately.

“Bed.”

Rozanov looks surprised for a second, then schools his face and picks up the tray, motioning Shane towards the stairs. 

—

Rozanov closes the balcony door behind him, drops his cigarettes on Shane's dresser and gets under the covers with Shane, careful not to jostle the tray in the process. 

“Are you just gonna sit there and watch me eat?”

“I do like to watch.”

Shane's picking at the food, taking a bite every once in a while. 

He's not trying to be difficult, he's really not. He knows his body needs fuel to function, knows he can't put off eating forever, if anything because collapsing from stress and exhaustion so that the people around you have to take care of you is not responsible Shane Hollander behavior, but it's been a difficult couple of days. 

He doesn't want to eat his usual, like this is just another normal day. 

“You don't like?” says Rozanov, almost reading his mind.

“It's fine.”

“Another five star review from food critic Shane Hollander.”

Shane gives him a smile, but it's a tired one.

“I will order food if you don't want that, just tell me what you want. I would make something but you only have sad ingredients.”

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” he says. 

“Bless you.”

Shane huffs out a tired laugh, and rubs his forehead. 

He doesn't know how to explain that, if he eats this food today, he won't be able to have it again without thinking of the way Latulippe had stared at him like he was a problem that needed fixing. 

Shane actually likes salmon, he doesn't want to have to stop having it just because he cried in his car about having to leave Montreal, and he knows that if he eats what's in his plate it's going to be a really long time before he's gonna be able to have it again without feeling the same exact way he’d felt in the garage. Down to the texture of the steering wheel where he'd gripped it so tight his knuckles had gone white. 

So he shrugs.

“This is fine.”

“I was outside smoking maybe ten minutes. You have not even eaten quarter of the plate. Is not fine.”

“Rozanov. Please drop it.” 

Shane looks up at the other, and clasps his knee with his hand to try and make it clear he's not being argumentative for no reason; he’s just worn through.

Rozanov visibly bites back a retort, and picks up a slice of pear instead.

He brings it to Shane's mouth in a slow trajectory, as if he's worried Shane will startle if he moves too quickly. 

The pear is safe, Shane knows that. It's just a pear, he never eats those. His nutritionist brings them whenever they’re in season, tells him they are “nature’s treat,” but Shane usually takes them over to Hayd’s because pears are Ruby’s favorites. 

He could have the fruit now, and it would be okay if it took on the bitter taste of the last couple of days. 

They stare at each other for a handful of seconds, Shane's breath catching in his throat at the determination written over the other’s face.

“Open” Rozanov says.

So Shane does. 

He takes the pear between his teeth, careful of Rozanov's fingers, and chews. Swallows. 

Rozanov picks up another chunk of fruit, and Shane's mouth opens on its own accord.

This time he lets his tongue slide along Rozanov's fingertips as he takes the fruit.

“I know what you are doing,” Rozanov murmurs, picking up another pear slice. 

Shane takes it, conscious of the way the other's fingers linger briefly against his bottom lip as he chews. 

He swallows, and chases the fingers with his tongue, taking them in his mouth, and he’s powerless to stop the moan that wrenches free when Rozanov presses down on his tongue and strokes there. 

Shane closes his eyes and gets lost in the sensation. It's a minute or an hour before Rozanov says again, “Open.”

He opens his eyes, and sees that Rozanov's other hand is holding another slice. 

Shane releases his fingers and watches, transfixed, as a tendril of spit stretches between them before breaking. He licks his lips and opens his mouth again, waiting for Rozanov.

The other's pupils are completely blown out, and he's looking at Shane with so much intensity that Shane has to close his eyes again against the onslaught of lust he feels. 

This time, the slice of pear drags across his bottom lip before Rozanov feeds it to him, and then uses his mouth to taste the sweetness. 

Shane chases Rozanov's lips when they pull away, and they look at each other again. 

The weight of those three words sits heavy on his tongue, but they’re terrifying, and he’s a coward.

Time slows down to a trickle.

Stops. 

“Ilya,” he says instead, feels warmth flooding his chest at the way the other's breath stutters. 

Shane's careful with the tray, pushes it to the bench at the foot of the bed before shifting to his knees, pressing closer to Rozanov and settling himself between his open legs. 

There's a slight tremor running through his hands, and he presses it into the other's skin, caresses up his arms and down his chest. Tips forward to kiss the bolt of his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.

Rozanov looks at him like he's something holy, and Shane has to swallow around the knot in his throat.

“Ilya,” he says again, and closes his eyes when Ilya kisses him.

—

There's an undeniable truth in the fact Shane Hollander is never at home in his body unless he's on the ice. 

But if you look closely, if you let your eyes adjust to the dark, you'll find there is poetry in the way Shane's body curves towards Ilya’s, turns to him the way a sunflower turns towards the sun. 

And there is another truth about Shane Hollander, quieter but no less certain: when Ilya touches him, he feels like he fits inside his skin. 

—

They’re lying together on the couch, tangled up in each other. Ilya’s hands are warm on the skin under Shane’s hoodie. One of Ilya's thighs is thrown over his to pin him there, as the game he’s not allowed to play unfolds on television. 

Shane knows he should probably feel some type of way about this, but the truth is startling in its simplicity; Ilya’s body is warm and solid, and given the current state of things, Shane would rather be here than at Centre Bell. 

He’s been trying to type out a message in his family group chat for the better part of ten minutes, but each time he thinks he has something he reads it over and finds it stupid. Not enough information. Too much information.  

“Your defense is fucking joke,” Ilya says as the Reapers score another completely avoidable goal. 

He still has a grain of team loyalty in him, so he says nothing, but given the Voyageurs’ defense includes Gilbert Comeau, Shane is inclined to agree with the sentiment. 

He backspaces on yet another message for his mom and dad, and sighs. 

“How do you tell your parents you know shit’s weird and you fucked up, and make sure they still love you after you’ve said the thing?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Ilya says, uncharacteristically subdued.

Shane doesn’t know exactly what’s going on with the other’s family, but the little he’s been able to glean over the years doesn’t point at a dynamic Shane’s ever experienced before. 

“Sorry,” he says, tilting his head back to kiss the underside of Ilya’s chin in apology.

“You Canadians sicken me. Stop saying sorry for things you have not done.” 

Shane kisses him again. “Sorry,” he says just to spite Ilya, who playfully takes the tip of Shane’s ear in his mouth and shakes lightly, making Shane laugh and flooding him with a tingling wave of something he's definitely not going to examine while texting his parents. 

In the end, he settles on a version of his thoughts that’s not going to cause his parents to run back to the apartment clamoring for answers.

Shane

Hey guys
I’m sorry about today. I know there are a lot of things to talk about, and I want to talk about them with you.
Can we please do that soon? I need a little time to put my ducks in a row. A lot has happened. 

Mom 

Hello baby, how are you feeling? 
And yes, take all the time you need. We’re staying at the Humaniti for as long as you want. 

Dad

Did you eat something? Ilya said you skipped meals yesterday. 
I know you don’t like nagging, but I’m contractually obligated to do so. It’s in the dad handbook 😎
So, eat something. 

Shane

I’m okay. Slept a few hours. Sorry for scaring you.
Yes dad, I ate something. 

Ilya had kept feeding him pear slices in between kisses, and then Shane had let him bring a protein bar to his mouth, and do the same until neither of them was thinking about food anymore.

Mom 

Do you or Farah need me to help with anything? 

Shane 

No, thank you mom.
 But I’m sorry, I think I lost a few sponsorships. I know you worked really hard on those. 

Mom 

They lost you, baby, not the other way around. 

Dad

We love you so much. So much. 
We only want you to be happy. 
 

Shane realizes he’s crying again only because Ilya’s fingers are on his face, drying the tear tracks there as he presses gentle kisses into his hair, murmuring reassurances that he’s okay, his parents are okay, things will be okay. 

It only makes Shane want to cry more, because if this is what Ilya is going to be like from now on, there is no way in hell that Shane’s going to be able to let him leave and still be okay afterwards–and why the hell did they spend so many years not doing this anyway? It was so much better than sneaking in and out of hotel rooms pretending he hadn’t wanted to stay every single time. 

Shane

Thank you. I love you too. I promise I will call soon so we can talk more. 

Mom 

Whenever you're ready, honey. 

Dad

Take as much time as possible. You know I love me a hotel breakfast 🥞🧇🥯🥓😋

Mom 

They also have a spa here so really, we’re in no rush. 
Say hi to Ilya for us. 

Shane chokes out a laugh. “My parents say hi.” He feels Ilya’s answering smile form against the back of his neck.

He sets his phone on the table, and focuses his attention back on the game. In the time it’s taken him to text his parents, the Reapers scored another 2 goals. 

Shane makes a displeased noise and grabs Ilya’s arms, wrapping them more closely around himself. 

“You are not there, and they don't know what to do. They never deserved you,” Ilya says, holding him tight against his chest. 

—

Shane has a revelation, just about then. 

He’s never played a Voyageurs game without Hayden. 

There’d been times when one of them had been on IR, or Theriault had been experimenting so they hadn’t been on the same line, but they’d been still sitting next to each other on the bench, running commentary and gravitating to each other’s orbit. 

This is the first game in his entire life that Shane’s been forced not to play, and Hayden isn’t playing either, and their friendship feels so distant and unattainable it’s like someone scooped out a part of his heart with a rusty spoon.

He misses his best friend. 

He’d tried to call him earlier, when Ilya was in the shower–he’d gone out on the balcony and tapped Hayden's name in the call log, shuffling his feet as he waited for the ringback tone to stop and for his best friend to pick up. 

He hadn’t. 

But now Shane is here, cuddling with a 6’3’’ body pillow while the Voyageurs play some of the worst hockey Shane’s ever seen in his life, and he really wants to talk to his best friend. 

He decides to text Jackie instead, should have probably done it sooner considering what Hayden had told him yesterday. 

Shane

Hey Jackjack. How are you and all my favorite babies?

Jackie

What’s up buttercup
We’re all good, and you? Having the time of your life?

Shane 

For sure
How’s Hayden?

Jackie

Processing
I don’t know what happened, but I know he loves you
He’s always saying how he’s never had a best friend before, how glad he is it’s you. Whatever it is, you guys will be okay.

Shane 

I hope so.
And he can tell you
Tell him I said he can tell you, if he needs someone to talk to.

Jackie

He won’t. He knows that if he tells me, I’ll bring logic into the argument and make him realize he’s being unreasonable.
He would have to stop sulking and act like a grown up instead
But thank you sweetie pie ♥️

He knows he should probably tell her himself, but it doesn’t feel like the right moment. He wants to know things with Hayden will be okay first.

Shane

Thanks Jackie
And I’m sorry about the shitty things people are saying about you and me and him
if there is anything I can do for you and the kids, please let me know 

Jackie 

Well the girls do need new backpacks… jk… unless?
No but it’s all good boo, I promise. I’m more worried about your cute little face
Unless of course you’re actually in a secret relationship with my husband and planning on taking him away from me. 
I’ll fight you for him, these hands are rated E for everyone

Shane 

Of course. What type of backpacks? Are we still Paw Patrol people?
Also you can have him, he snores too much for me

Jackie 

I was kidding about the backpacks, relax uncle Shane 
Let’s fight over my husband now 😇 (but seriously, are you ok? You know you can talk to me pumpkin)
All this raw animal magnetism really gets me hot under the collar

She sends him a picture of Hayden asleep with his mouth open, head bonked on the couch and a line of drool making its way down his face. Shane is very careful to tilt his phone away from Ilya, so the other can’t add any more material to his Voyageurs’ 15th Best Player standup routine. 

Shane bites his lip, wondering if it’s okay to say the thing that came into his mind in response. Considering this is Jackie, and they’ve always talked like this between them, it probably is, even now.

Shane

I've seen him naked, I know all about his raw animal magnetism.

Jackie 

???
Need you to confirm real quick that it was a dick joke you just made??? 
jeez you out one guy via nanny cam and all of a sudden he's Samantha Jones

Shane blinks. Despite what some people think, he’s not a completely clueless hockey robot, so he knows that’s not a real person, for sure someone from a show or movie, but he’s not super sure which one, although he does have an inkling. He hates not understanding a joke. “Who's Samantha Jones?” he asks Ilya.

The other makes a sleepy noise. “Sex and the City? That Samantha Jones?” A beat. “Are you still texting your parents?” he sounds so incredulous it makes Shane laugh. 

“No, Jackie,” he says, showing the other his phone screen. “Hayden’s wife. We're close.”

Ilya looks at the text chain and makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, “You look at Pike when he's naked?”

He thunks his head against Ilya’s chest in response, “Not like that, just sometimes it's right fucking there staring at me. You're in locker rooms all year too, you know how it is.”

“Yes, I know you looked at me in the shower one second and got hard immediately. Is that what happens in the Voyageurs’ locker room?”

Shane rolls his eyes, and deadpans, “Yes, as captain I am very conscious about team morale, so I service each of them after a good game.”

Ilya barks out a surprised laugh, wrapping his arms more tightly around Shane. “Fuck, you are Samantha Jones.”

Shane wriggles out of the embrace and hits Ilya in the face with a pillow, laughing at the other’s scandalized expression. In a second, Ilya pounces, and they’re tumbling to the floor, Ilya pinning him to the ground with his hips. 

Shane cups a hand against Ilya’s face, and knows he’s smiling, can feel himself grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He feels so happy, in this impossible moment, living inside an impossible bubble they’ve created where it’s just them and the outside world might not exist at all. 

Ilya is smiling too, so sweet that Shane has to bite his lip to stop himself from saying something stupid just then, like I don’t think I could have survived today without you here or I don't think I've ever felt this way about anyone else. 

Ilya turns his face into Shane’s palm, presses a kiss there, on the scar on his pinky, on the tip of Shane’s crooked middle finger. He turns the hand over and kisses the mole there, rubs his thumb into it.

He holds Shane's gaze.

“You are beautiful when you smile,” he says, and Shane has no other option but to tilt his chin up and kiss the corner of Ilya's mouth. 

—

Shane is being tortured.

“Please,” he gasps, fingers clawing against the bedsheets.

Ilya hums, running a hand up and down Shane’s thigh while the other is busy opening him up. “Please what?”

Shane tries to breathe through the sensation of fingers rubbing over his prostate in merciless circles. He doesn’t want to come like this, wants to come on Ilya’s cock, but if the other keeps going there is absolutely no way Shane will be able to hold on. 

“Please, I’m ready, put–just fuck me.” 

Ilya hums again, spreading his own legs wider where he's kneeling, nudging Shane's legs open even further. He withdraws his fingers, Shane clenching at the sudden feeling of emptiness, but it’s just a second before the fingers are back, coated in more lube, and they somehow feel like more now. 

“How many–how many fingers–”

“Four,” Ilya says reverently. 

Shane moans–he has never taken four, they’ve never had time to get there, sometimes they barely make it to three before one of them moves things forward because their time is always running out.

It feels so fucking good, to be spread out like this, with Ilya towering above him, inside of him, working his fingers in and out of Shane in slow, controlled movements. Shane can read the way this is affecting the other in the strain of Ilya’s muscles, in the way he keeps licking his lips, greedy eyes caressing all over Shane’s body before tracking back to his ass, to where he’s fucking Shane open, has been for so long because they have time.

“Fuck, you’re so loose for me I could put my whole hand inside.”

Shane's moan is ripped from his throat unbidden, and he slaps a hand on his mouth to hide it but it's too late because Ilya is already looking at him with eyes so dark there is only a suggestion of color around the pupil.

“You would like that.”

It's not a question. 

Shane doesn't have the mental bandwidth to contemplate exactly why the thought of Ilya’s whole hand inside of him turns him on so fucking much, so he says “Please,” because he's always begging Ilya one way or another.

Ilya's breathing is labored, eyes roving over Shane's face as he tips forward to crash his mouth into Shane’s.

“Please what,” he murmurs again into the space between their lips before taking Shane’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucking.

Shane can’t breathe, but for once, for once this goddamned fucking week it’s not for something awful, it’s because he’s so turned on his dick hurts, because he needs Ilya to fuck him now, deep so he feels it in his throat, hard like he’s trying to put Shane through the mattress. 

“I want you inside,” he groans.

“I am.”

As if to prove that point, four fingers press up into his prostate as Ilya’s other hand pushes down onto his lower abdomen, making Shane jolt up and claw at the other’s shoulders. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna fucking come like this, with four fucking fingers inside of him and Ilya torturing him.

“Ilya,” he says, broken and exasperated, makes a blind grab for Ilya’s dick with trembling fingers to try and get him to cave in, but the other takes his hand and pins it by Shane's head instead.  

Goddamn it.

“I don’t wanna come like this, please Ilya,” he tries again, using whatever strength is left in him at that moment to free himself from the weight of Ilya’s body. He starts turning so he can get on his knees, push himself back and sink himself on Ilya’s cock if the other won’t do it, but Ilya pins him back down so he stays on his back instead.

“Like this” Ilya manhandles him until Shane’s legs are hiked on Ilya’s shoulders, and then he’s pressing forward into Shane, the head of his cock finally, finally catching on Shane’s rim. “Let me look at you.”

Shane’s head has been gloriously emptied of anything that is not the man above him, pushing forward until he’s inside Shane and they’re both groaning, Shane’s breath hitching as Ilya just keeps going, keeps sliding into him until there’s nowhere else to go and he feels so big, inside of Shane, in his field of vision, in his head.

Shane buries a hand in Ilya's curls, pulls him down for a kiss. “Please,” he says again, begging for things he doesn't think he's allowed to ask, but desperately wants anyway.

“Tell me,” Ilya says, an edge of desperation in his voice. “Say it, Shane, please, say it and I’ll say it back, I'll give it to you, I'll give you anything you want–” 

His voice catches on the last word, and he folds down to touch their foreheads together, showering kisses over Shane’s chin, nose, lips, sliding his tongue over Shane’s mouth and forcing his way inside as soon as Shane opens up, sucks Shane’s tongue and Shane can’t think and it’s so good, he wants to say it, but he can’t think, Ilya’s hands everywhere on his body, scorching hot like a brand.

“Ilya, please,” he doesn't know what he's asking for now, just that he wants it, something, anything, everything– “Please, I need you, plea–” the next thrust hits his prostate just right and he feels tears rolling down his cheeks now, looks up at Ilya and wants to fucking say it, because what else is there for him if not Ilya’s thrusts and the way their bodies respond to each other, pushing and pulling until the orbit draws them close, closer, closest, until they collide and Shane can’t figure out where he ends and where the other begins. 

Shane looks up at Ilya through tears, wants Ilya to mark him and own him and show him off and let the world know that there is no one else that is ever going to compare, no one else is ever going to be enough for him, never–

Ilya’s hand cups his jaw, thumb on his chin. He looks at him, eyes so dark and beautiful and he’s so gone for this man, so fucking overwhelmed by the sheer volume of what he feels that he almost misses it when Ilya uses the thumb on his chin to push Shane's mouth open, looks at him, and says;

“You are mine,” then spits into Shane's mouth. 

Shane comes so hard he whites out.

—

March 2016
Friday, 07:46 a.m.
Montreal 

Waking up next to Ilya Rozanov feels like a religious experience. 

He looks cast in marble as he rests against the pillows, face relaxed and peaceful, sunlight filtering through the windows, gilding his skin. 

Looking at him almost hurts.

Shane raises a hand to trace the perfect slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the arch of his brow. 

You are mine too, he thinks. 

What's gonna happen when Ilya has to leave? When he goes back to Boston, to a life that includes Shane only tangentially; two parallel lines intersecting only a handful of times each year.

What’s gonna happen to Shane’s body when he can’t reach out and touch Ilya whenever he wants, press himself against the other? What’s gonna happen to Shane’s heart when Ilya is not there with him, not his, gone somewhere Shane can’t follow?

What indeed. 

He curls up towards the other, gives himself permission to keep watching Ilya as he sleeps, but doesn’t touch him anymore. 

—

“What’s that?” Shane says as he walks into the kitchen. 

Ilya slides a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, “Breakfast.”

There’s an almost identical bowl on Ilya's side of the table, except his, on top of apple slices and a dusting of cinnamon, also has a generous helping of maple syrup. Shane frowns. 

“I have maple syrup?” 

“I found it in there,” Ilya says, pointing at a cabinet positioned so high above the fridge that Shane never even looks at it. 

“Oh. I thought that was empty. What else is in there?”

Ilya arches a brow, “A box of Betty Crocker’s devil’s food, a packet of Biscoffs, and condensed milk.”

“Ah,” Shane says, settling into the chair and taking a sip of the green tea that’s been placed next to the bowl. “That's probably my dad’s then. He has a sweet tooth.” 

Ilya has enough common sense not to ask why Shane’s father is hiding sweets in Shane’s own house, and Shane’s grateful for that because he doesn’t feel like explaining that if he has sweets in the house it’s not gonna be a fun time for his mind or body. He can ask his dad to move the food to another mysterious cabinet once Shane has his parents over to talk. 

“Good for me,” Ilya simply says, grabbing his spoon and loading it up. “I take a bite, you take a bite, yes?” 

Shane freezes, looking up. “What?”

“Food. I made the same, so is equal. I eat a bite, you eat one. Deal?”

Shane’s brain goes static and quiet for a second, rebooting. He doesn’t know what to do with the dull ache under his ribs, with the way his throat closes up. 

Ilya is so gentle with him here, has been ever since he arrived the other night, and Shane’s in trouble because he can feel himself getting used to it, thinks he wouldn’t mind getting sliced in half and letting Ilya claw his way inside Shane’s chest, burrow under his ribs, take up permanent residence there, tucked beneath the bone where nothing could ever pry him loose. 

He clears his throat. “Deal.”

It's slow going, mostly because Shane can’t seem to stay in the room, his mind wandering further afield with every spoonful of oatmeal, and he's thinking about the food, the calories, and the danger of tying all of this together—the oatmeal, Ilya, this morning, the feeling of being cared for.

He lets his head drift through each thought without latching on to any particular one, and eats whenever Ilya does.

—

Realistically speaking, it can’t last. 

Like, the whole thing. 

It just can’t.

Not to be overly dramatic, but they’re both professional hockey players on two competing teams’ rosters, both playing for a homophobic league that has a history of erasing any evidence of its players being anything other than appropriately masculine. 

It’s not like this thing–this anomaly between them, these two days of abnormal behavior that are keeping Shane upright–it can’t continue. 

Ilya is going to leave, and Shane is going to have to let him, and he’s going to have to pretend it doesn’t tear him in two to do so.

—

“I like C.C., she's very direct with what she wants.” 

Shane can't believe he spent twenty-eight thousand Canadian dollars (before taxes) on a 77-inch television just so Ilya Rozanov could watch The Nanny on it as he spoons Shane into an early grave. 

Ilya had asked if they could watch a couple more episodes before making use of Shane’s home gym equipment, but a couple more episodes had turned into six, into eight, twelve, and then Ilya had plied him with kisses into lying down on his side, and the gym had been all but forgotten. 

Now Ilya was pressed against the back of the couch, Shane fastened to him back to chest, arms curled tight around Ilya’s, where they rest against his midsection. 

They're pressed so close together that, as they watch, Shane feels Ilya's chuckles reverberate through him by osmosis. He feels the play of Ilya's muscles down to the smallest shift as Ilya rewinds scenes over and over to listen again, muttering Niles' lines back to himself in an amused whisper, lips brushing against the shell of Shane's ear the entire time.

Shane would let this man peel his ribcage open like a tin of sardines.

“Are you taking chirping lessons from a 90s sitcom?”

Ilya pinches his side, making him squirm. “Is good for learning, they talk fast but clear, with different accents. Lot of specific jokes about things I don't know much of.” He clears his throat, almost embarrassed at the admission. “It’s good.”

Shane hums, burrowing further into Ilya's side. 

He’s never going to admit it, partly because he thinks it would come across as condescending, partly because he knows Ilya would just mock him for saying it, but Shane’s so impressed with the way Ilya has learned to wrap himself around English to the point where he’s not only so good at terrorizing other players on the ice, but also so good at making Shane laugh constantly with his deadpan humor and dry delivery. 

By now Shane has learned that Ilya cutting prepositions and pronouns from his sentences is not done because he doesn't know them, but because his brain’s thinking so quickly sometimes that the poor insufficient English language just can’t keep up with him. 

Shane knows that if he ever were to learn Russian, he wouldn't fare nearly as well as Ilya has. But maybe he could try? For Ilya, he could–he could try. He could do it. 

Shane shakes the thought away, grabs one of Ilya’s hands and nuzzles against it, the other’s fingers immediately moving to caress his face as the canned laughter on TV serves as a background for this surreal tableau they’re forming. 

Cuddling on the couch with Ilya Rozanov is understated in its simplicity, but also a cosmic improbability that Shane feels down to the very marrow. 

It might be one of the best moments of his life–the best, even. 

So, of course it doesn’t last. 

—

It starts hitting Shane in waves, the domino effect of events that led them to these moments together.

One second he's thinking about Ilya's fingers rubbing the skin of his collarbone soothingly, the next he's thinking about Ilya being there, about why Ilya drove to Montreal late at night in the middle of a game week. 

You asked, he thinks. You called. You called because you couldn't breathe. You couldn't breathe because your life's in pieces, and he came to pick them up.

Each time he feels his thoughts starting to spiral a little too fast, Ilya's hand moves to rest above his heart, fingers tapping against the skin there. 

“Breathe,” he says. 

Shane does, and relaxes back into Ilya's back, is rewarded each time with a kiss to the top of his head. 

After a while, Ilya doesn't even have to speak the word anymore; he starts breathing a little too fast, fingers gripping Ilya’s a little too tight, and Ilya squeezes his pec, tapping his fingers against the skin. Shane breathes. They keep watching television. 

Shane knows he’s probably fucked, well and truly, because Ilya is going to leave, and what happens when he does? 

How’s Shane supposed to go back to the way things were, when he knows there is a way of things where Ilya holds him close, and makes sure he doesn’t get too in his own head? 

What's he supposed to do with all these feelings? Where is he supposed to put them? What do you do with them? How do people live like this, all the time, in all the books, and all the songs, and all the movies, how do people breathe when they feel like this?

It’s insane. People are insane. 

He’s fucking insane, lying here in Ilya Rozanov’s arms thinking Shane’s–he’s what, he’s–he can’t be, because if he is, if he really is, then it’s a problem, because one shoe is on the floor but where’s the other? He can’t see it, but he knows it’s gotta be around here somewhere. 

Six years meeting every few months to fuck, and now what, now he thinks Ilya Rozanov’s gonna stay here and become his fucking WAG or something? He’s gonna–he’s gonna what, retire so they can be together, and move to Montreal, and meet Jackie and Hayden and what, come out? While he’s fucking Russian? While he has family in Moscow he visits every summer? 

Fuck no. 

There is a reason why they don’t do this, don’t blur the line, don’t call each other, don’t say each other’s names, because once you blur the line you’re on the other side of the Nile, and the grass is so much greener, the air so much sweeter, but this isn’t real, it can’t be real, because if it’s real then he has to think about realizing a future where he somehow is able to put Shane and Hollander in the same room, drag one out into the light and make sure he doesn’t annihilate the other in the process. It’s so much fucking work, it’s fucking terrifying, so he can’t–can’t be-

You know you are, says a voice inside his head. You know what this is. 

Fuck you, thinks Shane, and keeps watching The Nanny.

—

There is a joke in there somewhere about immovable objects and unstoppable forces, but Shane finds he’s getting very good at not naming what he is in any of this, so it only makes sense that, when the two do collide, it’s a seismic event of cataclysmic proportions. 

—

“Who’s Shannon?” 

Ilya’s phone has been buzzing on the coffee table for a while, a series of texts lighting up the screen. Shane’s really tried to keep watching the show and let it go, but the messages just keep coming, and a knot of dread has formed in the pit of his stomach. 

Behind him, Ilya keeps moving his hand across Shane's lower abdomen in a slow caress. “Who?”

“Shannon. She sent you like 10 texts in a row.”

Ilya kisses the top of his head. “No one, just some girl from a club in Boston.”

He feels himself tense up, and knows Ilya feels it too, because he kisses his head again, taps his fingers against Shane's chest, signaling he should breathe. 

He tries.

Maybe not that hard, but he tries.

“She sent another text just now. Maybe it's important, maybe you should look at them?” 

Ilya heaves a sigh as Shane reaches forward and grabs the other’s phone, holding it in the air above them for Ilya to pick up.

“1051410.” 

“What's that?”

“The pass code. You read her texts, I don't care.”

Shane bites his lip. 

Does he care? 

Kinda, yeah. Maybe it’s stupid and immature, but if he's cuddled up on the couch with Ilya he doesn't really want to sit there and watch the evidence of other people Ilya’s fucking light up his phone. 

This Shannon might be “just some girl from a club in Boston,” but Ilya has slept with her, that's the subtext here, Shane's not stupid. When did he sleep with her? Was it the same night Shane had called and asked him to come over? 

Did he ruin Ilya's night when he called? Maybe he had plans with this Shannon, and now she was texting him fifty times because she was mad.

Did she matter? Was she someone Ilya slept with once, or was she like him, someone Ilya had kept going back to for years, reaching out across countries and continents for her? Why was she texting him so many fucking times, who was she, fuck.

Shane fails the biometrics lock on Ilya's phone, and taps the digits of his pass code when prompted.

Shannon

baby I miss you

He closes his eyes, clenching his jaw so he doesn't say anything, molars grinding against each other. Who the fuck is she, calling Ilya Rozanov ‘baby’ like she can–can she? Did he tell her she could?–calling Ilya Rozanov ‘baby’ like he’s hers, when he’s not, he’s fucking not–isn’t he though? Maybe? Maybe she can fucking say it, maybe she’s not a fucking coward who’s afraid of her own shadow, so maybe–maybe Ilya Rozanov is hers, and Shane’s nothing but an idiot, a moron, a fucking dumbass.

Shannon

I need your big dick inside of me
will you give it to me?

There's two pictures then.

A painfully beautiful woman in red lingerie, kneeling on a bed in front of a mirror.

Her hair is so long, curled so perfectly. It looks so soft. Shane's by no means a connoisseur of the female body, but hers looks unreal, with each curve covered in lace. She looks like a painter has spent his whole life refining every feature until he's achieved perfection, and she’s what you see on the canvas once he’s put down the brush.

Shane knows it's coming, but hurts himself with it anyway. 

The second picture is her still kneeling on the bed, but she's not wearing a bra now, and the hand not holding the phone is inside her panties. 

Miles and miles of skin and not a single fucking flaw in sight. Of course she gets to fucking call him baby. Of course he’s fucking hers. 

Shannon 

will you come over tonight? my pussy feels empty without you

Shane clears his throat then, decides he’s seen enough to last him several lifetimes, and takes care to set the phone face down on the table instead of following his first impulse and throwing it against the television, where The Nanny is still playing, because they're supposed to be watching, because Rozanov fucking likes The Nanny.

“She said she misses your, uh-quote, big dick, and wants you to go fuck her tonight.”

Rozanov snorts, “Guess you have something in common then, uh?”

Fuck you, Shane thinks. Fuck you for being hers, and for making me lie here thinking I'm–when you’re–

“Maybe you should. You're leaving today, no? If you drive fast enough, you can still make it to hers tonight.”

Behind him, Rozanov goes absolutely still. When he talks, his voice is low and uncharacteristically empty and wrong, but Shane doesn’t let himself care. 

“You are doing this on purpose, but I don't understand why.”

Shane shrugs, untangling himself from Rozanov's arms and getting up from the couch. 

There's an agitated buzz under his skin, the same one he feels when he's on the ice sometimes and the other team has an enforcer, or a player known for having a fuse a bit too short. The same buzz he feels when he’s gearing up for a fight.

He grabs a can of 7up from the fridge, because at this point fuck 7up, he's never gonna touch another can of this shit in his life without thinking of this or the last few days, but who fucking cares, 7up tastes like spicy sewage anyway.

“I'm not doing anything,” he lies badly.

When he looks back, Ilya is frowning, phone in hand, and Shane’s blood goes from freezing to boiling in the span of a second.

“Are you fucking texting her right now?” 

Rozanov’s head snaps up, and now he looks pissed too. 

Good, Shane thinks. Let’s fucking go. 

“No I’m not fucking–did you look at her?”

Shane scoffs, “Yeah, she’s really beautiful, congratulations.”

The other gets up from the couch, reaching the kitchen in a couple of strides. “Shane, look at her,” he says, pushing his phone under Shane’s nose. He swats it away, but Rozanov doesn’t drop his hand. 

“I’m good, thanks. Don’t need a second look.” 

Rozanov shakes his phone at Shane, anger in his voice. “Fucking look at her, now,” he says again, and Shane’s so fucking weak for that voice, because he looks again. 

She’s still objectively breathtaking. Probably a model. Hadn’t Vulture written an article once, ranking all the women Rozanov had slept with? The known ones, at any rate. Shane had thought it was disgusting, ranking women like that, but had read on anyway, taking in the details of each one. More than half were models. All gorgeous. 

“Yep, she’s still naked with a hand down her underwear. You must be proud, she’s so hot for your big dick she can’t even wait and has to text you and send not one but two pictures.”

He’s breathing hard now, and he’s so fucking angry–at Rozanov, sure, but more than that he’s angry at himself. 

How many times, how many fucking times had he texted the other, told him he missed his dick, wanted to have it in his mouth, in his hand, in his ass, wanted to be filled up, how many times–and all the while, all the while Shane is nothing but another number in Rozanov’s phone, Shane and Shannon, so he can have whichever he wants based on whether he wants cock or pussy that day. 

She asked him to go to hers that night. Hadn’t Shane done the exact same fucking thing just two days ago? Where was the difference? 

Fucking stupid, you’re fucking stupid, he thinks again.

“Shane,” Rozanov’s voice is hard, echoes dully in Shane’s ears. “Her hair is black. Her eyes are brown. She has freckles. What the fuck do you think that means?”

Shane drags a hand through his hair in frustration. “You have a type, so fucking what?! I look like her, great, so happy for you, do you get like, discounts at Target if you fuck ten of us and bring in proof?” 

Rozanov shoots him a scathing look, “I do have type, the type is you, you–you stupid fuck, she looks like you, not opposite!” 

It’s the first time in Shane’s life that he’s heard the other raise his voice off the ice. 

It jars him so much that Shane’s brain needs a second to process the different layers of information. He takes long enough that Rozanov starts shaking his head, muttering to himself in Russian as he walks to a stool, makes a grab for it but then turns around instead and goes back to Shane. 

“You don’t get it, do you. You’re so stuck inside your head you don’t even fucking see me.”

Shane’s still breathing hard, pleading with his brain to think faster, to properly measure the weight of what Rozanov just said, to parse the meaning underneath this whole argument, because–what are they saying, what are they doing to each other? 

His answer comes out half broken in a whisper. “I do see you.”

The other shakes his head, “No, no you really don’t. I’m here, Shane. I told coach I had family emergency and needed a few days to go to Russia, but I don’t see Saint Basil’s from fucking window because I’m here with you.” 

He swallows around the knot in his throat. “Ilya-”

“Don’t fucking Ilya me. Is not a free pass, doesn’t work like that.” 

“I'm sorry, I don’t–” I'm scared, he doesn’t say. I’m scared because when you leave there’s not gonna be anything holding me together, and I'm not ready to let you go.

“You don’t what.” 

He laughs, high pitched and off-kilter. “I don’t know how to say it-”

“Try.”

Shane hugs himself, feels tears welling up in his eyes and wills himself not to cry, because fuck, he feels so stupid, he doesn’t need to cry on top of everything else, but it’s a battle he knows he’s gonna lose. 

When you leave, I am going to miss you, he thinks, It's going to kill me, and you’ll be gone, and I will think about you, and miss you. It will fucking kill me.  

Ilya’s eyes look at the wetness in his and he walks closer, raising a hand towards Shane’s face but stopping midway through instead. Right now, Shane wants to feel that touch on his face more than he wants to play hockey, and that’s what he was afraid of, wasn’t it? It’s already killing him, and Ilya is still there, in Shane’s condo. 

What had they done to each other?

“I called you,” Ilya says, voice dragging like gravel. He almost sounds as broken as Shane feels. “I called you and you asked me to come, and I came. I am here, Shane. Do you see me? Standing here in your kitchen where I made breakfast for us?”

He shakes his head sadly before bringing up his hand again like he can’t stop himself, cups Shane’s face and dries the tears there. 

How many times has he done this in the past two days? Shane has truly lost count, but each time it’s made him feel like he was important, like he was good enough for Ilya to care, and it had only made him want to be better, to deserve the kindness and give it back, to hold Ilya and show him, if he couldn’t say it, show how much he–

“Do you know what it means, that I am here and not in Boston?”

Shane swallows around the knot in his throat, tries to get the tears under control. 

“I hold you, and I make sure you eat, and I fuck you, and you look at me like you know, but you don’t say it, and it–it makes me feel like you don’t want–ty menya khochesh'? Ty mozhesh'?”

Shane doesn’t know Russian, but he does know that he wants this, wants him, has only ever wanted one thing his whole life with the same intense magnitude, and that thing is hockey, and hockey is where he’s free, where he fits, where he’s himself. 

Ilya is too, he knows even if it scares him, he knows Ilya’s that place inside of Shane where the noise of all things grows quiet and he can breathe. Where he feels safe. At home. 

Fuck, Shane thinks.

He looks at Ilya and he doesn’t know what the other sees but it must be bad, because Ilya deflates, rubs his eyes in tired defeat. 

“I'm gonna go out for a bit.” 

“What? No. No, don't leave. Please, Ilya–please don’t leave.”

The knee-jerk reaction of his body terrifies him, the flood of undiluted panic at the thought of Ilya leaving, spine going rigid and breath skipping, but he’s going to have to let Ilya go, Shane can’t stop this, but he can’t keep crashing out either, he’s gonna have a fucking heart attack and die and what the fuck is Ilya supposed to do then? Just move on with his life without ever having heard Shane say that he–that he fucking–

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is firm, commands his attention immediately. “Look at me.” 

He does. 

“I am going outside for little bit. I am coming back soon. Do you understand?”

Shane forces himself to start counting and regulating his breathing. He's not going to panic, because Ilya is not leaving. “You are coming back.”

Ilya nods. “I am coming back. I just need to go outside a bit.” 

“Okay,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “Okay, yeah. Okay.” 

“Okay. I go now, but I’m coming back.” 

“Yes,” Shane says, and watches Ilya grab his coat and Shane’s toque, and walk outside Shane's condo. 

—

Maybe they’re not the immovable object and the unstoppable force. 

Maybe they’re more like magnets, polar opposites that exist separately in the same universe, and if you get them too close to each other they snap together, drawn in by an equal force that binds them until one or the other has to use violence to pull away. 

Maybe it’s a bit more like that. 

Maybe, if neither of them pulls hard enough, they’ll just stay attached. Maybe staying and not pulling is enough to make it okay–as okay as it can be when the truth of the matter is that this–whatever it is–is impossible. 

But they are magnets, and it’s their job to be drawn to each other. 

—

Shane 

I know you don’t want to talk to me. Jackie says you're processing. 
It's fine. I understand, and I’m sorry you found out like that.
I just really need you to be okay with this
once you’re done processing, I mean
please, hayd 
I know it’s really fucked up, and it doesn’t make sense to you, but it does to me. 
you’re my best friend, this has always been true no matter what
and I hope it’s still true, because I need my best friend to trust me

Shane worries the skin of his thumb with his teeth, leg bouncing up and down. 

It had hit him at some point after Ilya left, while he was waiting for the kettle to boil and thinking about the other making sure Shane knew he was coming back. 

This thing wasn't going to go anywhere anytime soon. 

It had planted a seed in Shane's life when he was eighteen, maybe even the year before, and had done nothing but grow and grow, roots wrapping around Shane's spine and up into his brain so tightly that no shears, no amount of tearing was ever going to untangle his body and mind from the truth of the matter.

No one made Shane feel like Ilya Rozanov did. 

And yeah, Shane's still outed, and Ilya’s still Russian, and they're still living in two different countries, busy being Hollander and Rozanov, but this thing, this masterpiece of ivy and heather isn’t going to budge. 

So Shane needed his best friend to be okay with it, because otherwise Shane would have to choose, and he didn’t want to have to do that. Didn’t want to linger on the fact he had already chosen–in the back of his mind he already knew, and maybe he was a horrible person because of this choice, but he was tired of pulling, tired of pretending that pulling away each time wasn’t death by a thousand cuts.  

So, he'd texted his best friend. 

He doesn’t get a reply, not really, but he understands the emoji for the olive branch it is, and is content to just sit with that for now. 

Hayd

👍🏻

—

When Ilya comes back, Shane’s in the laundry room, pretending to be a perfectly adjusted member of society who hasn’t spiraled a single second his entire life. Look at him, he’s definitely not spiralling right now, he’s just washing his delicates.  

“Hi,” Ilya says from where he’s leaning against the door. 

Shane almost drops the laundry beads to the floor in his haste to turn around. 

“You came back,” he says, then bites his tongue and traps the ‘thank you’ behind the cage of his teeth, because that’s not a response a perfectly adjusted member of society would give. 

Ilya nods. “I said I would.” 

Shane sets the laundry beads back on the shelf. 

“I got you something,” the other says, pushing a Maison Birks bag in Shane’s direction. 

He blinks. “You got me something?”

When it’s clear Shane isn’t going to make a move towards the bag, Ilya sighs and walks over instead, taking Shane’s hand and dropping the gift in it. 

“What is it?” Shane says, eyeing the blue velvet box inside. Barring some of his sponsors (who were contractually obligated, so they didn’t really count anyway), no one has even given him jewelry before. That’s what’s in the box, right? It’s either jewelry or Gwyneth Paltrow's head, and the box isn’t big enough for the latter. 

He spirals a little just then–first time in his life that’s ever happened, how curious–because Birks are a jeweler’s, he goes there all the time to buy cufflinks for his dad’s collection, so he knows what he’s looking at. And jewelers make things people wear on their bodies, like–like rings, right, but this is not a ring? No, the box is too big for that. Thankfully not big enough for Gwyneth Paltrow’s head, but definitely not ring-small either. 

Not that he’s thinking about rings, when the mere thought of disclosing the full width of his bottomless feelings to Ilya still scares him more than he’d like. But still.

He shakes himself, and reaches his hand inside for the box, clicks it open. 

It’s a bracelet. 

It’s a golden chain bracelet with alternating large oval links and smaller connecting ones, like a softened industrial chain refined into something elegant. The links look delicate but also sturdy and big enough that Shane can worry the tip of his finger inside one of them and trace the inner rim, which he tries doing immediately, unable to stop. 

It’s a bracelet that looks like it wants you to know it’s there, sitting on someone’s wrist in all its splendor, but it’s also humble enough that it looks elegant instead of flashy. It's a bracelet that knows its worth, but isn't about to brag.

Some of the larger links have the name “dinh van” etched onto it. Shane has no idea who that is, but their bracelet is beautiful. 

“You bought me a bracelet.” 

Ilya nods, clears his throat. “Yes. So… if you feel worried about your hands again, you can…” he shrugs. 

Shane is not a perfectly adjusted member of society, and he can’t breathe. 

“You can look at it, and then you know. Those are your hands, nothing to worry about.” 

He says it so smoothly, so nonchalantly, and Shane doesn’t know how he always does that, how Ilya can say these things without imploding, without combusting, without crying, without–

“Let’s make a deal,” Ilya says.

Shane blinks, looks up at him and has absolutely no idea how the fuck people fall in love every day like it’s a thing they look forward to, a pleasure even, because he’s fucking dying, he’s in love and fucking dying from it. 

“You wear this, and don’t sleep with anyone else. I go back to Boston, and don’t sleep with anyone else.” 

Shane nods; he can do that. They can do that. Sorry, Shannon, he thinks distractedly.  

Ilya’s hand cups Shane’s face, and he leans into the touch. Ilya’s hands are always so gentle with him. It’s fucking torture. He hates it.

“And we text. We call. Not just if you are having a panic attack, yes. And we don’t say it now,” he continues, taking a deep breath and rubbing the skin on the apples of Shane’s cheeks again. 

My freckles, Shane thinks with a jolt of understanding. It was my freckles the entire time. 

Shane nods again, “Okay.”

“And next time we see each other, if–if we still feel it, if we still want to say it… then we figure it out.” 

Shane’s breath catches. A pronoun has never sounded so earth-shattering before. 

He knows the chances of him not feeling it–two, three, five months or five years from now, really, are less than zero, but they’re making a deal now, and the deal is clear cut, and it makes something in Shane go very still. 

“Okay,” he says again. “We text, and we call. And–and I wear this,” he says pointing at the bracelet. “

“Yes,” Ilya says. 

Shane bites his lip, looks up at the other. He offers his wrist to Ilya; “Can you help me put it on?” 

Ilya does, kissing the racing pulse on Shane’s wrist as he clasps the bracelet closed. 

—

Ilya leaves late in the afternoon, promises in between kisses to text once he’s crossed the border, and Shane watches him go. 

It hurts, because there’s no way it wasn’t going to, especially now, but Shane traces the links of the bracelet with his fingers, and thinks that yeah, he can do this. 

They can do this. 

—

That evening, when he goes to open his fridge with the intent of figuring out what food will be safe enough to eat in his current emotional state, Shane is smacked in the face by the presence of another Maison Birks box there, sitting on top of Friday’s meal prep containers. 

He laughs, grabbing the package, then goes to close the fridge, but instead makes the split-second decision to grab one of the Friday meals as well. He was going to ration them a little, given his nutritionist hadn’t showed up, but then again this is not Verdun in 1916 and he’s a millionaire with a Real Canadian Superstore PC Plus Card, so he figures he can probably swing a few bucks to get some food this week. 

His dad would probably love going shopping for groceries on Shane’s behalf, and who is Shane to deny his dad the simple pleasures of life. 

He clicks the box open as his food reheats in the microwave, and laughs again. Nestled on a small satin pillow, sit two silver maple leaf-shaped cufflinks. 

Shane waits for the food to be ready before staging it next to the jewelry box. Just in case the message is not clear enough, Shane sticks a fork in the salmon. 

He snaps a picture, captions it “Thank you,” and lets it bridge the 492 km between him and Ilya. 

—

Farah calls him later, around 8 p.m. when he’s sitting on the couch watching the Las Vegas Neons play against Toronto. It’s Marchant’s first game in his new Neons jersey. 

He knows an 8 p.m. call doesn’t mean she’s just checking up on him, so Shane steadies himself before answering. 

“Hey Farah, how are you?” 

She hums, “Not bad, not bad. Been thinking about how disappointed my grandma was when I told her I wasn’t gonna go to acting school. Can’t seem to remember why I went into law instead. You?” 

He chuckles. “Really enjoying my new status as a hate crime victim.”

Farah laughs delightedly, “Good for you,” she says, and then takes a deep breath. “Okay, Shane. We said we would start being honest, and we wouldn’t bullshit each other, so this is me being honest and not bullshitting you.” 

He swallows down his anxiety, adrenaline making him vibrate with anticipation. Come on, Hollander; you can do this. 

“Hit me,” he says. 

“I need your trade list by tomorrow evening at the latest. Montreal have decided to let you go.”

He knew it was going to happen, but fuck if it doesn’t kill him anyway.

Chapter End Notes

if I had a dollar for each time I've ended a chapter on a cliffhanger I'd have 3 dollars—which isn't a lot, but it's weird I've done it three times.
 

Meanwhile in Boston poor Shannon’s phone pings like

do not text me again
nice pictures thank you
you are very beautiful
have nice day

 

HUGE thank yous to:

✨ DefNotAmelia_Pond on Reddit for coming up with the Carolina Reapers
✨ MPKHon Reddit for coming up with the Las Vegas Neons

 

🌝 Wanna buy yourself Shane’s bracelet? No problem, here it is! And it only costs CAD 15,390, so that's like, totally affordable 🩷

🌝 Not an NHL millionaire? Try the cufflinks instead. You loser.

Chapter 4: wave goodbye to the end of beginning

Chapter Summary

Hey, hey pssst...

Hayden Pike writes Shayden RPF.

Pass it on.

Chapter Notes

hello babe you just look so pretty today????? if i had your cheekbones, the world would not know peace. not that it does right now, but like, you know what i mean.

 

⚠️ this chapter features a reference to dubcon. It's not graphic, and it revolves around Shane's internalized homophobia more than the act itself. It's in the scene that contains the only reference to Brossard in the whole chapter (second line of the scene itself - super easy to find if you CTRL + F). You can skip the scene if you want; it adds more context to the relationship between Shane and JJ, and obviously contextualizes Shane's thoughts more, but to be honest you can skip it and the world will still be flat tomorrow. I mean, the sun will still spin around the Earth, I mean the moon landing will still be fake, I MEAN...???????

(I'm just joking. You can skip it 🩷)
(also no, I'm not a conspiracy theorist)
(unless the conspiracies are about Hayden making a Reddit account to vote for himself in the poll)

👉🏻 chapter has no beta, all mistakes are mine and frankly atp this heatwave has fried me enough that I don't care, oops. I'm sure tomorrow I will be horrified by what I just said, but that's a problem for future Ari. Sucks to be her, HA.

🫶🏻 Jul 10th update 👉🏻 this has now been beta'd by the lovely songofeurydice! ♥️ any remaining crimes against the language are solely my own.

This is an apology letter to the both of us

for how long it took me to let things go.

It’s not my intention to make such a production

of the emptiness between us,

playing tuba on the tombstone of the soprano

to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.

It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there,

and that you meant it,

but I guess some people just chew with their mouth open.

*

(Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars - Buddy Wakefield)

March 2016
Saturday, 06:23 a.m.
Montreal

Shane has been staring at his notepad for ten minutes.

The only thing currently committed to paper is NO TAMPA (Kiras, Bluebell, Patterson too?)—a testament to the fact that, while every player in the NHL is essentially a mouthy toddler in skates, some of them grew up meaner. Everyone knows about them, but nobody discusses their sins publicly. 

The league is very good at protecting its players when it's beneficial to do so.

Farah wants a list of three to five teams he’d be willing to waive for, as well as a list of requests to make on his behalf—in reality she’d called them demands, but he might just be too Canadian for that ‘kidnapper in a hostage situation’ whole vibe. 

In the last hour, she’s also e-mailed him an information packet with her own assessment of which teams would, in her opinion, be a good fit. Shane had hoped it would trigger some sort of lightbulb moment, but her suggestions are basically the same as what he had in mind anyway, so he’s not really managed to make any headway. 

At this point, he should just write down what he wants, and be done with it. 

Instead, he’s been staring at the page in front of him, toying with Ilya’s bracelet and looking out the window, grieving for the living. 

He was eighteen when the Voyageurs drafted him, a literal child. He’d felt so grown-up at the time, so mature when they’d immediately doted on him, talked about him in terms of franchise player and generational talent, when they’d made sure to create and rearrange lines and plays to suit him first, and everyone else second. 

At the time, it had felt like such a crowning achievement, to finally become what he’d spent his life working towards. 

He feels so stupid now, looking back at the crushing weight of words like franchise player and generational talent, at the sheer number of responsibilities that kept getting piled onto his back like rocks, each heavier than the last, until he'd been crushed beneath the cairn of what it actually meant to be all those things.

To try to be everything for everyone. 

At eighteen, names like Rolex, Reebok, and CCM had meant image first and money second. The more sponsorships Yuna Hollander secured, the more Shane felt like he'd made it—and the more positive reinforcement from the people around him, the more his public persona had crystallized into Hollander. 

He was an asset first—the asset—a commodity, a piece of merchandise whose face could make millions for any given brand. But he also strived to mean something for millions of people who looked at hockey like you look at the stars; a place you want to reach, but never can, because it wasn’t meant for you.

Shane knew he was lucky. Luckier than most, incredibly wealthy and working his dream job. But still. It felt like he’d been paying the price of it far too long now, and there wasn’t supposed to be a price–not like this, not so high he was drowning in receipts, with a card that had started to decline.

How do you reconcile an image you’ve spent years carefully curating with the truth of who you are at your core? Peel back layer after layer after layer until you get to the bone and you’re left with a completely different person to look at. 

How did people do this in, like, real life? Normal people, people whose mothers hadn’t sat them down and explained that we can't talk Japanese at home, only with grandma Tōru and grandpa Kyō, whose father hadn't sat him down on the porch one summer and explained there was a list of things he wasn't supposed to do in public, like shuffle back and forth as he thought, or hum to himself when he felt stressed out. 

He wasn’t even twenty-five yet, was basically a glorified child playing with a stick and getting paid millions for it—and he felt ancient, like the structural integrity of his body had been compromised, like something load-bearing was a moment or two away from collapsing.

He wondered, sometimes. 

What it would have been like, to grow up as Shane, rather than Hollander. 

Maybe that version of him wouldn’t have found it so hard to accept the parts of himself that hadn’t been carefully built through PR strategy meeting notes—so inconvenient and at odds with who he was supposed to be that Shane had relegated them to the dark.

Maybe there was a Shane somewhere in the multiverse that hadn’t been so afraid of things like being attracted to men that he’d allowed himself to flourish and wear a label, rather than retract further and further into the closet. 

Maybe Universe-616 Shane would have come out to his friends of his own accord, and managed to retain said friends in the process. 

Shane looks down at his hands, suddenly aware of the way he’s been obsessively working the pen’s clicker. He stops, setting the pen on the notepad and lying his hands flat on the cool marble of the kitchen island. 

Would I have met you? he thinks as he looks at the sunlight glinting off his bracelet. Is there a universe out there where I don’t meet you? 

He dismisses the thought immediately. 

He’d much rather think about a universe where maybe neither of them play hockey, and he’s like, a very capable paramedic with the highest pre-hospital success rate in the county, and Rozanov is the equally capable and infuriatingly handsome response paramedic everyone loves to hate, or something like that. 

There was comfort in thinking of millions of universes, each containing a version of them that existed separately but wandered in tighter and tighter circles until they finally intersected. He preferred this. Preferred it to a universe where Shane was perfectly at peace with himself, but had never met Ilya.

—

He’s just finished his list when the doorbell rings. This time, he knows it’s Hayden because Jackie has texted him about 15 minutes ago, since she’s smarter than anyone who’s come to Shane’s house in the past 72 hours and actually warned him in advance. 

They stare at each other in the doorway for a couple of seconds before Hayden hands him a Get Well Soon! card where a mouse is hugging an injured baby duckling. 

“I told the girls you were sick and that’s why you couldn’t come to Friday dinner,” he says, brushing the back of his neck anxiously. 

“Oh.”

Shane takes the card and motions for Hayden to come in, smiles to himself at the way this time Hayden takes off his shoes before moving towards the kitchen. He grabs a hockey stick-shaped magnet from the fridge, and displays the card open, so you can see the drawing inside—some type of cryptid no doubt, a hybrid between a cat and a spider, because Ruby’s been obsessed with spiders recently—as well as the wobbly “We love you uncle Shane” drawn in pink crayon. 

When he turns around to look at Hayden, the other is scowling down at Shane’s notepad. 

“They’re trading me,” he quietly says. 

Hayden nods. “Yeah, same.”

He frowns, because what. “But you have an NMC?”

“Yeah. I'm pretty sure my manager cried when I told him I wanted it waived. It took him like two months of negotiations to set it up.”

Shane remembers that; both Hayden and Jackie had been so stressed out when the Voyageurs wouldn’t relent, but they’d needed to know that they wouldn’t be forced to uproot their lives and go somewhere else at the drop of a hat. It didn’t make sense for Hayden to actively waive the clause now, and he says as much. 

“What about Jackie, and the kids, or–or Jackie’s mom? Why are you doing this?” 

Hayden shoots him a pointed look. “If you have to ask, then it means I’ve been a shit friend to you not only in the past two days, but the whole time you’ve known me.”

Shane sits down at the island, head immediately spinning. “For… for me?”

“In part,” the other says, sitting down in front of Shane. “The truth is… I really don’t want to be there anymore, Shane. Not like that, not with–with fucking Comeau who takes his nanny cam footage and sends it to the press to fuck with you, not with people like Renard and Drapeau who say shit so vile I feel like I have to apologize to my wife every time I go home.”

Oh. 

It has taken Shane long enough, but he understands where Hayden’s coming from now, shares the same feelings even. “You’re not like that, though. You never… you never engage with them, not like that.”

Hayden snorts, “Yeah but that doesn’t make it better, does it? I still sit there and let them say shit about their wives, their girlfriends, about–about you…”

Shane looks down at his hands. That's what he does, too. What he’s been doing the entire time. Sit still, mask, let them talk. Water off a duck’s back, his mom used to tell him when he was younger and still had enough sharp angles left in him to throw punches at people who said one too many words about his parents, or about himself. 

So much water off his back for six years, sometimes he felt like it was waterboarding him into his quiet brand of resignation.

“I spoke with Management today, and they said they weren't gonna trade me, but then…” Hayden shrugs. “I don’t know man. They said they were gonna make one last trade before the deadline, and they said I wasn’t gonna be part of it, but they said it like they were doing me a favor? Theriault said being associated with you was gonna ruin my reputation, so I was lucky to stay, and I kinda flipped.” 

“What do you mean you flipp-”

“I told him to get fucked,” he looks down in embarrassment.

Shane blinks. “Hayden.”

“That he was a homophobic, racist, misogynistic shit coach anyway and he wasn’t worthy of kissing the ice you skate on.” 

He is so horrified he can’t breathe. “Hayden oh my god, fuck-”

“Then I punched Comeau.”

“You did not-”

“When I left the office.” Hayden starts chewing on a hangnail, shoots Shane a nervous smile. “He was in the lounge, looking so proud of himself… talking shit with some of the others about you leaving… and he just looked at me and said–he said–” 

Fucking what now, he thinks, but keeps his expression neutral. 

“It's okay, Hayd. Whatever he said, I’m sure I’ve heard before.” Shane slides a hand toward the center of the counter just in case Hayden needs it, tries to make himself look as relaxed as he can when in reality he knows he’s not gonna like what comes out of the other’s mouth next. 

Hayden makes a frustrated noise, raising his hands to his hair and scrubbing roughly. “Well maybe you have, but excuse me for fucking caring if someone calls my best friend a faggot and says–says maybe they should bend you over when you come collect your stuff, so they can give you a goodbye gift!”

Shane blinks. 

The fuck?

“He said that?”

Hayden looks pained, eyes haunted as he says, “Yeah man, I’m so sorry. It’s so vile.”

“Comeau said that.”

The other nods again. “I'm really sorry.”

“Gilbert Comeau said that.”

Hayden now stares at him warily, shifting his weight. “Shane, buddy…”

He tries to have a more normal reaction, he really does, but he can’t, not really, because fucking what? Shane’s bark of laughter is so explosive that Hayden startles. 

“Uh, Shane? You okay?”

Shane is not, because he can’t fucking breathe, because that’s so fucking funny–“He said, he said maybe they should all fuck me as a parting gift? Does he not hear himself when he says shit like that? Fuck!”

Hayden looks stricken for a moment, then drags a hand across his face and chuckles, rubbing the side of his nose. “Yeah, now that you mention it it’s kinda…”

“What a fucking idiot. He let Carolina’s third line past him 5 times the other night, and now he says he wants to fuck the gay guy goodbye.” Shane bites the inside of his cheek; “Ilya was right, Comeau’s a fucking joke.”

Hayden’s chuckle dies in his throat, and his gaze sharpens immediately, holding Shane’s. He nods his understanding, motioning towards the fridge; “Can I… can I get myself a drink before we talk about… Ilya,” he says, like the name is a lemon slice he’s just bit into, but then he shakes himself. “Sorry, sorry, I told Jackie I wouldn’t be an asshole.” He clears his throat, then continues; “Okay. Drink. Then Ilya.” 

It’s not completely without scorn, but it’s better than before, and it gives Shane hope that maybe, somewhere along the nebulous future, Hayden will be able to say Ilya’s name without it sounding like a swearword. 

Hayden grabs a 7up from the fridge, “Okay. Let’s talk.” 

—

Every time Shane has tea, he makes sure to use his favorite mug. 

It's a bit of a wonky one, the handle a little too small and warped so he always has to resist the urge to stick his hand in, because the one time he'd done it he'd gotten it stuck and it had taken an inordinate amount of dish soap to extricate himself without breaking the mug. 

It was a little on the thick side, short and stout, and glazed in a pretty shade of mint green. 

He uses it every time he can, and makes sure to take extra good care of it because it was a gift from Hayden and Jackie. 

They'd taken a five-day pottery class once, during a couples retreat in Banff; together with a decorative plate now hanging in the guest room, they'd made the mug for him.

Before gifting it to Shane, they'd let Jade and Ruby at it, so the cup now featured a bunch of misshapen hearts and the words ‘uncle shane’ painted in purple. 

He pours hot water into it now, lets the teabag steep for the appropriate 3 minutes, and sits down at the table, watching how Hayden's eyes go soft as he sees the cup. 

“Still my favorite,” he smiles, and the look Hayden gives him is answer enough.

—

They haven’t said a single word in a solid five minutes. 

Every time one of them opens their mouth, the other tenses up, so no words have actually been spoken, despite both of them being aware that words are generally an essential part of a conversation. It’s gotten to the point where Shane has given himself until he runs out of tea before forcing himself to break the silence.

After a couple more minutes, he drinks his last sip of tea, and takes a deep breath. “So. Um. Lily.”

Hayden comes out the gate swinging; “That’s a stupid fucking name, by the way.” He frowns. “Wait, who are you on his phone?”

“Um,” Shane says, knowing that’s an even stupider name. “Jane.”

“That’s so fucking stupid, holy shit,” Hayden says, but there’s an amused lilt to his tone that makes Shane feel just a smidge lighter.

Shane chuckles, “They might be stupid, but you’re the only one that’s figured it out, so.”

“Yeah, me and user hollanovtruther2481 on Reddit.”

Shane chokes. Hollanov. That’s what we’d be, he thinks. It sounds nice, much better than the Rozander or Shilya he’d theorized.

“Are you still winning the poll?” 

“You know it baby,” he grins. “Jackie is very proud of me, she said I would be a very kind and gentle lover to you.” 

Shane thinks of Ilya holding his head down until he chokes on the other’s cock, thinks of Ilya pinning him to the wall and spitting in his mouth, and clears his throat. Right. 

“Congratulations,” he says.  

“Rozanov only ended up third place, by the way,” Hayden says smugly.

“Third? Who the hell’s second?” 

“Marchant.”

He makes a confused noise, “I’ve literally never talked to Marchant in my entire life? How would that even work?”

“Yeah well,” Hayden spreads his hands. “I'm married with three kids, you can be in a secret relationship with a dude you’ve never spoken to before. It's just the internet.”

The internet are a bunch of morons, he thinks as he gets up to make himself another cup of tea. Maybe not all of them were idiots though, since Ilya had made the list at all. He remembers something, then; “What… what were those comments saying? The ones that made you…”

Hayden shifts in his seat, looking embarrassed. “Ah. Well, there were a whole bunch of them, really, pointing out things like, when you look at each other during press and events, for how long, but the one that made me kinda… they were saying Rozanov never raises a hand to you. When we play Boston.” 

Shane realizes at that moment that it’s true; they’ve shoved each other into boards, traded insults like grenades, even flat-out pushed each other once, but Ilya's never actually dropped gloves with him. No ref has ever had to separate them, no teammate has ever had to jump in between. They’ve never really started a fight with each other–not unusual for Shane, who never started fights in general, but Ilya wasn’t like that.

How had he never noticed before?

“Then I was thinking…” Hayden continues, “I was thinking about how you only go out to meet a friend when we play Boston… I don’t know, it was just kinda. In my head at that point. The more comments I read, the more I felt like they were right, you know?”

Maybe the internet weren't a bunch of morons, maybe he’d have to check out Reddit himself, see exactly how close those people were to the truth, and adjust accordingly. 

Hayden’s next words are quieter, spoken without looking at him. “Shane… when we play Boston…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Shane feels his stomach bottom out. He hadn’t thought Hayden would ask this, not him. Others, sure, but not his best friend. 

“No, I’ve never thrown a game for him, Hayden, what the fuck.”

The other purses his lips, “I was gonna ask if you always go have sex with Rozanov. What the hell, Shane, who’s saying you’re throwing games? Is it Theriault? Comeau? I’ll fucking punch him again, I swear.”

Shane's voice is small when he replies; “I thought that’s what you were gonna say.” 

“Hey, fuck you,” he looks actually offended. “I’ve been playing with you for years, I know you man, if anything you’re a fucking beast every time we play Bos–oh my god. Is that… is that like foreplay for you? Is that why you’re always so fired up when…”

Shane says nothing, but is man enough to blush. 

“For fuck’s sake, Shane,” he groans, letting his head thunk forward onto the counter for a second before straightening back up; “No, okay, I don’t want to know about… about your mating rituals with Ilya fucking Rozanov, let’s move on from that.”

Shane nods quickly. “Please. And yes, to answer your question… yeah, when we’re in Boston we always… meet up.”

“Uh. And when we’re on home ice?”

“Same.”

Hayden nods, finishing his 7up and twisting around to grab another from the fridge. “And then what? Do you like, fly to Boston? When? You’re always here or at CN complex?”

“No, I don’t fly to Boston.”

He would probably drive those 492 kilometers himself, because at least it would be lower profile than being stuck on a plane where everyone could recognize him, and then where would they be if people started taking pictures of Shane Hollander randomly flying to Boston by himself mid-season? Reddit seemed to know enough as it was, and Shane could have sworn they’d been careful all this time. 

Hayden makes a noise, taps his fingers on the soda can. “He flies here?”

It makes Shane smile. Hayden is trying to figure out logistics Shane has never even allowed himself to consider properly before. “No, Hayd, we kinda… it’s complicated–”

“Yeah no shit.”

He grasps for the right words, and in the end settles on; “We text.”

Hayden doesn’t seem any less confused. “Okay. So you–you meet up every few months, and then you text? Like, text or like, text, you know, like–” Hayden mimes a circle with his left hand, and sticks his right index finger in the hole. Repeatedly.

Shane chokes. “You moron,” he says fondly. “Yeah, we–it depends. Both. Um.”

“Fuck,” Hayden looks almost impressed. “Do you like, send him nudes too?”

“Uh–not–I mean–somet… wait, why the fuck are you asking that–oh my god, how is relevant to the conversation–”

“I'm just curious, man! Fuck, you’ve been secretly having sex with your archrival for I don’t even know how long… how…” he looks off into the middle distance for a second, and Shane can practically see the hamster inside Hayden’s brain working double time to allow his best friend to connect the dots. “How long have you been doing this for?”

Shane sighs. Hayden was bound to ask, sooner or later. He’d just hoped it would be closer to the later end of the timeline. 

“Um.”

“Shane.”

He rips off the band-aid. “Since rookie season.” Summer before, actually, he thinks.

“... I'm sorry, I think I just went temporarily deaf so I didn’t really hear what you said because I could have sworn you just said–” 

“The first time we slept together was 2010,” he says, and then glances distractedly at the Treasury Board of Canada Secretariat calendar hanging on the fridge. March 2016, it reads. 

Fuck, Shane thinks. We’re fucking idiots. 

Hayden gapes like a fish for a couple of seconds. “What the fuck.” 

Shane lets the truth breathe for a minute or so, like you would a precious wine that’s been bottled for so many years, has grown so potent with age that it needs a moment to air after it’s finally uncorked.

“But you… you only text, and see each other a handful of times?”

He nods, “It’s casual. Well, it was casual. Not casual anymore.”

“Gotcha,” Hayden says. “Yeah. All those women. Oh–uh–sorry bud.” 

“It’s okay,” he forces himself to say, even though Shane’s pretty sure he’ll be on his deathbed and still not okay with it, not really, possessive to a fault of a person he’s spent almost a decade pretending he didn’t want to claim anyway. 

Hayden clears his throat, scrambling for something else to say. “So, so it’s not casual anymore? He's like, your boyfriend?”

Shane makes a face, because while on some level he understands that boyfriend might be the closest descriptor of their relationship at present, it also sounds too simplistic to encompass the truth of what he feels, what they are.

“It’s… I wouldn’t say that, but it's like. We're exclusive now.” he shakes his head, realizes he’s gripping his mug too tightly and gentles his hold. “I don’t want to talk about that, it’s weird, please ask me something else.” 

“Yeah, okay,” says Hayden, rifling through a mental rolodex of things he wants to know, looking for one that’s safe enough. “So… so he said Comeau’s a joke?” 

Shane snorts, “Yeah. We were watching the game the other night.” He debates his next words for a second or two, but thinks they might help in the long run. “He came here.”

Hayden’s focus immediately zeroes back in on him. “Comeau?”

He crumples up the tea bag sleeve and throws it in Hayden’s face, “Ilya,” he says. 

“Fuck off dude, you’re boyfriends with–sorry, exclusive–with Ilya fucking Rozanov, what the fuck do I know that Comeau didn’t just show up at your doorstep? Everything is possible. Brave new world and all that.” 

Shane rubs his forehead, “If Comeau had come to my house at two in the morning it probably would have been so he could murder me. One of us would be dead right now, and I can tell you it would not be me.” 

“I’d help you hide the body,” Hayden chuckles. “Anyway, so, yes, Rozanov comes to your house at two in the morning, and…?”

“And nothing. After…” after you left, he wants to say, searches for something different instead. “After he called and you answered. He came here. He left yesterday.”

Hayden nods, rubs the back of his head in a self-soothing gesture. “That’s–that’s good, that you weren’t–alone.”

“Yeah.”

Hayden looks out the window then, nose scrunched in concentration as he taps a melody against his can of 7up. “Is he good to you?” He says suddenly, like he just wants to get it over with. “Does he treat you right, get you flowers, pay for dates, stuff like that?”

“Yes father, the gentleman adheres to all expected social conventions,” he deadpans. 

The other snorts, lobbing the tea bag sleeve back at Shane. “Fuck you, buddy.”

“Nah, that’s his job.” 

They both freeze, staring horrified at each other, because Shane’s always so comfortable talking to Hayden that he lets his dry humor take him some wild places, but this time the place is very real, and he wasn’t trying to make Hayden uncomfortable, doesn’t want Hayden to think about Ilya like–like a person Shane just fucks sometimes, wants his best friend to think of the Ilya who drives 492 kilometers in a stupid orange car just because Shane asked him to. 

Wants Hayden to understand how good Ilya is to him, for him.

Except now Hayden is looking at him with his mouth open. 

Fuck. 

“Sorry Hayd, I don’t–I don’t know why I said that, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry.”

The other waves a hand in the air like he’s swatting a fly; “I'm not uncomfortable, just recalibrating the image of you I have in my head. From… from like, virginal, and clumsy, like a baby deer I have to protect, to… Jesus Christ, you must be a bit of a slut to lock down Ilya Rozanov, eh?”

Shane splutters, “Oh fuck you, Hayden!”

“No,” his best friend says, eyes mischievous; “That’s Rozanov's job.”

Shane groans, hides his face behind his hands as he goes completely red. He walked right into that one. 

“By the way, don’t think I haven’t noticed that,” Hayden says pointing at Shane's wrist. “I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb. I have a wife who lives at Tiffany's and wears 800 dollars worth of Pandora charms on her wrist. I know jewelry when I see it.”

“It’s part of my dowry, father,” he mutters, still covering his face. 

Hayden chuckles before reaching across the table to clasp Shane's wrists, bringing them away from Shane’s face and holding them gently in the mended gap between the two of them. “Hey, buddy. I’m happy if you’re happy. You know that, right?”

Shane nods, not trusting himself not to ruin the moment.

“And if… if for whatever reason… what makes you happy is Rozanov… then I’m happy for you, you know? I can’t say I understand, or that I trust him, but… but you do, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. “I do.” 

“I trust you, so then I trust him too. I’m still gonna fuck him up if he breaks you, but he’s okay for now.” 

Shane lets the last of his anxiety go, allows Hayden to hear in his voice the emotion he feels in that moment; "Thank you, Hayd.” 

The other shrugs, squeezing his wrists gently, “Thank you for talking to me. I’m sorry I was a dick to you.”

“It’s okay. It was a lot, I get it.” 

“Yeah. Still.”

Hayden squeezes his wrists one last time before retreating back to his side of the table. “Okay, now let’s get something to eat because I'm fucking starving. But before that…”

He whips out his phone and they take a selfie for Jackie, both of them standing at the counter with Hayden smacking a kiss on Shane's cheek; she responds almost immediately. 

Jackie 

🙄
Coming for my husband again Hollander, I see how it is 

Shane

Sorry, he’s just such a kind and gentle lover I really can’t help myself…

Jackie 

He also seems to be a snitch!!!
I’m so happy you guys made up ♥️🥹 
I was afraid we’d lose our favorite babysitter 

Shane laughs, and lets Hayden order 86.73 dollars worth of Indian food on Shane’s card.

— 

During Shane’s rookie season, Joonas Heikkinen had been on the Voyageurs' roster for about 8 years. 

He was an absolutely massive right winger, maybe not one of the flashiest or fastest players in the league, but he was so genuine that even Shane couldn't help but be captivated.

Looking back, Shane understood that Heikkinen had seen the pressure being put on him far more clearly than Shane ever had. It was probably why he was always asking about Shane's plans for his days off, about his hobbies, about the friends he had outside of hockey.

Shane's answers never seemed to satisfy him, and Shane could never figure out why.

Heikkinen, meanwhile, seemed to have a life that existed entirely beyond the Voyageurs.

For starters, he was married to Élodie, a lovely Métis woman who'd been so surprised by Shane's diet that she'd made him a Pinterest board filled with macrobiotic recipes, just so he could tell her what he wanted for dinner whenever they had him over.

They had no children, but Shane was still a proud uncle to five cats, a bearded dragon, and two guinea pigs.

Shane loved animals. They were so much easier than people, and although he would probably never be able to keep one around given his schedule, he’d started shopping at Mondou for high-protein cat treats, and googling things like “do bearded dragons feel it when you pet them?” because that’s just how seriously Shane took it when Joonas grabbed a tabby from the couch and deposited it in Shane’s lap saying “here you go, Breadstick, go cuddle uncle Shane”.  

Back then it had been somewhat difficult for Shane to wrap his mind around the fact that Joonas seemed to exist outside of hockey too, in a way that Shane didn’t really comprehend and definitely knew he would never be able to replicate himself. 

Heikkinen volunteered at women's shelters—an oxymoron Shane hadn't understood until he'd seen how physically small he made himself in those moments, how gentle and soft-spoken he became.

Every second Wednesday, he volunteered at the Pointe-Claire library's children's story time and would spend hours afterward taking pictures and signing autographs, just sitting around and letting excited children use him like a jungle gym while he talked to their parents.

He drove a minivan because he spent his days off volunteering at dog shelters. Sometimes he'd load a few of the dogs into the back and take them to Mondou so they could pick out treats and toys to bring back to the shelter.

Shane had always found that part particularly difficult to think about. The dogs would sit patiently in their kennels afterward, waiting for another human to show up and give them even a fraction of the kindness Heikkinen gave them.

Whenever the Voyageurs needed a player to represent the organization at a charity event, community fundraiser, hospital visit, or sponsor appearance, Heikkinen was always the first to volunteer, without a single concern for monetary compensation or press exposure. 

Maybe that's what happened if you weren't the best player in the league—not in a bad way, because Heikkinen was still really good, and Shane had basically begged Theriault at times to shuffle things around so they could play together maybe once or twice on the same shift. Just—maybe, if the entire team wasn't being structured around you, you had time to be a person, too. 

Shane had seen him without a smile only once, and it was the day he'd been traded to the Arizona Roadrunners. 

Shane had walked out of CN Complex and to his car, and he’d seen Joonas just sitting in his minivan, forehead pressed against the steering wheel. 

Crying. 

He'd told Shane he was okay, just a lot of emotions to deal with—too many for a Finn, you see?—had tried to make a joke of it for Shane’s benefit.

Shane knew better.

"This is exciting, a new adventure! I've never lived in a desert before!"—that wasn't something you said to reassure other people. It was something you said to convince yourself.

By the end of the day, Heikkinen was in Tucson. The Roadrunners needed him for their game the next night, and that was that. He'd gone straight from CN Complex to Trudeau Airport and boarded a flight to Arizona.

Gone, just like that. 

Shane had thought of his beautiful house, of all the polaroids pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, the world map with stickers on countries he and his wife had visited, and had felt his head spin, because what do you mean he wasn’t even allowed to go back home and say goodbye to his wife and pets before he had to be in a completely different country by dinnertime? 

Shane could never do it. 

He stares at his own condo now—not as full as Joonas and Élodie’s townhouse had been, which was maybe a red flag in itself—but still full enough to make Shane place a pickup order at Canadian Tire for a bunch of cardboard boxes, duct tape, zip ties, and bubble wrap so he can start packing.

He knows his own trade isn't going to be as dramatic. It had been one of his first conditions for Farah: whichever team inherited him had to give him at least three days before expecting him at practice.

Even so, it only served as a reminder of how devastating it must have been for Heikkinen.

To arrive in a new city alone while the other WAGs organized a packing day for Élodie back in Montreal, helping her navigate the paperwork required to move their pets across the border and pack up a decade of their life into cardboard boxes.

So few teammates had gone.

Years later, Shane still felt guilty about it, even though he had been there with Hayd, JJ, and Mitty.

How awful, to be treated like an object. Like a number on a spreadsheet. Like a return on investment.

To have your life handled so carelessly that you couldn't even attend one last children's storytime.

Back then, Shane had looked at Joonas and thought: what's the point?

What's the point in building a life so full that it takes an army of people to pack it up? What's the point in loving a place they can take you away from overnight?

He'd vowed never to give management a reason to trade him. It could happen to anyone else, but not him. 

Shane wouldn't allow it.

His books are the first thing to go in the boxes.

—

“You never bought me flowers,” he says in lieu of a greeting when Ilya's face appears on the screen. 

They'd decided to move their conversations to Skype at least for meals, so Ilya could still make sure Shane was eating. It normally made him feel claustrophobic, when other people paid so much attention to his eating habits, even if he knew it was done in good faith. 

But he also understood that this was as much for Ilya as it was for him.

‘Was scary to see you go down like that,’ the other had texted Shane the night before, after asking if Shane had actually eaten dinner or just staged the food to take a picture. So they'd agreed to eat together over Skype, whenever possible. It didn’t feel like a chore, knowing Ilya needed the reassurance just as much as Shane’s body needed food to keep working. 

He loads up his fork and brings it to his mouth as Ilya’s spoon stops midway through.

“The fuck?”

Shane smirks, “Hayden was asking if you’ve bought me flowers and paid for dates.”

“I bought you at least two packs of condoms in 6 years–that counts, yes? And also that thing you’re wearing on your wrist.”

“Neither of those things are flowers” he jokes, warmth coiling around his spine at the thought of Ilya walking into Maison Birks to buy him a bracelet. 

Ilya snorts. “You want flowers? I'll buy you flowers.”

Shane pretends to think about it, then says; “It’s alright, I guess the condoms will do.” 

Ilya takes a bite, tilts his head when Shane follows. “What else does Hayden say?”

“That you're losing the Reddit poll to Marchant.”

Ilya’s burst of laughter sounds delightful to Shane’s ears, even as the other all but chokes on his rice salad. “Maybe I need to make account, write some posts myself, mh?”

Shane immediately kicks himself for mentioning the poll; “Don't, Ilya please. These people are already out there like, marking down every time we look at each other and putting it into a—a spreadsheet—don't do anything stupid.”

“Maybe I will post about how you would put me first on Cosmopolitan list of hottest athletes,” he teases; “Post selfies from when we did NHL awards as proof the source is reliable.”

Shane frowns, “You kept those?”

Ilya hums, taking another bite as Shane does the same. “I keep them in encrypted folder, don't worry.”

He shrugs, finding he doesn’t care so much about that specifically. "They're not very incriminating anyway. But… why did you keep them?”

Ilya looks away, clearly embarrassed as he hides behind a sip of water. Shane is learning to catalogue each of his tells, filing them away to look at later like a dragon hoarding precious gems and gold.

“Is only pictures I have of you. Of us.”

Shane blinks, and promises himself that next time they'll take a selfie, and figure out if Ilya's secure folder is really secure. Or maybe Shane could buy an Instax camera and a really sturdy lockbox, or something like that. But he will give Ilya more pictures of them together, that’s for sure. 

“Oh, okay,” he says, then tries to bring the conversation back to a safer topic before he does something stupid like send Ilya a selfie right now. “Congrats on beating Buffalo, by the way.”

Ilya scoffs, “The day I lose against Buffalo just take me out back and shoot me, Hollander.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiles. 

Ilya loads up his spoon again, but Shane shakes his head. “I'm full. I had lunch with Hayden, and then a protein shake after training."

The other nods, and Shane feels grateful that Ilya doesn't ask him to prove it.

Ilya chews for a bit; “You sent… Farah? your list, yes?”

Shane steels himself, knowing they've hit the hard part of the conversation. “Farah, yeah. I sent it earlier.”

“How do you feel?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head as he searches for a good enough word. “Weird. Kinda floaty?”

“Floaty?” 

“Like none of this is real.”

Ilya blinks down at his food; “None of this?”

Shane nods. “The trade. I thought I'd retire my number here.”

 “They don't deserve to keep your number,” Ilya sneers.

“Yeah, well.”

In the silence that follows, Shane gets up and makes as if to grab a 7up from the fridge, but settles on a ginger ale instead. 

“What teams did you put on the list?”

He takes a deep breath. “Detroit.”

“Yes, Falcons are a strong team,” Ilya says through a mouthful of rice. “Good first and second line. Would be fun to see where you fit. Terrible city though.”

“That’s what I thought as well. Maybe not a smooth transition, but… interesting—except for the city, but yeah. Next, the Frontiers.”

“Minnesota?” Ilya says, wrinkling his nose. “You want to tank your career, Hollander? You can move to Ottawa if that is what you want.”

“Fuck you, the Frontiers are very competitive, and Minnesota has a great hockey culture. And it would be less of a media circus.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, kind, waiting for Shane to look up into his eyes. “You are you. Media circus is going to follow you.” 

He doesn’t quite manage to hold Ilya’s gaze this time, but nods in understanding. Shane plays with the metal tab of his drink, his next words quiet; “Yeah, I know.” 

He doesn’t like it, but he knows he’s going to make headlines anyway—and not always for the right reasons. 

“No Canadian team?” says Ilya, voice back to its normal register. 

Shane shakes himself, tipping one shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind Toronto, but not even at my lowest I would ever willingly ask to play on the same team as Dallas fucking Kent.” 

Ilya snorts. “Probably good idea. Little goblin is a homophobic shit.”

“Among other things,” says Shane. Everyone has a ‘Dallas Kent said this’ story, and Shane is not in any rush to get one himself. 

“Is good city though,” says Ilya, grabbing a coke from somewhere off camera. “Big queer scene, yes?” 

Shane gives him a pointed look, “Yes, because that’s exactly what I'm thinking about when coming up with my trade list.”

“Maybe you should. No point moving to make it harder on yourself.”

“Mh,” he says. Shane can’t really imagine taking part in anything even remotely resembling a ‘queer scene,’ whether it’s big or small. “I did think about which teams don’t have known homophobes or racists on the roster. I would have liked Washington, but… Poulsen.” 

Kasper Poulsen, one of the Federal’s defensemen, had already once been forced into a public apology for a racist outburst on Twitter. Shane had learned everything else he needed about him in Washington last year, when Poulsen had slashed him and stood over him while he tried to get up, shouting things Shane didn’t care to repeat, most of them involving the color of his skin.

He’d gone on until JJ had skated up and punched him. Shane wonders if JJ still would have, had he known about Shane back then.

“Poulsen,” Ilya nods in understanding. “What else did you think about?”

It's stupid, the fear he feels at that moment. 

He's sitting at his table, Skyping with Ilya, wearing his bracelet, knowing that they agreed not to say it even if they feel it, and yet he’s still scared of saying the things he thinks, the things he wants, as if knowing Shane wants something is going to give Ilya an unfair advantage, something to hold over him. 

He worries at the chain on his wrist, trying to make his hindbrain understand that if they are not honest with each other, this is never going to work–whether they say it or not. 

Shane isn’t always good at articulating his thoughts and feelings, but maybe the key lies in pushing through and just talking until he no longer feels like he’s leaving his flank exposed.

“I looked up…” he breathes, tracing each link with his fingertips. “I looked up how far each city was from… Boston.” 

“You shouldn’t do that,” Ilya says, instantly dousing Shane in icy water until he hears the tapping of Ilya’s knuckles on the table, pulling him out of the spiral. “Not like that, Shane. I mean, do not think about me. Think about hockey. I can fly, I can drive.” He shrugs, no big deal, takes another sip of coke. 

Shane breathes through the whiplash, and frowns. “I can fly and drive as well. But it wouldn’t be so easy if I were in like, Anaheim the whole year.”

Why is Ilya being willfully obtuse about this? There's absolutely no way he doesn't get what Shane is saying, what it means that he kept into consideration how far from Ilya he'd be after the trade. 

“Yes, but you have to think about hockey first.”

“I am,” he says, feeling like a child who’s being told to eat his vegetables if he wants dessert. “Hence Detroit and Minnesota. But I checked, and there’s multiple daily flights from Detroit, and a red-eye from Saint Paul a few times a week.” Shane juts his chin out. “And I also put Boston on the list.”

Ilya looks stunned for a moment, then clears his throat and gives him a fake smile with so many teeth that Shane wants to reach through the tablet and shake them out his skull. “Of course you did, we are best team in the whole league, yes?”

“And you’re there,” he spits out, a dog unwilling to let go of his bone.

Ilya stops smiling then, shifts his gaze elsewhere. “Is not important where I am.”

Shane sets his fork on the table with a lot more force than originally anticipated, makes Ilya startle on the screen and turn back towards him.

“Don’t,” he seethes. “Don’t act like it’s not important, not when I just spent half the morning wondering if I should give just one name to my manager and tell her that if she doesn’t get me to Boston I will fire her.”

“Shane…”

“Don’t act like where you are is not important. Like you’re not as important as hockey.” 

Ilya’s breath visibly stutters.  

Because it's true, isn't it? 

Maybe if things had been different, if the video hadn't been leaked, if it had been even just a year prior—maybe then he wouldn't have spent time this morning trying to figure out if he could conceivably mark the Bears as the only team he was willing to waive his NTC for while making it look like a powerful career move despite the fact it wasn't so much the Bears he wanted to play with, but Ilya. 

Ilya, who kept trying to deflect instead of understanding the gesture for what it really was, what it meant for Shane to stare down the barrel of a trade list and think, ‘If they send me here, how many times a year am I going to see Ilya without having to fly or drive across the States just to have him in my arms for a few hours?’

“I see you,” Shane says, does his best not to let his voice waver. “Do you see me? Because if you don’t, if you think I am in this just for… for whatever reason you think I am, then I might as well take this off,” he concludes, raising his left wrist so it’s in frame. 

Ilya raises a hand, Shane isn't sure if to placate him or in an involuntary attempt at reaching out. It's like the two days they spent together have done nothing but show them exactly how touch starved they actually are, and how much farther these 492 kilometers can feel in the wake of their feelings. 

“Okay,” he says, so quiet Shane has to strain to hear. “So you put Boston on list.”  

Shane breathes, lowering his arm and picking up the ginger ale. “Yes. And New York.”

Ilya seems to have already recovered, and raises his eyebrows in surprise. “New York is good, Shane. Good team. Good people too. I have not heard of Optimus Past His Prime allowing homophobic talk in his locker room. Or racist. Or similar.”

He chokes on his drink, tries his best not to laugh at Scott Hunter’s expense, and fails spectacularly. Ilya is smiling at him so wide, like Shane just hung the moon, that Shane instantly knows he would laugh at a million of these stupid Scott Hunter jokes if it means Ilya will smile like that each time. 

Even as he laughs, the thought snags on something. 

It was common knowledge that Hunter ran one of the cleanest locker rooms in the whole league—or at least that was what people normally said. It wasn’t completely unheard of for one of the Admirals to say something out of pocket at an event or online, especially after a drink or two, but as a whole it seemed like Scott Hunter was good at commanding the type of respect that meant his teammates probably didn’t leak his private shit to the press just to ruin his life. 

Shane can’t help but feel inferior at that. 

From what he'd said the other day, it seemed like Ilya was the same as Hunter in that respect. Hadn't he all but admitted he'd shut down his own rookies after the leak? 

Shane wasn’t like that. In his own locker room, he had allowed that type of talk, and more. He can’t help but think, now–would it have made a difference? If he’d talked back, if he’d been more vocal, more assertive. But he wasn’t like that. He was supposed to be a face or a body, not a personality, not really. 

Had he ever really been a good captain, in the way that Ilya and Hunter seemed to be?

He wasn’t sure.

He hears Ilya knock on his table again, and refocuses his gaze from the dishwasher to his tablet.

“Yeah,” Shane says after a beat. “I think New York would be good. Maybe not the city… but the rest, yeah.”

“Mh, New York is beautiful. It breathes. But I know what you mean. Lot of people, lot of things to do, no one ever sleeps. Everyone's always walking here. Not boring enough for Shane Hollander,” his smile is teasing. “It is top choice?”

Shane snorts, “Yes, asshole.”

“And how far is it from Boston?”

“350 kilometers,” Shane rattles off immediately. “Almost a four hour drive.”

Ilya nods. “I can work with that. I have many fast cars. I can buy a bike.”

Shane groans, “Do not buy a bike, and do not crash one of your ugly monstrosities on the highway just to prove Google wrong again.”

“Ah, but where's the fun in that?” he has the audacity to wink at Shane then, the asshole. 

“The fun is in not dying,” he deadpans. 

Ilya’s smile is wistful just then, in a way that makes something in Shane take notice, but he files it away for later, unwilling to lose the conversational footing again.

“You will make it worth my while?” Ilya smirks. 

“If you'll let me,” Shane replies softly. Please let me, he thinks.

Ilya reaches forward again, hand going out of frame as his fingers touch the screen of the tablet. Shane's cheeks tingle at the phantom caress he feels there.

“Okay then,”Ilya smiles.

They look at each other, and at this point Shane almost welcomes the wave of emotion that threatens to overtake him, lets himself sit with it, get used to it so that when the time comes, when they’re together again in person, and he’s finally holding Ilya again, he won’t feel so scared by it.

“We’re fucking terrible at this,” Shane breathes out, feeling the tension break like one too many drops in a glass already full.

Ilya cocks his head; “Eating dinner?”

“Talking,” Shane says with a smile. 

“But we can get better, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says, reaching out to touch the screen. 

—

Unknown Number 

hi, this is drew marchant. just wanted to say I'm sorry about what's happening, and stay strong man
also thank you for taking the heat off of me 
sorry that was a bad joke

Shane

Hey Drew
Thanks, and you're welcome I guess :)
I hope you and your wife are doing okay. I heard you got traded?

Marchant 

we're ok, thanks. she likes vegas. i like my wife. so we're good
and at least the neons aren't buffalo or ottawa
no offense, i know you’re from there 

Shane

None taken… It hurts my Ottawa heart to say so, but the Centaurs are pretty terrible.
Glad to hear it's worked out okay for your family though :)
What happened to you was awful. 

Marchant 

right back atcha dude, that must have fucking sucked
hope it’s ok for me to say but I know a few guys who've totally got your back and want to get in touch 
didn't want to give out your number just in case, so i told them to contact your manager 

Shane

Thanks Drew, that means a lot :) 
Hey, can I ask,
How did you get my number?
Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude!
I’m really grateful you texted me :) 
I’m just curious because there’s not many people who have my number.

Marchant 

rozanov gave it to me
i know i know
it sounds weird to me too
i was just talking to him and thought maybe he had it
for what it's worth it he didn't seem like he was trying to fuck with you 
he told me he'd make me regret it if it got back to him that I'd been a dick
so i think he's okay with you being gay? 

Shane 

Oh!
That's cool, I guess
:)  

Marchant 

yeah
he emailed me through my agent last week to offer support 
don't tell anyone 
he said it would ruin his street cred lol
but it was nice to know someone cared, you know?
made me think of the shit going on with you, so I thought I’d text

Shane 

That's nice of him
Of you both :) 
I'm sure he's still an asshole though. 

Marchant

he did also send me the number of a private skating coach so i could “learn the ropes” 
so defo still an asshole
hey i gotta go but keep your chin up ok??
you're a legend no matter what ✊🏻🏳️‍🌈

Shane blinks down at his phone, thinks about the warmth spreading through his chest. 

Drew Marchant is the first person to reach out to Shane and offer support—the first person who is not a relative, contractually obligated to represent him, his best friend, or Ilya. 

In the current climate, he hadn’t known what to expect when he’d gotten a text from an unknown number, but the more he talked to Marchant, the more he’d felt a flame inside of him flicker and grow stronger. He hadn’t realized how alone he’d felt. 

He thinks about Ilya, who’d quietly reached out to Marchant even before Shane’s own leak, and offered support to a fellow player who was going through a manmade hell they didn’t deserve.

There was so much about Ilya that was still unknown to him, every wink and chirp part of a carefully constructed facade that Shane wanted to keep picking at, carefully peeling back each layer until he could take a good look at all the softness he now realized was inside of Ilya. 

It really was scary, to realize Shane really would lay himself down in front of a train for Ilya, would let himself be hanged, drawn and quartered if that’s what it took for Ilya to really understand just exactly how deeply Shane’s feelings for him went. 

He’s still holding his phone, so he texts the other. 

Shane

Thanks for giving my number to Marchant.

Lily 

now you can finally work on the poll result 

Shane 

He sent me a pride flag emoji.

Lily

he’s a good guy
shit on skates but good guy

Shane

Hey Lily

Lily 

what jane 

Shane 

I’m glad we met

Lily

so polite jane so boring 

Shane 

That’s me 🇨🇦🥱

Lily

i like when you’re boring 

Shane

You think I’m always boring

Lily 

yes. is what i said 

Shane smiles.

Hanged, drawn, and quartered indeed. 

—

One more thing that still lives in the dark, even though Shane knows he’s going to have to let it go if he wants momentum to keep carrying him forward.

The day he had a panic attack at Brossard.

The first time he’d heard Comeau make that same shitty joke about it being a foregone conclusion that, if there was a queer on the Voyageurs, it would be Shane. 

Even back then, he’d forced out a laugh, tried his best to look unfazed, but it had been a slap in the face. No one had ever thrown an accusation so direct at him before. 

Shane had walked out of the gym, found an open storage closet near one of the emergency exits, and slid down the racks of supplies, pushing his head between his knees as he tried to regulate his breathing, door still open. 

“What an asshole, right?” 

He’d startled so bad he’d let out an actual yell, and JJ had looked around with alarm, getting inside the room and closing the door behind him. 

“Pardon, mon chum.” he’d crouched down, somehow fitting all 6’6’’ feet, 245 pounds of him in front of Shane, and put his giant hands on Shane’s knees, two anchor points in the semi-dark of the supply closet. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Shane had rested his head against the shelf, tried to make himself look like everything was fine, like he always walked into storage and folded himself into a ball while hyperventilating. “It’s okay.”

JJ had started rubbing circles against his kneecaps, quiet until Shane had finally gotten a good enough handle on his breathing that he’d opened his eyes, looked at his friend and tried out a small, wobbly smile for size. 

“Comeau’s a fucking dick, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, eh?” JJ’s smile had been blinding. “You have that Lily girl anyway, who cares about what Comeau thinks?” 

Shane had known that was probably a good time to say something, just then, but the truth was simple.

He hadn’t been ready. 

He’d been so scared. He still was, for all intents and purposes, but it had been different back then—he’d tried hooking up with a woman the weekend before, when he was tipsy enough to force himself into it, and he’d spent the whole time wishing she had broader shoulders, sandy blond curls instead of beautiful straight red hair, a sturdier Russian accent instead of the softer Quebecois lilt. 

And he’d known then. 

He was never going to have sex with a woman and enjoy it—nothing like the complete and utter revelation it was whenever he was with Rozanov. She’d been so beautiful, and Hayden had nudged him towards her when she’d walked over asking for an autograph, so Shane had siphoned shot after shot until his mind was fuzzy enough that accepting her invitation to go to her place had seemed like a good enough idea. 

He’d hated every second of it, scrubbed his skin so raw during his morning shower the day after that applying lotion burned a little in some spots.

No more, he’d told himself then. No more of this. Accept the truth—you’re just gay. 

Full stop. 

No more trying to be something he was not, not with this part of him. He'd tried sanding it off for so long, but all he'd really done was wear himself down instead, and it really felt like violence at that point—and it wasn’t fair on the women either.

So he’d made a pact with himself to stop trying, but he’d still been scared—of hockey, of telling his friends, his parents. Of the way he was constantly surrounded by men, saw them naked basically every day, but his thoughts only ever went to a specific one, no matter how hard he tried to redirect them elsewhere.

He never let himself look at his teammates in the locker room, but even when his eyes slipped, he felt nothing past a clinical and detached appreciation for their bodies, letting him know that yep, that was still there. He still very much preferred that to the softness of women. 

He felt nothing looking at his teammates, but everything looking at Ilya fucking Rozanov.  

The closet was maybe glass, but it was also bulletproof. 

So he’d kept the door closed, had shrugged off JJ’s support and Comeau’s comments, had gone on that way until he hadn’t been allowed to anymore, and someone had taken a crowbar and shattered him into pieces. 

The worst part was, he’d been proven right.  

It’s not like Shane was expecting an outpouring of support from his team—which is already a fucked up enough thing to think—but he’d thought that JJ… maybe Mitty… maybe Andropov, who was a golden retriever of a man.

Maybe the rookies, with whom he’d spent so much time, trying to make them feel part of the team from the start.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But no one has texted, called, or emailed—no one except Marchant, who for all intents and purposes was just a forward formerly from Nashville that Shane sometimes faced off at the dot. 

Shane wished it didn’t hurt so fucking much, to see how easily disposable he was to the people around him, despite all the effort he’d put into being everything for everyone. 

—

March 2016
Sunday
Montreal

Lily

What are you wearing?

Shane smiles, types back ‘just some bracelet I found in a dumpster somewhere,’ and watches in real time as The Ilya Rozanov struggles to come up with a witty retort, three dots wiggling on the screen for longer than Shane’s ever seen.

“Is that Ilya?” his dad asks. 

He’s moving around Shane’s kitchen, sorting groceries into the multitude of cabinets while dancing around an assortment of pans and pots on the stove, Shane’s oven working really hard to accommodate the logistical campaign that was David Hollander meal prepping for his son. 

He makes a small embarrassed noise, setting the phone face down on the counter, “Yes, sorry. He’s just checking in.”

“You can text him.”

It’s not unkind, just reassurance, and Shane knows he’s going to have to talk to his parents at some point, sit them down and go through the last few days of events—plus the last few years of more of the same, give or take. 

But his dad hadn’t asked a single question yet—not about this—he’d just said ‘leave it to me’ when Shane called him asking if he could get some help with groceries and food, since his nutritionist was apparently an unprofessional coward who’d dropped him without a single word. His dad had just… gone to Whole Foods and emptied half the aisles, by the look of it. 

All without asking a single question. 

“Um, is there… anything you want to know?”

David hums. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

He wants to say he’s sorry, but knows his dad wouldn’t take very kindly to that, not right now. 

“I’m gay,” he says, immediately frowning because yes, Shane. He knows that. 

His dad hums again, stirring a spoon in what looks to be a lighter color version of marinara sauce. The smile is not entirely absent from David’s voice as he replies, “Thank you for telling me.”

His dad keeps stirring the sauce like Shane hasn’t just told him something that had taken Shane himself years to even accept, let alone say aloud.

David had always been like that.

There was this one time, when Shane was about six or seven, when his dad had taken him to Kunstadt Sport for a new pair of skates. He just kept growing them out so quickly, his parents could barely keep up with the amount of gear that needed constant replacing. 

As his dad paid for the skates, Shane had wandered off a little to look at the rows of colorful skis on display.

A woman had come up to him then, asking if he was lost, and where was his mom? Shane hadn’t been great at talking, back then, so he’d just stared at her instead. 

“He’s with me,” David had said, but the woman hadn’t believed him. 

Had kept looking between the two of them, trying to grab Shane’s hand despite the fact Shane kept trying to get away from her, because who was this woman standing between him and his dad, why wasn’t she leaving, and David Hollander, who Shane had never heard use his voice for anything other than kind words, had said, “If you don't get away from my son, I am calling the police,” and that had been enough for Shane to react—he’d used all his strength to push her before running into David’s arms.

And still, the woman had started raising her voice, drawing an employee over. 

She’d stopped arguing only when the store manager had been called to them, and had assured her that yes, David was Shane’s father, they came to the store many times a month, and were in fact very good customers, and who was she? I didn’t catch your name. 

Shane hadn't had the words or emotional intelligence to process it at the time—the first of many—but throughout his life it had killed him, the way that people looked at them and saw everything but a father and son, because what else could they be? 

David was the man who’d gone on all fours in the middle of the living room floor and pretended he was a horse, saying ‘giddy up, giddy up!’ while Shane laughed so hard he got hiccups. 

The oven dings, taking Shane out of his memories and back into the present, where his dad is cooing at the baking dish of chicken parmesan now bubbling on a rack next to the stove.

“Hello, what a beauty you are,” he murmurs lovingly at the food, and Shane has to swallow the thickness in his throat. 

“Dad–” 

“It’s okay, Shane,” he says without turning around. “You only tell me when you’re ready.” 

“What if I never am?”

“Then you won’t tell me,” David answers like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

He shakes his head, walks around the kitchen island to get close to his dad. “But I know you must have questions, I want you to understand why I–”

“Shane.” 

David turns around then, cups Shane’s face like he did when he was little and bruised his knees tripping while he played in the yard. “Do you think that, if I was worried, I wouldn’t be asking questions? I wouldn’t want to make sure my son is okay?”

He shakes his head no. 

“It’s maybe not… who I would have imagined for you, but—Shane, he looked so scared. He said he had just arrived during the night, so he wasn’t sure, but he thought you hadn’t eaten anything since Wednesday, maybe before.” David shakes his head. “He apologized, and said he would be more careful and make sure you ate.”

Shane’s breath catches. “He apologized?”

His dad chuckles, releasing Shane’s face and leaning against the counter. “Yes. You should have seen your mother. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to curse him out, interrogate him, or gloat over the apology.”

That’s mom, alright, he thinks.   

“So what if I don’t understand exactly how it happened?” continued David with a shrug. “That’s not for me to know. I have all the answers I need. I am not in the business of pushing people away over things I don’t understand.”

Shane thinks of his paternal grandparents, which he never sees and barely speaks to once or twice a year during mandated holidays, and nods. 

“Would you have… imagined… a girl? For me?” 

David smiles, shaking his head. “No, not for a while. But I was picturing you with more of a Hayden type, if I’m being honest.”

Shane groans, raising his hands in defeat. “What is it with people thinking Hayden would be a good boyfriend for me?!”

His dad chuckles, “Probably has something to do with the wife and kids, versus the, ah, many… lovers?” 

“Literally never say that word to me again, dad,” he shivers with disgust. “And… there won’t be… any more… of those.” 

His dad tips a shoulder nonchalantly; “Whatever works for you boys.”  

Despite his dad’s easygoing attitude over the whole matter, Shane can’t stop himself from overexplaining; “He, um, I know there was a lot—like a lot—of women, but he wasn’t playing with them, wasn’t like, just using them for his public image, he likes both, I know that sounds–”

David scoffs, “Son, I know what bisexuality is. I know sexuality is a spectrum, I am not that dense. My personal assistant is pansexual,” he says like a non sequitur. 

For his part, Shane isn’t really sure what pansexual even means. “How do you…?” 

“Oh, he came out on the intranet during Pride Month last year, wrote a whole post about it. Many people came out or talked about their non-traditional families! It was so nice to see everyone’s comments of support. Even Lilian from Expenditure had something nice to say, for once.” 

Shane has the distinct feeling the conversation has gotten away from him, because his father mentioning Lilian from Expenditure—a mythological figure that seemed to exist solely to question each and every one of David’s cost projections—meant he was about three seconds away from launching into a tirade about work.

“Many people have messaged me this week, you know?” 

He stops in his tracks, furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?” 

“Saying how horrible it is, what’s happening to you, and offering help if any was needed. Got many phone numbers of lawyers and private investigators.” He chuckles. “Many numbers of nice men for you to date, too, but something tells me you won’t be needing those.” 

Shane’s not sure what his face is doing at that moment, but his dad smiles, arching a brow. “Did you think everyone was disgusted, or hated you now?”

He shakes his head, but that’s exactly what he was thinking, and his dad knows it too.

David is wistful as he takes up a spoon and tastes the maybe-marinara sauce. “I forget sometimes, how sheltered you are. Hockey hasn’t been all that kind to you, has it?” 

They both know that statement would have never made it past his lips if Yuna had been in the room, but Shane is so grateful, right in this moment, so grateful that someone has acknowledged a truth he’d been mulling over in his brain for a while now. He loved hockey, but hockey didn’t always love him back. 

“Nope,” he says, trying for light and airy and coming out on the opposite end instead.

“Try to remember this, then,” David says. “There is a whole world out there, where many people are rooting for you.” 

Shane tips forward to hug his dad, and doesn’t let go.

—

Scott Hunter

Hey rook :) 
Can I call you? 

Shane 

Sure thing :) 

That smiley face is doing a lot of work right now, Shane thinks as he puts down the stack of DVDs he was busy packing and waits for Scott fucking Hunter to randomly call him, because that’s what people are doing now–they randomly reach out, and want to talk, talk, talk. 

The phone lights up with a call, and Shane instinctively starts counting his breaths, so he can get ahead of the curve for a change. 

“Hey Hunter.” 

“Hi Shane.”

He’s quiet then, and Shane is five seconds away from asking him to say something before he hears a sigh on the other end of the line. 

“First of all,” Hunter says, “I want to apologize for what I said to you a couple of years ago. When we fought.”

“Ah,” he replies, kindle-dry. “A timely apology.”

The other chuckles, “Yes. I just thought it might be time.”

“It’s fine. It’s been a long time.” 

It’s not fine, but Shane feels like he has more pressing matters at hand than focusing on holding a two-year old grudge over a shitty comment that had made him freak out only because Hunter had seemed to know, had been able to zero-in on the soft body of Shane in a second. 

“Mmh. I don’t think it’s fine, especially not—yeah.” Another spell of silence. “I also wanted to tell you that I am fully behind you, one-hundred-percent. If you want to have a press conference or post something on social or whatever, I will publicly support you.” 

Shane would rather take a skate to the throat than hold a press conference about his sexual identity, but he understands the weight of Hunter’s words and what they mean. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” 

“No problem. Vaughny and some others from the team said the same, so just know that the Admirals have your back.”

It feels like a loaded, layered statement, and while Shane’s never been too good at parsing those out, he feels like he’s gotten much better at it in the past week or so. “That means a lot.” 

“On that note…” Hunter segues nonchalantly, “I had an interesting conversation with Coach Murdoch earlier today.”

“Oh?” 

He can feel the knot of dread forming in the pit of his stomach, but tries to breathe it away. 

“He asked me—purely hypothetical of course—if I thought you’d be a good fit for the team. I said yes.” 

It’s probably just adrenaline, but Shane’s hands are slightly shaking now; he looks down at his wrist, and breathes. “That’s very generous of you to say.” 

“Sure,” drawls Hunter sarcastically. “Shane Hollander on my team would be such a chore, but I am so generous.” 

Shane chuckles, “Well, you do already have a star center,” he asks without asking. 

“Yes, we do. But another wouldn’t hurt, now, would it?” 

“I guess not,” Shane muses. “Or perhaps a center that can play wing, too?”

Hunter makes a curious noise, “Now there’s an idea.” 

They’re quiet for a second, and Shane stops the bouncing of his leg by sliding off the couch and kneeling on the floor instead. He immediately feels better, and sits back on his haunches in a more relaxed pose. 

“Shane, I made a promise to myself that I would win the Cup this year.” It’s a sentence that could mean everything and nothing, so he stays quiet and waits for Hunter to continue. “It’s frankly long overdue, and I need it to be this year.” 

There's an edge of desperation in Hunter’s voice, but unless he volunteers the information, Shane is not going to ask. Instead, he looks down at his wrist again, and hopes to god everything he’s ever thought and heard about Scott Hunter is true, and that this call is not recorded. 

“It would be great if it went to you and not Montreal.” 

On the other end of the line, Hunter is quiet for a shocked second, then he laughs delightedly; “It would, wouldn’t it? And you wouldn’t mind?”

Shane makes a non-committal noise, thinking back about the last few days, last week, the last couple of months. 

Shane played to win, which meant at the moment the Voyageurs were the strongest contenders for a deep playoff run—but he didn’t want to win for Montreal anymore. The damage was done, Shane already well on his way to win the Art Ross, but that didn’t mean the playoffs already were a foregone conclusion. 

Especially since he and Hayden were both getting traded, and realistically while the Voyageurs’ Second and Third lines were decent enough, they were not Shane Hollander levels of decent. It was maybe a bit too arrogant to say, too uncharacteristic of him, but Shane wouldn’t be surprised if, with Shane gone and their First line absolutely compromised, the rest of Montreal would cave in on itself. No matter who they got through the trade–that player wouldn’t be Shane, and Shane was the one that was gonna win them a back-to-back cup that year. 

You’re starting to sound like him, Hunter had told him two years prior. 

It had felt like a slap in the face at the time, a cruelty, but now Shane saw it for what it was; a compliment, because maybe right now Shane needed a little more of Ilya’s blind faith in himself.

“No,” he says. “I really wouldn’t mind. And I think we could help each other.” 

Shane can hear the smile in Hunter’s voice clear as day; “I think so too.”

—

He’s just finished packing up the rest of his books when the concierge buzzes up from the lobby; “Hello Mister Hollander, I have a delivery for you here. The courier has been screened; would you like to collect the package from the lobby, or should I let the man up?” 

“Send him up, thanks a lot.” 

He checks the outside hallway through the doorbell camera, and frowns. Packages were not unusual, but he normally ordered something before a package showed up on his doorstep. Maybe some paperwork from Farah, he thinks with a frisson of anticipation.  

When the elevator door opens, and the delivery man steps out, Shane doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or groan, so he just opens the door instead. 

“Hello!” chimes a man that right now is more flowers than FedEx uniform.

“Hello, uh, you can—thanks,” Shane says, grabbing the—frankly ginormous—arrangement from the other's hands.

“Much obliged, monsieur. There's also this,” he smiles, handing Shane a medium-sized nondescript black box with a gold sparkling ribbon wrapped around it. 

For fuck’s sake, Ilya, he thinks.

“Thank you,” Shane says as he sets down the flowers and box and grabs a 20 dollar bill from the coin tray he keeps next to the door. He looks at the flowers again and adds another 20 and 10 dollar bills to the tip. “Here you go,” he says, hoping 50 dollars will be enough to buy this man's silence.

“Oh, you're very kind!” the man smiles again, and then sort of shuffles on his feet for a second. Immediately, Shane’s anxiety sense is tingling, and he fears he might not like what happens next. 

“My daughter is bisexual!” The man’s smile is so big Shane's cheeks ache in sympathy. 

Fucking hell, Shane thinks.

“Con… congratulations? Um.”

“Yes, she and my daughter-in-law are very big Voyageurs fans. I'm so excited to tell them I delivered to you today!”

Turns out this is a man whose silence cannot be bought.

“That's—that’s great,” he lies, “The team and I are very thankful for their support. Would… would you like… an autograph maybe? Um. If you want.”

“Oh my goodness, really?”

“For sure,” Shane says, rifling through the closest drawer for a piece of cardstock. “What's her name? And… and her wife's? Partner’s?” Shane winces inwardly. ‘Partner’ sounds like they co-founded a charity together—why is the terminology around couple stuff always so cringeworthy?

“Wife! Five years now, they're having a baby this summer,” the man says, grabbing his phone from the lanyard around his neck and showing Shane the lockscreen; two smiling women stare back at him, one of them very clearly pregnant and wearing a Shane Hollander Voyageurs jersey.

“Oh, congratulations. You must be very excited.” What the fuck else is he supposed to say? 

“I am! They’re due in July and I can't wait to spoil that baby rotten. Oh, and their names are Betta and Michelle.” 

“Uh,” Shane blinks, “Like—like the fish? How am I spelling that?”

“Elisabetta,” the man chortles. “B-E-T-T-A. I told my wife this was going to happen, but it’s a family name, what can you do. When she was growing up we’d call her beet, like the vegetable? She couldn’t say her name properly so she just went by beet until she left for Harvard, then decided she was too grown up for silly nicknames. But, see?” He smiles, pointing at his left forearm, where an arrangement of beets and chamomile flowers is tattooed on the skin. “My wife’s name is Camilla, and I call her Camomilla all the time. So, beet and chamomile! I have a whole garden now.” 

Shane's pretty sure this might be the happiest man he's ever met, which is a strange thing to discover while standing at your doorstep holding cardstock and a blue sharpie for an autograph. 

He uses his Voyageurs-blue sharpie to write; “To Betta/Beet and Michelle, thank you for your support, and congratulations on your beautiful family :)” signs the card, then gives it to the man, who cradles it so reverently you'd think Shane just handed him the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. 

He really wishes he could give him tickets too, but that’s not gonna be possible anymore, considering Shane will probably be gone by the end of the week. If he still knew who to ask on the Voyageurs, he'd ask them, but... well.

“This is wonderful, thank you so much! They’re gonna be so happy—and I am going to tell everyone. I'm going to say, I delivered a beautiful gift for Shane Hollander, and he was so kind, he even signed an autograph for my daughters!"

The man smiles again and salutes Shane with a quick flick of the wrist. “I’m off now, monsieur, have a great rest of your week!”

Shane gives him his best smile, is surprised in finding it doesn't feel that fake, and waves goodbye before closing the door.

When he turns, the flowers and Bears-coded giftbox are staring at him. He takes a minute too long to locate his phone among the pile of boxes and DVDs, and when he picks it up, it’s already ringing. 

“Ilya,” he says.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Hayden Pike’s boyfriend, Shane Hollander,” he drawls like the cat who got the cream. “Little text says FedEx delivered my present, yes?”

“What the hell did you send me,” he says, trying to hide the amusement in his voice. 

“You have many suitors now—Pike, Marchant. I need to stake my claim, yes? I will not be upstaged by Hayden fucking Pike.”

Shane smiles, putting Ilya on speakerphone as he fills up a vase with water and arranges the flowers on the table so the sunlight can kiss them. “These are beautiful, thank you.” 

“Mmh, you’re welcome,” Ilya murmurs. “And the box?” 

“I haven’t checked it yet, one sec.” He coils the ribbon neatly around his hand, then sets it aside and lifts the lid. “Ilya, what did you do?” he whispers, breath catching as he sees another suspiciously shaped navy blue box, the monogram HW etched in silver on the top. 

Ilya hums, quieter now. “Thought dumpster diving did not suit your delicate hands.” 

Shane opens the box and, not for the first time in the past six years, has no idea what to say in the face of one of Ilya’s gestures. 

It’s a necklace this time, a platinum choker made up of alternating flowers—small ones, tiny knots and bigger clusters arranged in a three-lobed shape. All encrusted in what can only be diamonds. A lot of diamonds. Like, at least more than two, according to Shane’s frazzled estimation, because did Ilya just buy him a diamond necklace? 

It looks so delicate Shane’s afraid of picking it up, sure his clumsy hands are going to fumble it and break it in less than a second. There’s a glossy card accompanying the necklace, showing a picture of a luxury storefront and the words Harry Winston on it. Lily Cluster Collection, the back of the card reads, and Shane lets himself spill onto the couch. 

“Hollander?” On the other end of the line, Ilya actually sounds tense. 

“That’s not my name,” Shane murmurs, sounding distant even to his ears. 

Ilya is quiet for a moment, probably listening to Shane breathing and looking for clues as to whether he’s freaking out. 

But the thing is—he isn’t. 

He feels… full, but not in a bad way, not like being burdened or overwhelmed. It’s more like he’s been sitting around waiting for something, not knowing what it was, and now through a series of serendipitous events that thing has arrived, and Shane is… content?

Was that the right word for it?

It would have to be, because he wasn't letting himself think about the other one. 

“Is too much?”

“It’s a diamond necklace. Of course it’s too much—not that I don’t—I think it looks beautiful, Ilya, but you don’t… you don't need to buy me things. You know that, right?” 

“Maybe I just want to see you wearing things I gave you,” Ilya simply says. 

Shane feels a sharp jolt of emotion course through him, is absolutely powerless to stop the actual whimper that pushes its way out his throat. He tries to cover it up with a small cough, but knows Ilya’s heard it anyway. “Yeah?”

“Mmh. Maybe I want to look at you when you wear it in public. No one knows I gave it to you, but they know you belong to someone who buys you diamonds. You know.” 

He thinks it should feel embarrassing, being addressed like this. Being talked about like he’s a doll Ilya can dress up in gold and platinum and show off. But maybe there’s something wrong with Shane, because Ilya says things like that, tells him he owns him, and Shane’s brain goes quiet, and it’s so peaceful inside his body when his head is quiet. 

If the choice was up to himself, he would probably never wear it. 

It’s a very feminine necklace, for one, and Shane’s already an openly gay player in the NHL, there is no way he’s allowing himself to—to wear this beautiful, delicate necklace in public. No way he’s letting it sit on top of his neck, right above his Adam’s apple, diamonds glinting off in the light and peeking through the open neckline of his dress shirt as he gives a speech, presents an award, talks to the press.

But he knows, he knows with absolute certainty that if Ilya asked him to, he’d wear it in public for the world to see. No one would know, but he would. Ilya would. 

“You want me to wear this in public?” Shane asks. 

Branded, claimed, and owned. 

“I want you to take off your clothes and get on your knees,” Ilya says, voice going dark as it whispers promises across the 492 kilometers between them.

Shane slides down to the floor immediately, sets the phone on the coffee table and takes off his shirt, slides out of his sweatpants and briefs and folds everything in a neat pile on the table. “I did,” he murmurs, waiting for Ilya to tell him what to do, already hard and wishing Ilya was there to look at him, to touch him. 

To clasp that necklace closed against Shane's neck, hooking a finger into it to guide Shane forward until he’s feeding him his cock. 

“Jerk yourself off while you look at it.”

Shane’s breath snags in his throat, heat blooming inside of him and electricity crackling all over his skin. He sets the necklace more fully on the table, takes himself in hand and whimpers again, starting to stroke himself slowly, almost teasingly, like Ilya would if he was there. 

“You always make such pretty noises for me,” Ilya says, so Shane gives him another. “Yes, like that. Are you looking at the necklace, Shane?”

His breath stutters, “Yes.” 

“Are you thinking about wearing it for me?” If he wasn't before, he sure is now. 

“Yes,” he says again, doesn’t even try to bite back his next moan in the hopes that Ilya will praise him again. 

“What would people think, mh? That you wear necklace like that? What would they say?”

Shane’s been having a hard few days confronting people’s perception and opinions of him, but the thought of anyone, everyone looking at him in Ilya’s necklace now makes him shiver with arousal instead of dread. 

“They would—fuck Ilya, they would think I belong to you.” 

“You do,” Ilya says, like the simplest truth in the world. 

He’s breathing heavily now, hand now stripping his cock furiously, because suddenly he can’t stop the images forming unbidden in his head—Shane would wear this in public, he would wear this in the Voyageurs’ locker room, would stare down Gilbert fucking Comeau and dare him, fucking dare him to say something, to—bend Shane over and give him a parting gift while Shane is wearing Ilya on his skin. 

Shane would laugh at him, cruel like Ilya sounds when he knows Shane wants him mean and detached, and say—he would look Comeau in the eye, would stare all of them down, and say—you think you’d know what to do with me? You think you can touch me? He would fucking kill you if you tried. He would kill you. 

Then Ilya would be there, behind Shane, hands sliding up Shane’s body, to his throat, down his front, gripping Shane’s cock and showing him off, look how pretty he is, he would say, look how good he is for me, and none of you can have this, none of you can have what’s mine.  

Ilya would mark Shane’s skin as his in front of everyone, would command Shane to go to his knees and Shane happily would, naked except for his necklace, and they would all look at him, and watch the way Ilya’s dick fits in his mouth perfectly, hear the way he makes such pretty noises for Ilya, and they’d all be fucking jealous, of him, of the fact none of them could ever even come close to what Ilya does to him, to how he makes him feel–

“I’m close,” he whines high in his throat. “Please, please can I come, pl–”

“Yes, sweetheart. Come all over your necklace.” 

Fuck, Shane thinks, cupping one hand in front of him at the last second so he doesn't actually drench a fucking 5.33 carat diamond choker in his release. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says on the other side of the phone, makes a pained noise and comes too. 

“Ilya,” Shane moans, heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he tries to get his breathing back under control, “Ilya–”

“I know—I know, I know,” the other says, sounding as out of it as Shane feels right now, breathing fast into the phone. “Me too, Shane. Me too.” 

He sits on the floor, leaning his head back against the couch, closes his eyes and listens to Ilya’s breathing go back to normal.  

 —

There’s another wrapped present inside the box, and it’s a testament to Shane’s Ilya-shaped tunnel vision that he only notices hours after he's gotten up from the floor, showered, and securely tucked the necklace in his safe. 

He goes to grab his laptop from underneath Ilya’s giftbox so he can Google “Harry Winston diamonds ethically sourced?” and that’s when he notices there’s something else in the box—a thick, rectangular packet wrapped in ordinary brown paper. There’s a pink post-it tacked on top of it; it reads “use me,” in what he assumes is Ilya’s handwriting. 

It’s a Lonely Planet New York City travel guide, spine broken and edges well-worn, with earmarked pages and a bunch of sticky tabs in different colors popping out at the top. Shane picks up the guidebook carefully, as though it might fall apart in his hands. He flips to a random page, a highlighted paragraph catching his eye. 

“You would like the pastrami burger”, Ilya's neat scrawl informs him in the margins of an entry for Jeffrey's Grocery in the West Village.

Shane traces the word with his fingers, then brings them to his mouth in a kiss.

—

“I’m sending a few players your way,” Farah tells him after they’re done exchanging greetings. 

“With, like, torches and pitchforks?” Shane says. 

She smiles and winks, “Nothing to worry about, just some nice guys who reached out to offer support. I would rather maintain control over your official inbox for the time being, but we’ve created a more personal email address for this type of thing. Tiên will reach out with the account information later.” 

Shane is oddly touched by the gesture. He’d happily relinquished all his social media to Farah and her team, and he hadn’t heard a peep about it from Farah or Tiên herself—which was exactly what he wanted, even though he did feel guilty at the thought of Tiên likely drowning in the cesspool of public opinion and think pieces. 

They'd still wanted him to be able to read the supportive messages, though, so they'd made him a separate inbox. It was a lot more thoughtful than what he’d been expecting from a manager who wasn’t his mom.  “Thank you, Farah. That’s really kind of you.”

“It was Tiên’s idea. She’s putting together a packet with the best social media posts, you’ll get it soon. I wasn’t kidding when I said a lot of people are on your side.” 

He nods, not trusting himself with words right now. It would be Tiên’s idea to spend hours going through Twitter with a fine-tooth comb to report on hashtags, users, and tweets that were being supportive. 

“In the meantime, I did a little bit of digging, as we agreed. Had some nice talks with some nice people, and I am very happy to confirm that every team on your list would be honored to have you. No big surprise there.” 

“Oh,” he says. He hadn’t realized until Farah said it that he’d been worried they'd reject him. He was a stellar player, sure, but at the moment he was also a huge gamble, and he certainly didn't come without baggage.

“The Admirals and Bears specifically dropped some hints they’d be—incredibly keen, shall we say, with having you on board.” She chuckles. “Jean-Pierre said he’d make sure to collar Rozanov and tie him to a fencepost, in case you were to get traded there.” 

Shane feels himself flush; “You talked to Le Clair?” 

“Well, I spoke with Gallagher first—their Assistant GM?—and about five minutes later JP called me to ask if I was being serious. Of course, I told him I was being completely hypothetical and highly theoretical.”

“Of course,” Shane says, wanting nothing more in life but to hear about Ilya getting wrangled by his coach. 

Farah smiles, “I trust JP, I’ve known him for many years and he’s a straight-talk, no-bullshit kind of man. He assured me Rozanov wouldn’t be a problem, and in fact pointed out that Rozanov runs a very clean locker room, so you’d be safe there.” 

Shane knew he would, but it kindles a small flame in him anyway. Not because he'd doubted Ilya—because someone else hadn't. Because Ilya was respected and trusted by his coach; trusted enough that putting Hollander and Rozanov in the same locker room wasn't considered a prelude to disaster.

“And… you said something about New York…?”

Farah narrows her eyes, making an interested noise; “Yes, I spoke with their President of Hockey Operations, Francesca DeLuca—lovely woman, real big dick New Yorker energy. You can literally hear her coming a mile away. Just stay out of range of those hand gestures, if you ever meet her in person. 

Anyway, Francesca assured me they would hypothetically trade half their roster and cede their first five picks to get their hands on you. I got the impression she views passing on Shane Hollander as a personal failure of management.” Farah smirks; “Like I said, very keen.” 

Shane nods; “And… the locker room?”

“As good as they say,” Farah confirms. “Hunter has been taking a more… decisive approach ever since that whole Zullo debacle, and so have his As. I’ve checked with Tiên as well, nothing even remotely questionable from anyone’s socials going back at least two, maybe two and a half years. Unless you consider Jaalo’s predilection for Eurovision hits a crime—in which case, New York is not for you.”

He nods again, taking a deep breath and worrying the links of his bracelet.

“If given the choice, where would you rather go?” she asks then, probably already suspecting an answer but needing to hear Shane say it. 

His voice is small when he says it the first time, but then he looks at his wrist and clears his throat, squares his shoulders.

“New York,” he confirms, clear and decisive. 

“Then I will get you there,” Farah simply says.

—

He places his meal of ginger chicken, brown rice, and roasted vegetables on the counter, and settles in with a pitcher of water to wait for Ilya’s call. The other had texted ahead to let him know he was a few minutes late, and by the time the Skype ringtone fills the room, Shane is all but vibrating because he really wants to talk about it. 

After the call with Farah Shane had sat down with Ilya’s guidebook, idly flipping through the pages randomly and reading the various comments, curious about what had to be a color-coding system, unless Ilya had just decided to torture him with chaotic stationery instead. 

He had so many questions. 

“Hi,” says Ilya when he takes the call. He’s looking a bit sweaty and slightly out of breath. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, was arguing with IKEA furniture.” 

“You have IKEA furniture?” 

“I do now. Saint-Vicky found out IKEA sells a divorcemaker? Is like a big entertainment center. Vicky insisted we all try to build it in pairs, see who lasted longer without arguing.” 

Shane chuckles, “What even. Who won?”

“Not me, since now I have ugly IKEA divorcemaker in my house.” 

He laughs, spearing a carrot with his fork and taking the first bite of dinner between them. Ilya smiles a little, but lowers his eyes and doesn’t say a word about it. 

“Hey,” Shane says softly, watches Ilya load up his fork with a truly inordinate amount of spaghetti and all but unhinge his jaw to fit the forkful in his mouth. 

“Mh?”

“Thank you for the guidebook. I’m definitely gonna use it once I get to New York.” 

Ilya looks up at him, cheeks stuffed full of pasta and expression so fond in a way that makes Shane’s overworked heart skip a beat. 

“Ah, finally you notice.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, “Yes, well, I like to think I’d have noticed it sooner if you hadn’t made me strip and jerk off on a six-hundred-and-nineteen-fucking-diamonds necklace.”

The other laughs delightedly, wipes his chin with the back of his hand before diving back into the spaghetti. “Don’t pretend you did not like that.”

“I did,” Shane says with what he hopes is enough heat in his gaze to properly convey just how much he enjoyed their earlier call. 

Ilya holds his gaze for a beat too long, reading him like an open book; the spaghetti stops halfway to his open mouth before he shuts it with a click. The other clears his throat before taking another bite. “You already try to Google where the diamonds come from?”

Shane makes a displeased noise, cutting up a neat piece of chicken for himself; “I was going to, but then I saw the book and forgot.”

The other snorts, “Is okay, I have sustainability certificates for you. I did not include in box because it would have been very tacky, but I can send you the papers.” 

“It’s not—tacky to care about the ethics of diamond acquisition, human exploitation, and warlord financing,” he frowns. 

“No, but stack of bureaucracy next to beautiful necklace does not say romantic. I was trying to be romantic.”

And yet you made sure to ask for sustainability certificates, Shane thinks, finding the way Ilya knows him enough to no doubt harass a Harry Winston employee with demands for chain of supply paperwork and responsible sourcing audit almost more romantic than the necklace itself. 

Instead, he says; “I could tell. How much did it even cost?—wait, don’t tell me, I already feel like a sugar baby without knowing you spent… I don’t know, 50k? on a necklace I can’t wear in public?”

Ilya snorts in amusement, “50k, sure.”

Shane blinks, “Ilya. Was it less? Was it—was it more?”

“Does my sugar baby really want to know?” He’s smiling, but even through the screen Shane can tell he looks embarrassed. 

Definitely more, he thinks, and does his best to hide his own embarrassed flush, because 50k would have already been an absolutely ridiculous price, but it’s more, and while yes, Ilya is probably certifiable at this point, Shane also finds the thought of Ilya Rozanov walking into a jewelry store and dropping an inordinate amount of money on a necklace—a necklace for Shane—hot as fuck. 

“Ilya,” he shakes himself and tries to be responsible, “What the actual fuck are you doing dropping this much money on a gift? Don’t. It's not worth it.”  

The other hums, taking a few swigs of water and just looking at Shane. He knows, Shane thinks. He knows you think it’s hot. Fuck, you’re gonna need a bigger safe. 

“Is worth it if thinking about it makes you come in three minutes while sounding like a cat in heat.” 

Shane chokes on a carrot, resists the urge to cover his tablet’s camera with a hand. “No more, Ilya—no more diamonds.” he tries for stern, probably lands somewhere in the ballpark of ‘visibly aroused but trying to be sensible about—this’.

“What you mean no more diamonds, what else am I supposed to buy you?” 

He laughs at Ilya’s affronted face, “Nothing. You’re not supposed to buy me anything.”

The other looks less than impressed as he says, “Hollander, I know you are boring but not even your boring Canadianness will stop me from buying you things.”

Shane keeps laughing, scrapes the leftover ginger glaze on his plate with the fork and sucks it clean. “Okay, then gifts are capped at 10 dollars.” 

Ilya scoffs, “One-hundred, at least.”

“Twenty,” he laughs again. 

“Eighty-one,” Ilya smirks. 

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling anyway so it’s just for show. “Twenty-four,” he grins back. 

“Is too low, Hollander, fifty at least. Fifty and a gift card.” 

“Ilya,” he laughs again. “Fifty and no gift card.”  

“Fifty per item, not total package. Last offer.” 

Shane looks at Ilya’s grin, so wide and happy he almost looks like a completely different person, and thinks that he would be fine with having a diamond necklace for every day of the week, if that’s the reaction Ilya has about buying him presents. 

“You look happy,” he tells the other. 

Ilya’s smile grows more contemplative, mirth still dancing in his eyes and one hand going out of frame as he touches the screen. “I am.” 

“Will you still look happy if I ask about whether the guidebook was yours?”

The other keeps smiling, nods. “I know the city well enough now. Thought you could use it.”

Shane imagines a younger Ilya Rozanov seeing New York for the first time, feeling compelled to buy a guidebook so he could make the most of whatever scrap of time he’d been able to carve out in between games and flights. 

There is so much they still don’t know about each other, to the point where Shane wonders if it’s possible to feel all of this for someone you know so little, comparatively speaking. And wasn’t love supposed to be something patient, kind, something that grew with time, that had to be nurtured?  

It felt like lightning to him. 

Sudden. Blinding. 

The bright flash in the dark of a lighter clicking in an alley, a water bottle shaking in his direction, the chime of Ilya’s laugh as they face off for the CCM shoot, do I make you curious? delivered straight into the shell of his ear. 

The crack of thunder of that first kiss. The first time Shane had gone on his knees for Ilya and immediately known he would want to keep doing it for the rest of his life, if the other allowed him to. The realization, sharp and immediate, that something fundamental had changed and there was no going back.

So far their love had been neither patient nor kind, but maybe it did grow with time, morphing from one form to the next as they grew out of their teenage bodies, then into their feelings, evolved versions of those same kids who'd been living in different continents the first time they'd heard about each other being the best. Maybe neither of them had ever really stopped moving forward after that.

“When did you… did you write all the annotations yesterday?”

Ilya shifts in his seat. “Mmh. Some, yes.” 

“And the others?”

Ilya shrugs, which usually means he’s about to say something that will completely alter Shane’s perception of reality—or at the very least of the last six years. “Depends. I have had the guide for a while.”

“And you… thought of me when you read it?” 

“Sometimes, yes,” he admits quietly. 

“Can you… tell me?” 

He knows Ilya isn’t very comfortable with this line of questioning, doesn’t want to poke and prod with the intent to humiliate or for the sake of arrogance, just to force Ilya into confessing the truth of the softness hiding behind his spikes.

But Shane needs to know this man, wants to take night classes and intensive courses that explain the lore of Ilya Rozanov, who calls him boring and buys him jewelry, whose slapshot is the hardest in the league, but whose fingers trace Shane’s freckles so gently it makes him want to cry. 

Ilya rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, shrugs again. “Sometimes I would go somewhere, and think you would like it. Sometimes I would read on the guide about a place, and wanted to… go there with you.”

Lightning bolt.

“Did you… mark those? The ones you wanted to visit with me?” 

“Red tabs.”

Thundercrack. 

“Oh.” He takes a steadying breath; “Then maybe—maybe when we both have a day off or something… maybe we can… check one out? If you want.” 

Ilya is very still, but by now Shane knows it’s not Skype glitching, just Ilya working through the mortifying ordeal of being perceived. 

“Is that what you want?” 

“Yes,” Shane says immediately, then goes for broke. “So much it scares me” 

Ilya moves again then, the line of his shoulders gentling as he lets out a controlled breath. “Okay. Then we will do that.”

Shane thinks it very clearly for the first time then—not in the abstract way he’s been chasing the words around in his mind, knowing the quality of the feeling and its intrinsic meaning but not daring to say it out loud even in the quiet of his dark spaces. 

I love him, he thinks. 

—

Later, when he’s tucked into bed with his guidebook on the nightstand, Shane looks at the flowers Ilya sent, and while he resists the urge to Google “Harry Winston Lily Cluster cost?,” he does cave and Google “Meaning of flowers”.

An hour later he's 17 tabs deep into the history of Victorian floriography and has ordered three books on the subject from Indigo. 

The purple tulips mean yearning for someone's presence. The forget-me-nots are exactly as subtle as they sound. The red carnations are somehow worse.

Shane turns off the light and falls asleep staring at the flowers in the semi-darkness, a smile on his lips.

—

When he first hears the noise, he’s standing in a field of wildflowers. 

It’s like pebbles sliding down the side of a ravine, but much bigger. Like the groaning of icebergs getting ripped apart, or like tectonic plates shifting suddenly. 

The sky was clear a minute ago, as Shane walked through the flowers and let his hands graze the tall grass, but now when he looks up Shane can see the sky has gone completely dark. 

He hears the noise again, just then. 

Like the very fabric of the Earth is splitting open. The first tear starts forming beneath his feet, slow at first but then whip-crack fast. He tries to run, but his feet are being held by a tangle of brambles and thorns, anchoring him to the ground that’s started opening beneath him in a yawning gap. 

More vines slither up from the fissure, slide up his calves, wrap around his knees, his thighs, and start pulling. 

Shane scrambles for purchase, arms windmilling in a frantic struggle, but he’s still alone, standing in the field, the flowers drying up and blackening around him as he casts around for something—anything he can hold on to as the tendrils keep tearing at his clothes, keep tightening, keep pulling him in. 

But there is nothing for miles. 

His breath catches, and then he falls into the earth. 

—

March 2016
Monday, 03:17 a.m.
Montreal

Shane jolts awake, the vines tangled around his legs making him gasp and whimper as he struggles to get free, to breathe through the sheer panic he feels. He flings out a hand, sends the bedside lamp crashing to the ground in his haste, hears the noise of glass shattering. He finds his phone, and turns on the flashlight with shaky fingers. 

The cone of light shows him that his legs are tangled in the sheets, not wrapped in thorns, but still he can't focus his scattered thoughts long enough to start counting, to start breathing in a pattern that will help. He switches on the overhead light, and immediately knows it’s a mistake when his head starts spinning. 

He falls off the bed in a rush to rid his skin of the maddening slide of Egyptian cotton against his skin, the crisp whisper of the fabric too much right now. 

Shane all but crawls to the bathroom, where he at least had the forethought of installing mood lighting, and climbs inside the tub. He curls in on his side and lets the coolness of the ceramic soothe him as he slowly gains control over his unsteady breath and rabbiting heartbeat.

He’s still gripping his phone so tightly he hears a tiny cracking noise, so he forces himself to unlock the screen, and navigate to his call log instead. 

There is only one person he wants to talk to right now. 

The ringback tone hangs in the air for what feels like a lifetime before a sleepy voice on the other side greets him; “Shane? Baby? What’s wrong?”

He huffs out a shaky breath, lifting his arm to look at his wrist and the glimmer of gold in the low light of his bathroom. 

“Mom—mom I’m so sorry,” he breaks. 

“Oh, honey.” 

There’s a rustling on the other side of the line, his father’s voice coming through tinny as he mumbles ‘where are you going?’ before a door is shut, and Yuna’s warm tone envelops Shane. 

“Talk to me, Shane, what’s wrong?”

He laughs, but it sounds desperate; “How much time do you have?” 

“All the time you need. Come on, count with me; one, two-” 

Shane closes his eyes, counts until he can straighten his limbs in jerky motions and lie flat in the tub. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

“For what?” 

“For… for everything, mom—fuck, for—for messing up, for not telling you, for—for not telling you about Ilya, for—for getting traded–”

“You’re getting traded?”

“Mom,” he says again, can feel himself starting to cry from how wobbly his voice sounds.

In a hotel room in downtown Montreal, Yuna sighs. “Shane, don’t be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“I lied to you.” 

“You were scared,” she retorts. 

“It shouldn't have mattered, I—I’m better than that, you taught me better than that.” He scrubs away the tears and tries to sit up, but finds he can't, his legs heavy and leaden.

“It’s okay, Shane. I’m not mad.” 

“You should be!” he thinks he’s yelling, but he’s not really sure at this point. “Do you know how long I’ve hidden this for—how long I’ve been seeing him, how long it–” 

“It doesn’t matter, baby, I under-”

“Since 2010, mom. Before rookie season even started.”

Yuna goes very quiet, and then says, “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” he says, unsure whether he’s angry, frustrated, scared, guilty, or all the above. “I’ve known I was gay this entire time, and I never told you, I am a liability, I–”

“Is this why you asked me to stop managing you?”

He stops in his tracks. 

Was it?

At the time he’d told himself it was because it felt unprofessional, to be in his twenties and have his mother manage him—no matter that she was incredibly good, a lifetime of evidence in her favor. Was there another reason though, one that Shane hadn’t considered—at least on a conscious level?   

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. 

“It’s okay, honey,” she says again. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. I know I don’t… I know that I’m not always good at showing it, but… I am your mother, Shane. Before anything else. I didn’t go through nine months of Nutella-covered pickles just for fun. I did it because I love you.” 

Shane curls back in on himself, wiping his eyes with his thumb. 

“I feel like all I do is disappoint you,” he confesses, quiet into the ceramic womb of his bathtub. 

“You have never disappointed me, not a day in your life;” his mom’s voice is firm as she says it, purposeful in a way that means he will be quizzed about this at a later date. “Never, Shane, do you understand this?”  

“Yes,” he says, not sure he understands but willing enough to try. 

“You could—you could rob a bank and I would still love you. You could set a house on fire, and I would tell you what a good job you did. You could—you could have Ilya Rozanov sitting on your couch, and I would tell you how much cuter he looks in person.”

Shane knows he should be grateful and leave it at that, but he needs to know. 

“What if I stopped playing hockey?”

Yuna’s breath catches. “Is… is that what you want?” 

No, he thinks, but that’s an answer anyway. 

“I’m probably going to get traded to the Admirals,” he says instead, wills himself to stop asking questions he knows are only going to create an even bigger rift between them. 

His mom clears her throat, “They’re a good team. I think they can win the Cup this year, if you're with them.” 

“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll keep playing, mom—it won’t be with the Voyageurs, but–”

“Fuck the Voyageurs,” Yuna Hollander curses in front of God and the NHL, an impossible sentiment coming from the woman who was collecting their merchandise well before Shane had ever been on the team, or even existed at all. 

“Mom, come on.”

“No, Shane. Fuck them. I am your mother, you listen to me—and I say; fuck the Montreal Voyageurs. Come on. Say it with me.” 

“Okay,” he says with a tired smile. “Fuck the Montreal Voyageurs. I will win you the Cup again, mom. I promise.”

“I know you will, honey,” she says, and Shane finally sits up and keeps breathing. 

—

Shane was thinking about eggs. And chickens. 

Specifically, which one had come first for him, in the grand scheme of things? 

Was it something that had always been there, just software he came pre-installed with, or had it been a gradual, continuous upgrade to his CPU that had taught him this—that affection was something you had to earn? That his value was directly proportional to the things he achieved? 

Was it the way other mothers talked behind Yuna’s back at school bake sales, fake smiles on their faces when she turned to them, the way they spoke to her so loud and slow like Yuna Hollander was stupid, like she was fresh off the boat instead of a McGill honors graduate with a Bachelor of Commerce in Marketing + Finance, who worked in Private Wealth Management so many hours a week she’d come to the bake sale with a tray of store-bought brownies only because Shane had begged her to? 

Or was it the way he’d watched his dad go from explaining, over and over again, that he and his wife had met in school here in Canada, not while he was on an exotic vacation in Thailand, or Vietnam, or China—to the way he’d started laughing about it instead, awkward and resigned, and then as the years passed had started just staring at people instead, no light in his eyes and no smile on his face. Daring them to explain the joke. 

Maybe it was the way he’d watched his parents pay the price of choosing each other—constantly over the years, over and over again even as family and friends made it difficult—that told him affection was earned, and came with pages crammed full with small print. 

Affection was always conditional, and something he had to keep working to earn. 

Because if you didn’t continue being good, people would stop liking you, and then where would you be? 

By twenty-four, Shane was constantly running the math in his head, playing 4D chess to make sure he kept everyone happy, so that everyone would keep loving him. But the thing is, right now, as he stares at the cardboard boxes neatly stacked in his living room, he thinks that the Voyageurs' WAGs would never organize a whole day to help him pack—and even if they did, only Hayden and Jackie would show up anyway.

And that was something else—Shane was pretty sure he’d never had to earn their affection a single second in his life. 

Hayden and Jackie had just shown up, set up camp in the space between Shane’s ribs, and made themselves at home. 

So what the hell had he been doing this whole time? 

—

“Run, run!” Ruby giggles, gripping his hair tightly as Shane lifts her up onto his shoulders, then jogs away from Hayden. 

“We’re too fast. They’ll never catch us,” he promises, and dekes around Hayden when the other moves closer. 

Jade shrieks, “Get them, daddy!” and bounces on Hayden’s shoulders.

Shane’s by no means lacking in stamina, but two hours piggybacking the twins around as they play pirates are maybe a bit too much even for him, because he’s starting to feel winded now, and he’s pretty sure there are gigantic sweat stains on his pits and along his back. 

He’d meant to just go to the Pikes’ for dinner, but then he found himself sat in his flat, staring at the piles of neatly stacked boxes, at the itemized list of contents he’d made for Future Shane so he would know exactly what was where once the time came to unpack, and he’d thought; I’m not gonna see my best friends and my godkids again.

Which, okay—dramatic as hell, but that’s how it felt. He could drive, hop onto a plane, but there wouldn’t be any more babysitting, any more Friday dinners, any more picking them up from school when Hayd or Jackie were in a bind, any more bedtime stories.

Shane had felt something inside twist a little, just then, resigned they would forget him—Arthur especially, who wasn’t even old enough to call him ‘uncle Shane’ yet.

So he’d taken his car and driven all the way to his best friend’s house, apologizing for being four hours earlier and promising Jackie he was fine as she almost strangled him to death with a hug—he was fine, he just wanted to play with the girls for a little before dinner. 

“We’re gonna win!” Ruby yells, slapping the top of Shane’s head and making him laugh. 

“Yes we are!” he yells back as Hayden reaches out a hand and makes a desperate but fruitless grab for Shane’s shirt. He and Ruby blow twin raspberries at him.

Hayden makes a frustrated noise, “Oh come the fuck-"

“Swear jar,” says Jackie from the porch. “And also go get cleaned up, you look disgusting and dinner is ready.” 

Ruby starts climbing higher then, little feet digging into Shane’s back as she conquers Mount Everest and stands on top of his shoulder, arms flung out as she screams “We fucking won!” causing Hayden to trip on his feet. 

“Ruby, do not say that word ever again-”

“We fucking won!” shrieks Jade, immediately latching on to the fact they’re not supposed to say that word ever again. 

Shane tries not to laugh, but it’s a lost cause; “Swear jar times two,” he teases. 

Hayden flips him off. 

—

While Hayden and Jackie put the kids to bed, Shane goes to his car and grabs the manila folder from his passenger seat. 

Dinner had felt like normal, but there was a moment towards the end where Shane had slipped and mentioned moving, and they’d had to explain to the girls that uncle Shane was going to leave Montreal because of work. 

He’d wanted to say it was going to be just for a little while, but it would have been a lie and Shane was not in the business of lying to children—not his children at least. 

“But you’re still coming to my ballet recital, right?” Ruby asked, worry written all over her face, and Shane had promised to himself that yes, he would come back for the ballet recital, no matter what sort of nonsense was going on in his life at that time. 

Hayden and Jackie walk down the stairs together, talking to each other in hushed tones, and Shane has to look away when Hayden smiles, booping Jackie’s nose and making her laugh. 

No more of this either, he thinks, looking away. 

He shakes himself, and waits for Hayden and Jackie to sit down again before sliding the manila folder towards the middle of the table. 

“Uh oh,” Jackie says, frowning as she flips to the first page and immediately slaps the papers down, “Absolutely fucking not, Shane.” 

“What?” says Hayden, reaching for the folder and checking its content. “Oh fuck no, what the fuck dude? Are you insane?” 

Shane shrugs, “I just wanted to leave something for them to remember me by.” 

“You’re not moving to fucking Jupiter dude, you’re going to—wait, where are you going again? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, you’re not… you’re not… trust funding my kids, what the fuck?” Hayden shakes the papers in Shane’s general direction. 

“It’s practical,” he retorts. “It can pay for school, for a sabbatical year before school, for… for a house downpayment, for any expense—and I made sure that you could access the money at any point, and that each fund would continue accruing interest until the girls become twenty-five. Sorry, that was the maximum they’d allow me.” 

“Shane,” Jackie says, with the same tone she’d used to tell Jade that no, baby, you can’t put bleach on your potatoes, because that would be very bad. “We love you, and the kids love you, and I know we always joke that Hayden’s salary is very cheap-”

“Girl, fuck you, it still paid for the house, didn’t it?!”

Jackie scoffs, “My mom paid for the house, your ass didn’t pay for shit-”

Shane watches them bicker, and quickly swipes his thumb at the corner of his eye to dry away a runaway tear. These two perfect dumbasses were his best friends, and he was going to have to leave them behind.

“Shane,” Jackie tries again. “We’ll still be here, it doesn’t matter whether you go to… to Florida, or Connecticut, or wherever,” she waves a hand in the air as if it really doesn’t matter.

Hayden hums; “We won’t really be here because we’ll be in Ottawa, but you know what she means.”

Shane’s head snaps up then; “You’re getting traded to the Centaurs?!”

“Giddy up, babe,” Hayden smiles, but it’s a little sad. “I will miss winning, that’s for sure.” 

Jackie leans in to kiss his cheek, then rests her head against Hayden’s shoulder. 

“Ottawa is… a beautiful city,” Shane says. 

Hayden snorts, “Ottawa? Yes, it truly is the Paris of Canada.”

“Hey, I’m from Ottawa!” 

“Yes, and you’re such a worldly socialite, you’re really proving my point.” Hayden lifts a hand then, stopping Shane’s inevitable ‘fuck you’ in its tracks. “But Ottawa is only a couple of hours from here, and we’re going to be doing back and forth for a little while until we’re able to settle in properly. I love hockey, but I don’t want to be away from my family any more than I have to.”

He brings up his and Jackie’s hands, tangled together, and kisses Jackie’s, addressing his next words to his wife directly. “Ottawa is perfect. I will even keep my subpar salary that has never paid for a single thing in our lives, especially not that Wolf range with the built-in griddle that you insisted was a necessity.”

“And that is probably going to make sure we don't actively lose money when selling our house in this godforsaken market.”

“Thank you, guys,” Shane says before he can stop himself. 

The Pikes look at him like he’s just grown another head. 

“For what?” Jackie says. 

“For… I don't know. For being my friends,” he shrugs, trying to undercut the significance of the word. 

“Yes,” Hayden drawls. “It’s been nothing but hardships, really.” 

Jackie nods her assent, “I mean, personally I’m just so glad you’re not gay, because then it would truly be a problem, since I know you would try to steal my husband away.”

Hayden preens, raising a finger at his wife, “Still Reddit’s number one, baby.”

“Oh honey,” she pats his face, “I’m so happy for you and Shane, you make a beautiful couple.” 

“I do like blue eyes,” Shane murmurs, forcing himself to stop catastrophizing for at least thirty seconds. 

Maybe they’re right, maybe it will be fine—maybe the girls won’t forget him, and maybe they can try Skyping once a week or so—it was working for him and Ilya, wasn't it? 

Jackie smirks, wiggling her brows, “Yes you do, you saucy minx. I know aaaaaaall about it now, and you won’t be able to escape my questions, just you wait.” 

Shane groans, “Not you too, Jackjack.” 

“Oh, definitely me too, because the WAGs and I have been wondering about Rozanov for years. Let me tell you, we almost sent Martine to Boston with an Agent Provocateur babydoll after Patrice cheated on her last year.”

Shane makes a noise like a wounded animal, unsure whether he wants to laugh or be irrationally jealous, because—“What the fuck Jackie.” 

“Don’t worry,” she says, “She chickened out at the airport.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hayden interjects, “Can we back up real quick to where you said you’ve been wondering about Ilya Rozanov for years?” 

“Can we maybe not,” says Shane. 

“Well,” starts Jackie; “We just talked about him. And other hot guys in the league. We do Fuck, Marry, Kill pretty often, actually. Matti Jaalo is really popular.”

Hayden perks up, “Am I popular?” 

“We don't talk about our own men, that's gross. We do your laundry and cook your meals, there is no magic left—not the same magic there would be between say, me and Jaalo. Or—or Marleau. But anyway,” she flaps her hand in the air again as Hayden looks incredibly affronted, “I will be continuing this discussion in private with my friend Shane, not my husband.” 

“Can we literally not,” Shane tries again. 

“Oh shut up, Samantha.” 

—

When he gets home, Shane’s still pleasantly buzzed from the shot of tequila Jackie had forced them into, so that’s what he decides to blame for what happens next. 

Shane 

Hayd said you haven’t talked to him since Wednesday.
It's fine if you want to be a dick to me.
I don’t understand it but it’s fine. 
But it’s fucking gross that you’re doing this to Hayden too.

JJ

of course u txt to talk abt hayden 1st 
we haven't talked in almost 1 week shane 

Shane 

Whose fucking fault Is that?
My shit gets leaked to the press and suddenly you forget I'm your friend. 
That HAYDEN is your friend. 

JJ

u forgot i was ur friend 1st

Shane 

What does that even mean? I never forgot about you. 

JJ

lol k
that y u didn't tell me abt being gay 
cos u never forget i exist???
cos we're not bffs only when u need smt???

Shane 

So what, your feelings are hurt so you react like a fucking child?
Have you stopped to consider that maybe that's why I didn't fucking tell you?

JJ

fuck u
lose my nr 
not like u use it anyway 

Fuck you too, he thinks bitterly, and deletes JJ’s number from his phone. 

—

Shane was reasonably sure he’d done nothing to earn Ilya’s affection either—in his mind's eye one day Shane had existed in a universe that did not contemplate the existence of Ilya Rozanov, and the next they were in Saskatchewan and Shane’s world had started looking technicolor. 

That was it. 

And the weirdest part was, Shane had done nothing to keep earning Ilya’s affection and attention, but Ilya was still there. Buying him jewelry and sitting at his kitchen table to eat with Shane from 492 kilometers away.

Was that really something that you could do?

Just exist as the barest bones version of yourself, and all of a sudden a person looks at you, sees whatever it is they see, and thinks; that’s mine, I’m going to keep them around.

it sounded absolutely preposterous.

—

From: Farah Jalali ▪️ farah.jalali@jalalimgmt.com 
To: Shane Hollander ▪️ shane.hollander@jalalimgmt.com, Shane Hollander ▪️ shollander.24@gmail.com 
Cc: Tiên Thu Nguyễn ▪️ tien.nguyen@jalalimgmt.com, Theodora Pappas ▪️ theodora.pappas@jalalimgmt.com 
Date: March 15th, 2016 17:23
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL - Trade confirmation (2015-2016)

Attachments (12)

Trade Agreement.pdf
Contract Amendment.pdf
Admirals Onboarding Guide.pdf
Housing Information.pdf
Practice Schedule.pdf
Media Schedule.pdf
Relocation Benefits.pdf
Immigration Overview.pdf
Contact List.pdf
Draft Statement A.docx
Draft Statement B.docx
Draft Statement C.docx

Hi Shane,

Please find enclosed the following documents for your perusal. Wherever marked, I will need your e-signature and initials by EOD (IMPORTANT). 

• Trade agreement
• all stipulations agreed; starting date is Friday, March 19th. You are expected at MSG Training Center (Tarrytown, NY) by 10 a.m. at the latest.
• Employment contract 
• I know you’re going to read all 87 pages of it anyway, but there are no significant changes from your Voyageurs one.
• NTC clause confirmed.
• Immigration documentation 
• Relocation package 
• Flight to JFK International has been booked for Thursday, March 18th. First class boarding starts at 8:30 a.m. at Delta counters.
• Access to Delta frequent flyer lounge has also been arranged; find enclosed confirmation of complimentary subscription to their Frequent Flyer Loyalty program. Congratulations.
• Housing packet 
• Furnished unit at 56 Leonard has been arranged for you; Player Services will get in touch regarding the specifics of your housing allowance, however please note:
• I am including written confirmation that the allowance will cover 60% of monthly rent. 
• The first 3 months have already been covered by the Organization as a welcome gesture. Congratulations again.
• I am sure you will also be thrilled to know that the building offers concierge services, a private fitness center, rooftop terrace, screening room, resident lounge, and pet spa.
• NY Admirals Contact List
• PLEASE NOTE: Francesca has made herself available 24/7 as you adjust to the changes. Remember what I said about the hands (sorry Theo) and do NOT embarrass me, Hollander. 
• Francesca DeLuca
  President of Hockey Operations 
  f.deluca@nyadmirals.com
  francesca.deluca@nyadmirals.com
  fran.delu@nyadmiralsinternal.com
  (212) 555-0147
  (212) 555-1835
  (212) 555-9917

I am also attaching three drafts for your trade statement; please let Tiên know which variant you choose, and she’ll handle it. 

PLEASE NOTE: as discussed, no draft includes mentions of/alludes to your sexuality or the leak itself. 

I know Tiên has already explained it to you, but you pay me a lot of money to curate and protect your image, and my professional opinion is this: it would be strongly advisable (if not downright mandatory at this stage) for you to release a second targeted statement addressing the privacy invasion. Ideally, this is done before your first game with the Admirals, on the 20th.  

The team is more than happy to keep hold of your socials and all direct communication with external parties as you see fit, however—Shane, it’s time we start controlling some of this bullshit properly. Think about it. 

Lastly, on behalf of Tiên and Theo as well: thank you for the flowers and for the bonus. 

Legal requires me to be impartial in written communication to the clients, however Legal almost cried over the flowers herself, so I’m sure she’ll forgive me for compromising my integrity and saying; you’re definitely my favorite. 

Reach out in case you need anything. 

Best regards,

Farah Jalali
Founder & Principal Agent

Jalali Sports Management

Direct: 604-555-0101
Mobile: 604-555-0189
farah.jalali@jalalimgmt.com 

—

David and Yuna decide to stay in Montreal a few more days, partly because of his dad's obsession with hotel breakfast and partly because his mom starts coordinating moving efforts the moment Shane tells her he's flying out on Thursday, and still has to ask the Admirals’ Player Services people if they can help with that. 

Their luggage is still held hostage by Air Canada somewhere between Asia and North America, but by God Yuna Hollander will make sure all of Shane's boxes arrive in Manhattan before he does.

They try to suggest buying tickets on the same flight as Shane's, but he insists he needs to do this alone, because which twenty-four year old recently disgraced hockey captain flies into the unknown with their mom and dad in tow? Definitely not this one, he thinks even as he sees his mother physically restrain herself from arguing further. 

Shane promises to call immediately after getting to his new apartment, and in return makes his parents promise to book a few days of PTO for April so they can come visit and be reassured that the New York Admirals aren't going to house him in a shoebox somewhere under the Brooklyn bridge. 

That evening, when he calls Ilya to confirm he's moving to New York, the other immediately sends him a link over the Skype chat. 

“What's that?”

“Hotel in Albany.” 

Shane flips through the carousel of pictures promising an indoor heated pool, a hot-tub, and 24 hour fitness center, and hums. “It looks beautiful, but I probably won't have my car for a little bit. Maybe I can rent one and meet you there? When were you thinking? I have a game on Saturday so not this weekend.”

“No, I was thinking—what if you drive to New York? Albany is on the way, and is not far from Boston. You drive down from Montreal and we meet at this hotel.”

Oh, Shane thinks. 

“I’m all for it but maybe we should look for another place… it doesn't look like the kind of establishment that rents by the hour.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, “That would be why I booked an entire night, yes.”

“Oh,” he says. “You want to spend the night together? That–um, that’s cool. So—so we meet there on Wednesday, and then I drive to Manhattan on Thursday?”

“Is same as your flight, no? You just leave Canada a day earlier.”

Shane is conflicted over the thought of leaving Canada ahead of schedule for approximately 0.5 seconds.

“Yes, yes let’s do that.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says, “It’s a date.” 

—

March 2016
Wednesday 
Montreal 

Shane is parked just outside Résidences du Vieux-Port, looking at the building where he spent the last six years of his life. 

There's a nice symmetry in how scared he was when he and his parents first drove here from Ottawa, back before his rookie season, and how scared he feels now, leaving his 1900 square feet apartment behind. 

It's the same apartment where Hayden told him Jackie was pregnant with the twins. Where Shane had his family over for Christmas. Where he had sex with Ilya the first time. 

It hadn’t all been easy, sure, but even in the past week he’d been able to find some sort of footing here, safe in the privacy of his condo while the storm raged on outside, like a little cabin in a snow globe that someone had shaken a bit too hard.

He read somewhere that places have a memory. That, when you leave, they remember you. You haunted places just as much as they haunted you, but the difference was you had the privilege of moving on, while rooms, buildings, houses–they stayed behind. Missing you. Holding your secrets within their walls. Keeping score so you didn’t have to. 

Shane breathes and tries to leave as much of his grief behind as he can.

Let Montreal keep score for a while. 

Let the grief remain here, so it can’t follow Shane all the way across these 599 kilometers. 

He traces the links of his bracelet, then starts driving.

—

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

*
(Dead Stars – Ada Limón)

Chapter End Notes

me after spending a week reading all of y'all's comments about shane getting traded to boston/ottawa: when i post chapter 4 they're gonna fucking shank me in a taco bell's bathroom holy fuck

 

also joonas heikkinen is what happens when a woman sits down during her luteal phase and says "okay but what if a man was emotionally available, and also entirely wholesome" and then accidentally writes 2000 words of gentle Finnish giant

p.s. the cats are breadstick, pasta bowl, parmesan, lasagna, and lemon wedge. joonas and élodie joke that they live in an olive garden. literally no one look at me.

 

old notes regarding previously homaging an AI-generated work

I'm sure everyone has noticed the reference to OpalApparition's Nutcracker!, which is my favorite AU for this ship. Just thought I'd pay homage to the beautiful story and writing, especially considering how this fandom treated Opal. So yeah, go read, leave a kudo and comment pls

July 3rd update ⛔ in the past couple of days it has come to light that the above fic (as well as others by the same person) was written with the help of AI. I just wanted to say I'm very sorry for giving it space to exist in my own fic. I had no idea it was AI, and I genuinely thought this person had been cleared of AI allegations.

I think maybe I'm too trusting and/or naïve because to me fic writing is one of those places where AI has no reason to exist at all, so I tend to believe all writing is genuine and I'm not very savvy in the way of spotting its usage, not like I'm trained to do with everything else. To me fanfiction is a creative hobby where you can explore yourself and your writing in a low-stake environment, so my first instinct is always to reject the idea that there's any room for AI at all. However, the document with proof is incredibly clear, and I'm not gonna sit here and make excuses for someone I've never met who has essentially betrayed my trust by repeatedly saying they don't use AI when they clearly do.

Anyway. As you can probably tell I'm disheartened because I genuinely loved that fic. And I feel like a dumbass for getting bamboozled. For now I am leaving the chapter unchanged, but I know myself so I will probably come back after I finish writing chapter 6 and adjust accordingly.

Sorry for the super long somber edit but yeah. This needed to be said.

🚑 the AU referenced by Shane is "return of spontaneous circulation" by blongblong. I am obsessed with these two little hyper-competent shitheads.

 🌝 Wanna buy yourself Shane's necklace? It's here, but it's so expensive there's no pricetag, which already tells me none of us are gonna be able to afford it (respectful).
My best guesstimate? If I'm being conservative, USD 150-180K.
Considering it's Harry Winston, it's more likely we're looking at USD 180-200K+ so that tells you exactly why Ilya's accountant probably called him crying and asking to be fired

June 22nd update ↪️ it's been brought to my attention that the necklace does have a pricetag and it's 64k, so I don't know what the fuck happened when I was researching and talking to my friends BUT I choose to believe it's like 190k+ ✌🏻🛸
I need the price to be absolutely unhinged.

🌝 There's a reference to one of my favorite mangas of all time in this chapter, and if you spotted it---come here and gimme kiss (respectful, unless you want it to be disrespectful) (i'm fine either way).
If you didn't spend your formative years yearning for the Rei Kashinos of the world, I feel compelled to tell you that the manga is Fruits Basket by Natsuki Takaya, and you should probably read it.
I feel like Tōru and Ilya would get along great, for reasons that will probably make you cry.

good lord am I done yapping???? I GUESS I AM
please don't shank me in a taco bell bathroom I am but a poor clown who only wants to drop shane in the admirals' locker room so he can get matti jaalo's number for jackie

Chapter 5: where the spirit meets the bone

Chapter Summary

ey ey ey I'm waLKIN' HERE

Chapter Notes

hello gorgeous how are you today??? here, let me give you this totally innocuous gift bag, draw you a bath and bring you a glass of prosecco and an aloe face mask. you deserve all the nice things

 

🐝 no beta was harmed in the making of this chapter
🐝 also, uh, I don't know if the spoiler warning is still needed considering it's been well over 10 years for both pieces of media, but... spoilers for Prometheus (movie) and The Ruins (book). listen, I don't make the rules, I just follow my muse ok.

There is this film
That has passed to my fingers
And I have trembled,
Afraid to touch.

And in the eyes of one
Who had wanted to give what I had asked
But hesitated—tried—and then
Came with a weary, aged, “Not quite,”
I could but see that single realmless point of time,
All that is sad, and tired, and old—
And endless, shifting film.

*

(Man Hesitates but Life Urges - D’Arcy McNickle)

—

Admirals Acquire Shane Hollander from Montreal in Blockbuster Deadline Deal
By Emily Watkins - ESPN Staff Writer
Mar 16, 2016 09:15 EDT

In a deadline-day trade that sent shockwaves through the league, the New York Admirals acquired former Montreal Voyageurs captain Shane Hollander. Hollander, a Stanley Cup champion and one of hockey's premier two-way forwards, arrives in New York after six seasons with Montreal amid a turbulent week both on and off the ice.

Terms of the deal were not immediately disclosed, but it is rumored to be one of the biggest of the past several seasons.

Hollander, 24, spent the entirety of his NHL career with Montreal after being selected second overall in the 2009 Entry Draft. Longtime face of the Voyageurs franchise, Hollander leaves Montreal as one of the most decorated players in team history.

The move comes less than a week after a private recording involving Hollander and Voyageurs’ alternate captain Hayden Pike was leaked online, sparking widespread discussion about player privacy, media ethics, and the treatment of LGBTQ+ athletes in professional sports. Neither Hollander nor the Voyageurs organization has publicly commented on the circumstances surrounding the leak or on the content of the recording.

From a hockey perspective, however, the trade represents a dramatic shift for both organizations.

The Admirals add a proven top-line forward renowned for his offensive production, defensive reliability, and leadership. Hollander is expected to slot immediately into New York's top six as the club continues its push toward the postseason.

"This is a player anyone who speaks hockey would kill to have," Admirals President of Hockey Operations Francesca DeLuca said in a statement. "Shane's character, work ethic, and ability to impact every area of the game speak for themselves. We're thrilled to welcome him to New York."

The acquisition further solidifies an Admirals roster already considered among the deepest in the Eastern Conference, and signals a clear intention to compete for a Stanley Cup this spring.

Questions remain in Montreal, where Hollander's departure is compounded by the shocking decision to trade alternate captain Hayden Pike in another deadline-day deal. Pike is confirmed to have already joined Ottawa’s ranks, and will start in their next game against Boston this Thursday. 

Within the span of a week, the Voyageurs have moved two cornerstone players who spent years anchoring both the club's leadership group and its top line.

For much of the past decade, Hollander and Pike have helped establish Montreal as a perennial contender and contributed to the organization's Stanley Cup victory in 2015. Their departures leave alternate captain Jean-Jacques Boiziau as the lone remaining member of the team's leadership group.

Whether the moves signal the beginning of a broader organizational reset or are simply the result of extraordinary circumstances remains unclear. What is clear is that the Voyageurs entering the postseason will look dramatically different from the team that began the year.

Hollander has so far recorded an impressive 39 goals and 42 assists through 67 games, accounting for nearly a quarter of Montreal's total goals this season. He is expected to join the Admirals later this week, and his debut could come as early as Saturday.

—

March 2016
Wednesday, 07:30 a.m.
Champlain–St. Bernard de Lacolle Border Crossing

“Shane Hollander,” the officer says. 

He freezes halfway through reaching for his passport and NEXUS card, shoulders instinctively climbing towards his ears. Shane forces himself to relax and look unfazed, “That’s me, officer.” 

“Well I’ll be damned,” the other replies. “Didn’t think you were the type to drive to New York instead of flying.” He reaches into the booth for a tablet, taps the screen, and turns it towards Shane. “That’s where you're going, right?”

Admirals Acquire Shane Hollander from Montreal in Blockbuster Deadline Deal, reads the headline. His lukewarm headshot in Voyageurs blue accompanies the text.

Shane hasn’t read it yet, but he'd seen the headline while skimming Tiên’s preliminary press review of the major outlets. She'd emailed it alongside a confirmation that his own trade statement had already been posted to his socials.

“That’s correct,” Shane says, trying for a smile and regretting it immediately. This is an American border officer with a gun, do not try to be fucking funny Hollander, he tells himself before schooling his features. 

The officer takes Shane’s documents and starts inspecting them, “My brother got season tickets to watch you play,” he says. 

“Oh. That’s nice.” 

"He’s not thrilled about that," the officer says. "Spent a fortune on those tickets."

All of a sudden, Shane feels compelled to tell the officer about that time he’d smoked weed during his Senior year in high school. 

And also about that one time he’d technically stolen from Target. Ruby had grabbed a stuffed crocodile from a shelf without him noticing, so they’d just walked straight out with it. He thought it was already hers until Jackie had pointed out that the toy was not, in fact, a known associate of the Pike family. 

“Uh, I'm sorry?” he says instead, because it's not like he can just say ‘take it up with the Voyageurs’ unless he wants Farah to somehow materialize from Toronto and stab him in the eye with a stiletto heel.

The man hums noncommittally, “Yes, I bet you are,” before handing Shane his documents and waving him along. “Enjoy the States,” he says, and Shane does his best not to peel off as if he’s attempting to beat Han Solo’s Kessel Run record, but drives away at a normal speed instead, like a normal person who is definitely not already starting to regret leaving his country behind.

He stops at the first service area he sees and walks out of the car to shake the anxiety off. 

—

It takes 282 km (2 hours and 35 minutes, according to Google) to reach the Staybridge Suites Albany Wolf Rd-Colonie Center by IHG in Albany, NY. 

He started the drive listening to an audiobook of The Adventure of the Cardboard Box, but switches to Sounds and Songs of the Humpback Whales about forty minutes before reaching the hotel, because he’s suddenly so anxious he’s started not only drumming a staccato beat against the steering wheel, but also bouncing his leg up and down, which can’t be great if you’re driving. 

Hence the whales. 

He hasn’t seen Ilya in five days, and despite the fact they’ve been calling and texting each other almost constantly, Shane knows it’s not the same as being face to face, sharing the same space. It was fine before, but they were in the after now, so there was bound to be a learning curve.  

He’s not exactly scared, but he’s—not not scared. He’s just—worried. What if Ilya doesn’t show? What if he’s decided driving 271 km to Albany is not, after all, worth the gas money? What if the events of the past week have somehow conjured an elaborate fantasy in Shane's exhausted brain, one where Ilya never really drove to Montreal in the first place. What if he’d just imagined it? 

They did it in movies all the time, right? Wake up. Pouf. All a dream. 

Shane’s thinking about coasting onto the shoulder of the road and maybe calling Ilya to try and prove (or hopefully disprove) his own thesis when his phone buzzes with an email whose subject simply reads “212,” and it’s so reminiscent of the years of texts leading up to this moment, hotel room numbers strung together like their own personal Fibonacci sequence—each room, each meeting building on the last—that he finds some solace in it. 

Instead of pulling over and freaking both himself and Ilya out before he’s even gotten to the hotel, Shane looks at his wrist for a second, and keeps driving instead. 

—

Realistically, Shane knows that Ilya cannot be the only person in the world to own truly ugly canary-yellow Lamborghini.

Surely there were plenty of people in the world who thought driving a completely impractical car that made the same noise as a fighter jet was a point of pride and—while he didn’t really understand those people—he knew they existed.  

But how many of those people were reckless enough to drive said car to Albany on a Wednesday, and park it only a few feet from the hotel entrance, like the world's stupidest lighthouse?

Yeah, Shane thinks, parking his own sensible Land Rover L2 in a spot a few rows down from Ilya’s monster, Ilya’s here alright. 

—

Room 212 is tucked behind a corner at the end of a long hallway, right next to an ice dispenser. 

When Shane finally walks inside, the room looks nice—very run-of-the-mill for a deceptively ordinary hotel whose nightly rate is higher than it has any right to be. Nothing they haven’t seen before—at this point they could probably write a travelogue for people who are in the business of meeting their league-mandated rivals for a secret rendezvous. 

Ilya’s moved back towards the center of the room, and is now standing next to a small couch close to the balcony. 

On the table in front of him lies a bouquet of flowers so fragrant Shane can scent it from his position next to the door, and it smells like evening rain in a way that miraculously calms him down instead of triggering a migraine.

Ilya motions towards the coffee bar, “I put Canada Dry in the minibar when I got here, but I don’t think is cold enough yet. I can get you ice… if you want.” He clears his throat, “They also have Fever Tree but I never see you drink that,” he concludes with a shrug.

The words feel a little stilted—a little tentative maybe?—coming out of Ilya’s normally confident mouth. Shane might not be the best at reading rooms, but he’s starting to think that six years have made him at least a little bit okay at reading the ones Ilya’s in. 

He gets the distinct impression Ilya's being very careful with his body and words, like he doesn't want to—to spook Shane for whatever reason.

The thought rearranges itself around a new possibility: maybe for once Shane isn't the only one out of his depth.

So he tries for both of them, resolves to follow the conversational blueprint of two normal people who are not keenly aware of how long they have together before they have to drive away from each other again. Small talk. Definitely not part of his wheelhouse, but Shane can at least try to do this right for both of them. 

He starts with the simplest thing; “The flowers look beautiful, thank you,” then looks at the minibar; “You, uh—you went out and bought Canada Dry in beautiful Albany?”

Ilya takes two steps towards him and then stops abruptly, which doesn’t help Shane feel any more confident about the whole ‘let’s meet in Albany’ situation. “No. I brought from Boston. I'm not setting foot outside this room until check-out.” 

Shane's train of thought derails immediately, because what? “You brought Canada Dry from Boston?”

“Yes, I just said—I wasn’t sure they would have at the hotel,” Ilya shrugs like he hadn’t just weaponized Shane’s favorite beverage. 

Immediately fuck this shit, he thinks. 

Shane drops his overnight bag to the floor and covers the remaining distance between him and Ilya in a couple of quick strides, falling to his knees as his hands pull at Ilya's sweatpants, trying to figure them out for a second because there's like five zippers—and who the fuck makes trackpants with zippers, but then Ilya takes pity and helps him. 

The trick is that there are snap-buttons along the outer seam, so Shane tears the pants open and slides Ilya's briefs down his legs, finally finally filling his mouth and feeling warmth spread through him at Ilya's relieved groan of, “Oh thank god.”

He's done this so many times through the years he's probably going to need knee replacement surgery by the time he hits 30, but he's never felt as embarrassed as he feels right now because it's the thought of a case of Canada Dry riding shotgun in Ilya's yellow Lamborghini that has him so hard he can barely think, so he decides to cut himself some slack and gives up on thinking altogether. 

Instead, Shane just relaxes his throat and slides Ilya all the way into his mouth until his nose is nestled in Ilya's pubes, and the other lets out another loud moan, carding a hand through Shane's hair, petting him like a cat.

“Look at me,” Ilya says, and as he meets the other's darkened gaze Shane thinks maybe he's not the only one so affected by this, the only one who's been counting down the minutes—maybe Ilya's missed this, him, as much as he has. Maybe there’s no point in being embarrassed when Ilya’s looking at him like that.

Shane hums, relishing the way Ilya's hand curls into a fist and pulls at his hair, moans at the sensation and lets himself choke a little in the way he knows Ilya likes but doesn't really happen anymore. Shane's gaze goes unfocused as he bobs his head along Ilya's cock, tongues at the head until the hand that's not in his hair taps against the side of Shane’s face to get his attention. 

“I said look at me,” Ilya says, slides his hand to Shane's throat and just holds it there as a suggestion until Shane gets the message and slides the length of him back all the way down, and swallows, a jagged moan ripping free of Ilya as Shane feels precome trickle down the back of his throat, and thinks, yes, he thinks, that's what I want.

“I need to fuck you,” Ilya says, and Shane nods enthusiastically but frowns when Ilya starts pulling out, makes a grab for the other's cock as it escapes from his mouth.

“What—no,” he says, pumping him a couple of times and shifting forward until Ilya's dick is back where it belongs, and Ilya's stringing together a litany of curses in Russian with a voice so rough it's like he's dragging the words through gravel. He lets Shane hum and slide his tongue along the underside of his shaft, hand shaking as it's buried back in Shane's hair.

He keeps sucking Ilya, bobbing his head until the other grabs at the base of his cock and squeezes, gently pulling Shane off by the shoulder and holding him back when Shane tries to chase the head back into his mouth.

Shane's voice sounds completely wrecked as he licks his lips, looks up at Ilya and says, “Can we—can we do both, please can we—I want to feel you come down my throat, can we–”

Ilya closes his eyes tightly for a second as he lets out a noise like he's wounded, the hand still gripping himself feeding his cock back to Shane inch by glorious inch. 

“Yes, we can do both,” he says, and Shane does his best to say thank you around his mouthful as Ilya's hand cups his face so, so gently before he says, “Now make me come,” so Shane does.

—

When Shane gets out of the shower, he finds Ilya fiddling with his phone, apparently trying to unlock it. 

“What’s your passcode?” Ilya asks as Shane opens the mini bar and is greeted by twelve cans of Canada Dry.

He gets a ginger ale and a coke, “516019, why?” 

By the time he's finished rearranging the drinks in his arms, he's somehow also acquired a Gatorade and two half-liter bottles of water. “Did you bring food? I haven’t had anything to eat today and I don’t want to pass out again.” 

Ilya immediately stops smirking at Shane’s phone and stares at him with poorly concealed worry, “You did not eat?”

He shakes his head, casting around the room for coasters so he can set all the drinks on the table; “I was too nervous. But I wouldn't mind some food.” There are no coasters in sight, so he shrugs and uses the hotel branded notepad instead. 

Ilya gets up from the bed, rifles through his backpack and produces a bag of Ruffles Buffalo Wings & Blue Cheese flavor, hands them to Shane like his stomach hasn't just put up a "closed for mourning" sign at the sight of them.

“Ilya, no, that’s gross.” 

“Is food of the gods,” he says, tossing the packet on the table instead and sitting down next to Shane; “We can order room service, what do you want?” He asks as he gives Shane his phone back.

Shane picks it up with a suspicious glance, “Can I—what am I going to find on my phone now? Not that I don’t trust you; it’s just—if it’s pictures of you, I need to know so I can put them in an encrypted folder.”

“I changed my phone number,” Ilya says, handing Shane the room service menu. 

“Oh. Why?”

“Because I have a new number. Keep up, Hollander.” 

Shane sighs, flipping through the menu; “At the risk of sounding like a broken record… why do you have a new number? Did something happen?” 

Ilya shrugs, “Is not important. The food is good, yes? I check online, they have many healthy options.”

“You checked?” 

“Yes, I told you: I am not leaving this room until check-out, not even for food.” 

“I see,” Shane says, doing his best not to have a conniption over the fact Ilya just keeps doing these things, these little thoughtful gestures that floor him every time. He rips one sheet from the notepad/coaster, and writes down: aubergine parmigiana - mixed berries bowl, then hands Ilya both the note and the menu. 

“Shane, they serve ossobuco and you’re ordering eggplant?” 

“It looks good in the picture… it has crunchy tempeh,” he says with a shrug.

“Okay. You can try my ossobuco, then. And one bite of my tiramisu. Very small one. I don’t fuck around with dessert.” 

Shane tries to hide his grin and look very serious as he shamelessly baits the other; “I don’t like tiramisu.” 

Ilya’s gaze snaps up from the room phone. He shakes his head. “You are disgrace. I do not know what I am doing here.” 

“Ordering us room service?” 

“You think you are fun—yes, hello. I would like to order room service.”

Shane lets Ilya order in peace and starts memorizing Ilya's new number. Once the other is back at the table, Shane tilts his head, “Is this why you emailed me the room number?” he waves a hand at the phone as Ilya nods. “I still don’t understand why you had to change your number. Was something wrong with it? Did one of your teammates give it to a reporter?”

The question slips out before he even realizes he's thought it, and that might be the scariest part. His breath catches. Ilya’s looking at him very intently as he leans closer to take one of Shane’s hands in his, and brings it to his lap before he starts massaging it. 

“It’s okay,” Shane says without knowing whether it actually is. 

“I gave my phone number to Connors,” Ilya says. “And phone. Because he’s single,” he tacks on as if it serves as a perfectly reasonable explanation. 

Shane accepts the distraction by threading his fingers through Ilya’s. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or being serious—stop,” he says, bringing his other hand up to cover Ilya’s mouth right as the other opens it; “Do not make the joke I know you want to make.” 

Ilya pouts a little, “You never let me have any fun.” 

“Yep, that’s me,” he says. “Okay, now explain this phone business with clear, concise sentences.” 

Ilya shrugs, “Is nothing crazy. I was getting too many messages, and I got bored of telling each person I’m off the market, so I gave my phone to Connors.” 

Shane blinks, because fucking what. 

“Messages… from people. Who got told you’re off the market.” He frowns, immediately knowing he's not gonna like where this is going; “More Shannons?”

Ilya shrugs again, “Is whatever. They don’t matter.”

“Ilya,” Shane wants to make sure he’s fully grasping the concept before he decides whether to have an aneurysm or find the gesture disgustingly romantic. “You gave your phone—the phone that contains a lot of beautiful women who text you all the time apparently—you gave it to your teammate? Because you were getting… bored of telling each beautiful woman you’re in an exclusive relationship now?” 

“I’m glad you get it,” he says, bringing up their joined hands to kiss Shane’s. 

“Ilya, that’s—that’s terrible,” Shane says, “They think they’re texting you, not fucking—John Connors from the Boston Bears! What if they send pictures? That’s a gross invasion of privacy, not to mention you don’t have their consent to show–” A terrifying thought douses Shane in icy water; “Does this fall under the US’s definition of revenge porn?” 

If Ilya gets arrested for being an absolute fucking idiot, he loses his job, and if he loses his job he loses his visa, and if he loses his visa he gets deported back to friendly ole Russia, and then what the fuck are they supposed to do?

As if things aren't complicated enough as it is, as if they weren't going to be long distance enough while being in the same country. 

Now they're gonna have to navigate intercontinental flights and a country led by an egomaniac who probably drank infant blood to keep himself young, and passed laws that prohibited “gay propaganda,” whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

Ilya squeezes his hand and knocks on the table at the same time, “Hollander oh my god, fucking breathe, I told them I was giving the phone away. Relax.”

Shane’s train of thought derails. “What do you mean you told them? You said you were bored of telling them.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, as if he’s being perfectly reasonable while Shane is the crazy one. “I made a group chat. Told everyone I have a girlfriend now, and I was giving phone and number to Connors. I even sent a picture of Connors to show he’s good looking guy. So they know.” 

There’s a certain frequency of sound that is so high it’s only perceivable by dogs, and Shane’s pretty sure he's perceiving it right the fuck now because, again, fucking what?

“You absolutely did not put all your hookups in a group chat and tell them—that you're ‘off the market’ Ilya, please.” 

“Not all of them,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Only the ones I had saved in the phone.” 

Shane gets up and opens the balcony door because fresh air has to be better than whatever the fuck this conversation is doing to him.

Please, let the fresh air help, he thinks as he tries to formulate a plan for him and Ilya to still be together after the other gets deported.

Maybe they could start some sort of charity in Russia, so Shane would have a reason to be in Moscow on a semi-regular basis? But what would the charity even be about? And, right, there's also the amazing fact he's now an openly gay NHL player, so he's reasonably sure he himself falls under the “gay propaganda” umbrella that Putin is so fond of. 

Could… could Shane get arrested if he went to Russia right now? Would they… would they toss him in some dank Siberian cell for accidentally existing while being gay, or would he be protected by his strong passport and high-profile status, and be extradited back to Canada instead? He'd definitely lose his job if that happened. 

Fuck, he thinks, I can't lose both Ilya and hockey, it's gonna fucking kill me. 

“Shane?”

Ilya's voice is tentative enough, worried enough, that Shane forces himself to say something, even if he knows it's maybe not the most reassuring thing—but it’s all he has right now.

“You created a PR nightmare. My manager would drop you. No, my social media manager would drop you, actually—my manager would just obliterate you off the face of the Earth. What the hell were you thinking? What if they go to the press with this?”

Fuck, he thinks again, because he hadn't meant to connect this back to his own personal hell, but clearly there was no escaping the looming threat of betrayal that at this point seemed to permeate every corner of Shane’s mind.

Ilya’s voice is calm again as his arms wrap around Shane from behind, fingers tapping on Shane’s chest; “Is okay, I promise. If they go to the press, they go to the press. I apologize and explain I have a jealous girlfriend now. I will look so stupid, you will love it.”

He presses a line of soft kisses against the side of Shane’s face, rocking them back and forth lightly until Shane feels himself relax a little in Ilya's arms. 

“Besides,” the other continues, “Connors said they are just making fun of me and complimenting each other. The ones who did not want to be in the chat already left.” 

Shane closes his eyes, leaning fully against Ilya and turning his head to chase the other’s lips; “They’re making fun of you?”

Ilya hums, “Yes, Connors said they are calling me a ‘down bad simp’ for letting myself get, ah, locked down. And telling each other funny stories about my hookup etiquette.” 

Shane snorts, turning around in Ilya’s arms and returning the embrace before kissing the line of Ilya’s jaw; “Hookup etiquette?”

“Yes,” he says into Shane’s hair; “I had overnight gift bags ready. With toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup remover, cotton pads, Q-tips. And aloe face mask to soothe skin.”

Shane snorts, “You did not.” 

“I did,” Ilya continues, sounding lighter now that Shane’s relaxed against him. “I had basket in the entrance with cab money and stack of autographs if they wanted.” 

“Oh my fucking god, Ilya.” 

“And minifridge with snacks and drinks in the bedroom.” 

“What the hell, now I’m kinda jealous I never got that treatment.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya whines, pressing their foreheads together, “We are literally in hotel bedroom right now and I ordered room service for us. I put ginger ale in minibar. You seemed to like that earlier, remember?” 

“Yes, but you didn’t give me a—a gift bag with toothpaste and Q-tips,” he teases, feeling several pounds lighter himself, because Ilya's such a dumbass, but he's Shane's dumbass, and if he gets deported over a group chat then fine, Shane will hire an immigration lawyer and they'll figure something out.

“But I bought flowers, that counts for something, yes?”

Shane tilts his head, making to leave and absolutely relishing the way Ilya just drags him back into the embrace with another whine; “I mean, flowers are not toothpaste or an aloe face mask, but I guess they will do in a pinch.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond as he leans in to try and capture Shane's mouth. He turns his head playfully, letting Ilya's kisses land on his cheeks a couple of times until Ilya cups his face in one hand to keep him still, “You want face mask? I will buy you face mask.” 

“Excellent,” Shane says, then tips forward to kiss Ilya fully on the mouth, finally shutting him up. 

—

Shane knows he hasn't said it yet.

He's thought it, though—when Ilya was rocking into him, one hand tangled with Shane's and the other braced against the mattress. 

Ilya had kept leaning down to shower his back with kisses, like he couldn’t stop, pressing their bodies so close together that space was just a suggestion. And all the while, he’d kept murmuring words into Shane’s skin with a voice so soft Shane couldn't make out the words, but could understand the sentiment underneath, and he'd thought it again.

So he’d twisted his body until he could cup Ilya's face in his hands. He'd opened his mouth to say it, but then Ilya had gripped his dick and leaned down to lick a stripe up his neck, and Shane let go of the thought. 

It's right there, though.

—

When there’s a knock at the door, Shane untangles himself from the embrace and makes his way to the bathroom with one last kiss to Ilya’s jaw, then shuts the door behind him. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, taking stock of the flush on his cheeks, the slightly glazed over look in his eyes. He tries to tame his hair a little—it’s started growing out a bit, nothing dramatic but he thinks he likes it better when Ilya has something more substantial to hold on to, so maybe he'll just let it grow out instead of trimming it once he gets back home. 

He blinks, and looks down at his hands to make sure he still recognizes them as his brain searches for a definition of home and can’t seem to find one, Montreal and New York overlapping and blurring together. 

He wasn't expecting to wipe his slate clean of Montreal in a second, knows this isn’t how things work. Shane has spent enough time with his own brain to know that compartmentalizing wasn’t always easy. 

When you give your life to something for 6 years and then it gets taken away from you in the blink of an eye, it’s not so easy to adjust—not as easy as crossing the border from Canada to the US, even though Shane sure would have liked that. 

Still, today he feels off-kilter enough that thoughts like these just keep popping up, and it's starting to piss him off. 

He's in Albany for less than a day, wants to leave early tomorrow morning to get to New York at a decent time, and he’s probably not going to be able to see Ilya for a while after this, knows there are things they should talk about, things he should say, but his head keeps fighting him and stubbornly dragging in the wrong direction instead of cooperating. 

He uses his fingers to tap on his chest like Ilya would, counting his breaths as he looks back into the mirror and forces himself to see Shane rather than Hollander. 

His cheeks are flushed. His eyes look a bit uncertain now, so he doesn't linger. His hair looks a little stupid, so he wets it and combs it away from his face with his fingers. There's a reddish spot at the base of his collarbone, a mark Ilya almost kissed into his skin before Shane noticed and asked him not to, because there was no way he was showing up in a new locker room for the first time sporting a hickey like a fucking teenager. 

He raises his arms to the glass. Yep, hands and bracelet all accounted for. Scar on his pinky, crooked middle finger, and the mole at the base of his thumb that reminds him he really should find a dermatologist because he really hadn’t noticed it was there before, so what if it is something bad? 

Find one in New York, he tells himself. 

Surely in a city of almost 9 million people he can find a decent dermatologist. Maybe there's even one in Ilya's guidebook. That would be something important, right? Knowing where you could find a specialist when you were travelling—that’s definitely something that should be in a guidebook, because what if—if the bong-smoked oysters from Desnuda make you sick? 

Seafood is funny like that. 

Should he just go to the hospital when that happens? How does it work in the States anyway? You have to pay if you get sick, his American teammates are always saying how much easier it is in Canada—except he's not in Canada anymore, is he?

Shane walks out of the bathroom, head churning, “What happens if I need to go to the hospital? Like, do I have to prove I can pay before they let a doctor see me or what?”

Ilya goes completely still. 

The bellhop does too, staring at Shane with unguarded shock for about two seconds before he slips the professional facade back on and finishes arranging their food on the table. He turns towards Ilya then, clears his throat as if nothing’s amiss, and says, “Complimentary champagne, Mister Rozanov. Thank you for choosing Staybridge Suites.”

Shane's not sure he's breathing. 

“Thanks,” Ilya says in a clipped tone, then grabs his wallet and empties it of bills. He goes to hand them to the man, but retreats his arm in a flash as the other reaches out, forcing the bellhop to look Ilya in the eye instead.

Maybe, if Shane doesn't move, the bellhop will think he wasn't really there in the first place. 

Is he even breathing? He brings a hand to his stomach and feels the muscles there shift up and down, so at least he knows he’s still breathing. Maybe a little too harshly, maybe he's making too much noise, but the man and Ilya are still locked in a staring contest and not paying attention to Shane. 

The bellhop folds first. 

“Here at the Staybridge Suites we greatly value our guests’ privacy, Mister Rozanov,” he says. It sounds maybe a little tentative, but when Shane does find it in him to look up, Ilya’s face is doing something kinda terrifying, in that he seems to be about one crooked word away from wringing the poor bellboy's neck. 

The man clears his throat, again, “Frankly, even if we didn't, I do. You can keep that,” he says motioning towards the wad of cash in Ilya's hand. 

And that’s another thing—why the fuck does Ilya walk around with so much fucking cash, driving a yellow fucking Lamborghini, buying diamond necklaces like he's a fucking oil tycoon from the Emirates instead of a fucking hockey player on a capped salary? Fuck.

“Is no problem,” Ilya drawls, posturing like a cross between a gorilla and a peacock. “Take It. Plenty more where that came from,” he adds with a tilt of his head, and is he fucking talking the bellboy into blackmailing him now? 

Shane wants to scream.

Maybe he should go back to the bathroom because at least it would be a contained space. Maybe if he stuffed a bunch of towels under the gap in the door and gave himself enough time, he'd be able to suffocate, and then he wouldn't have to look at the way the bellboy takes the whole stack of bills, picks one up and then puts the rest of the pile in Ilya's hand. 

“I assure you, this is more than enough.” He makes to turn towards Shane then, but Ilya stops him in his tracks.

“Ah ah. Eyes on me,” Ilya says, the bellhop nodding before simply turning his head to the side instead, addressing Shane without looking at him.

“Have a good day,” he tells Shane, then nods to Ilya and exits the room. 

There's a brief second of silence then, stretching between the two of them like a length of rope, taut and coarse.

Ilya doesn't move.

Shane doesn't move.

He was so fucking careless that he just got them discovered, and there's no way this bellhop isn't going to tell everyone, promises or not. He only took a singular bill for his tip, maybe he's going to tell everyone he's tattling because Ilya was a cheapskate and didn't understand the concept of tipping. Maybe he was already in the break room telling everyone. 

“Dorogoy?”

Shane frowns, eyes finding Ilya's; “What's that?”

“You are,” Ilya says walking to the table, taking out a chair and motioning for Shane to sit down like they're in fucking Anna Karenina instead of a hotel in Albany, New York. 

Shane walks to the table feeling like he's cracking blocks of chalk instead of moving his legs, and lets himself spill into the chair with little finesse. Ilya's hands trace up his arms, settling on his shoulders and squeezing once in a reassuring manner—but then he doesn't let go, almost as if—almost as if he needs the reassurance too, and isn’t that a mindfuck in itself.  

There are many ways this could go, Shane thinks, seeing each pathway meander into a different direction inside his mind. 

He chooses the one of least resistance for once.

So what if the bellhop goes to the press? Shane has survived one leak, he can probably survive another. This time he can be the one to drive to Boston in the middle of the night to reassure Ilya that the world wasn't, in fact, ending. 

If their relationship leaks to the press, Shane will just hire an immigration lawyer and make sure Ilya's safe, and then they can figure out the rest as they go.

And Shane could always find the bellhop later and explain, or bribe him, or get him to sign something, surely people signed things all the time—but not now, not when Ilya needs him.

Shane lifts up a hand to Ilya's on his shoulder. He taps his fingers there, trying to be as much of an anchor as Ilya is for him, trying to convey that he's not about to—to detonate, not while Ilya's ossobuco is bearing witness. 

Ilya hums, thumb flipping up to capture Shane’s in a caress, and Shane tilts his head backwards, letting it rest against Ilya's chest. 

“Let's eat,” he says, and smiles up at Ilya.

—

Sometimes, when he was little and his parents fought, Shane would get so afraid that he’d run out to his treehouse, and just hide there until David would come find him. 

Each time, Shane would ask if they were going to get a divorce, if he was going to have to spend Thanksgiving in one place, Christmas in the other, if they were both still going to come watch his timbits games, or if he would have to choose which parent went, and his dad always listened to him patiently before answering each of his questions.

“Mom and I are not getting a divorce,” he’d say every time. “Sometimes people—even the ones who love each other very much, like mom and me—argue a little, but it doesn’t mean they stop loving each other.” 

Shane wasn’t sure he understood, because how could you love someone and be mad at them? What if the arguments became so big that both of you said things you didn’t mean, or said too many of those things, and then all of a sudden you were getting a divorce? 

“Tell you a secret,” his dad had told him once. “You can never say the wrong thing to the right person.” 

It hadn't really done much to placate Shane. He'd spent years trying to keep that mantra at the forefront of his mind, while simultaneously watching him and Ilya spend six years pushing and pulling at each other, constantly saying and doing the wrong thing—and did that mean Ilya wasn’t the right person, then? 

If all the ignored texts, all the half-truths, all the hurtful things—if all of it had hurt Shane, did it mean he was not Ilya’s right person? 

But they were still there, weren’t they? 

Maybe without the same desire to rip and tear—maybe they’d gentled a little in the ways that mattered, maybe they’d quietly agreed with each other that yes, touching and holding was better than pushing and pulling, but they were still here. 

And Shane was pretty sure Ilya was his right person. 

So he could never say anything wrong to him, right? 

—

“You seem upset,” Ilya teases.  

“That man is a biologist. He’s literally a biologist and he’s touching the—the suspiciously alien-shaped slimy easter egg.”

On the screen, the alien snake wraps itself around Millburn’s arm and breaks it, puncturing the safe environment of the suit and starting a chain of events that makes Shane think more of a sitcom than a horror movie. 

“There. What did I just fucking say? Fucking dumbass,” he gripes, shaking his head and slapping Ilya’s chest halfheartedly when the other starts laughing. “Fuck off, Rozanov. Don’t tell me you’d be so dumb to—to touch the alien snake–”

“Hammerpede.”

“Shut up, oh my god, there’s no way that’s the actual name.”

“Well, is actually xenocobra, but hammerpede is more stupid, the internet liked it better.”

“There he fucking goes, look at this fucking guy,” Shane groans, feeling physical pain as he watches Fifield fall into the black goo like a sack of acid-roasted potatoes. “I can’t watch any more of this,” he says, and struggles to get up from Ilya’s embrace as the other laughs and keeps tugging him back to lie against his chest. 

“Where are you going? Stay, Hollander, those are not even the best deaths!” 

“Fuck you for making me watch this, by the way,” Shane says. Even so, he sighs and lets himself fall back onto Ilya, eliciting a surprised oof from the other. 

“You’re the one who didn’t want to buy The Martian. Now suffer consequences.”

“Pay-Per-View is so stupid, Ilya, twenty-five dollars ninety-nine for a movie should be classified as a criminal offense… at this point let’s just go to the movies and watch it there, at least the seats are comfortable.”

Ilya makes an affronted noise, “What you mean at least the seats are—you’re lying on top of me, I am not comfortable?"

Shane digs his elbow into Ilya’s chest, lifting himself up to look the other in the eye; “Ilya, you are 215 pounds of hard muscle. Lying on the floor would be more comfortable.” 

He’s lying, and they both know it. 

“Yes,” Ilya drawls, tracing Shane's spine with a smirk until he reaches Shane's ass and gives him an appreciative squeeze, “Such hard muscle. So hard for you to lie on top of me and watch movies.”  

Oh, Shane thinks as an electric current snakes up his spine. 

“I’m glad you understand,” he says, shifting his weight until he’s straddling Ilya’s thighs. He grinds down, immediately feeling Ilya’s cock stir against him. 

“No more Prometheus?” asks Ilya, sliding his hands back up and then down Shane’s back, hands going inside his briefs. 

“No, I've… wait, which one is the best death?”

Ilya's laughter bubbles up like carbonation, “I am not telling, just watch!”

Shane bites his bottom lip, grinding down again, “But…?”

Ilya all but picks him up and rearranges him like a marionette until Shane's back to lying against his chest, “Is okay, we fuck later. Watch what David is doing now.”

“Okay,” Shane accepts, nosing the soft trail of hair that leads into Ilya's briefs and pressing a kiss there before watching David 8 slip a drop of black goo in Doctor Holloway’s drink.

—

March 2016
Thursday, 06:30 a.m.
Albany 

Their late check-out isn't until 10:30, but the night before Ilya had caved and allowed Shane to set an alarm for 6:30 a.m., Shane promising not to make too much noise so Ilya could keep sleeping.

After he jolts awake and scrambles to turn off the alarm, though, he finds Ilya is already awake and looking at him, a pensive expression on his face. 

Shane lies back down and shifts until he's on his side looking at Ilya, finds he's reaching out for him before his brain has even articulated the thought properly. 

Ilya's hand meets him halfway, twines their fingers and then brings them to his mouth to kiss them, then Shane's bracelet, then the pulse under the metal.

“This was nice,” Shane murmurs transfixed, and hates how his vocabulary never seems to match what's inside his head. 

“Yes, good thread count for being hotel named with random name generator,” Ilya replies kissing a trail up his arm, along his bicep, all the way into the crook of Shane's neck. 

“Maybe we could do this again?” Shane says, tipping his head backwards and letting Ilya close his teeth around his Adam's apple—not even biting, just—just resting there. Solid. Keeping him. “Just not in Albany.” 

Ilya hums, kissing the column of Shane's throat and further up until he finally reaches Shane's mouth. 

“We could,” Ilya says.

Shane drags his nose along the other's, kisses the corner of his lips, “When are you free next?”

He shuffles forward until he can feel the rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing against his own, and lets himself be held without worrying about what's going to happen one hour from now. 

“I have two days off next week before Monday game,” Ilya says, tucking Shane's head under his chin. “I can drive after practice Friday and be in New York same day.” 

Shane hums, “That’s a really long drive, isn't it?  What if we met halfway? Where’s halfway? Wait, let me get Google Maps,” he says as he tries to dislodge himself and twist around for his phone, but Ilya hooks his chin with two hands and drags their mouths together instead.

“Later,” he says, and keeps kissing him.

—

What if all the songs, and all the books, and all the movies—what if they were wrong? 

What if the point of fusing your consciousness with someone else's was in the sum of the parts, not in the fusion itself?

What if the point of a conversation was in the pronouns, not in the words surrounding them? 

What if the words were never enough—what if you could learn thirty, fifty languages and never find a word whose shape would feel right in your mouth, but a single touch could tell a whole monologue instead?

What if the point was not that you were half of an apple, half of a soul, but you were supposed to be complete on your own? 

What if the search was not for your missing half, but for another soul who complemented yours, who paired so nicely with it that the thought of existing without it became so impossible to imagine that you could only arrive at the conclusion that you'd do anything—anything to keep this invisible string double-knotted to the both of you for as long as it took. 

Until the string wasn't even needed anymore, until us and we became so intrinsic you couldn't even remember a time where it had been me and you?

What would it take to get there, and how long if you started driving now?

Shane takes one last look at Ilya's car in the parking lot, then leaves. 

—

He's been back on the road for about an hour before he has to concede with himself he's never gonna get to New York in this state and pull up at a dingy rest stop along I-87 so he can call Ilya and explain. 

Actually, Shane wouldn’t even grace the rest stop with the “dingy” qualifier, really—it’s more like a pile of dirt someone has beaten into enough submission that it could now boast a banged-up vending machine and what looked more like a Lego hut rather than a toilet. 

He parks close to the vending machine, distant enough from the lone truck already there that he won’t bother the trucker’s nap if he ends up needing to walk outside and scream, or kick the trash can next to the vending machine, because how could he have been so stupid? So careless? Ilya was not made of stone, he was a person too, and Shane knows they’re still pretty bad at talking about the harder things, but still he should have said something, should have tried to explain, should have–

“Shane?” 

“Hi,” he breathes out, already feeling like he's just run a marathon. 

“What happened?” 

Shane chuckles, but it’s a broken thing, “Nothing happened, I just—I wanted to say it, Ilya. I did.” 

Ilya is quiet for a while on the other end before he says, “Ah. Is okay.” 

“No. It’s not. I want to explain—I should have explained before leaving, really—I’m sorry I didn’t, by the way, but it just–” 

Shane hears Ilya knock on some flat surface in the hotel room, and breathes. 

Let’s try this again, he thinks.

“I wasn’t avoiding it. I know how I feel. But… saying it just feels so…  small? For how—for how I feel.”

“Small.” 

“Yes, like, you—you drive a case of Canada Dry all the way from Boston to a mad-lib hotel in Albany, and—and you check the menu beforehand to make sure I can eat, and–”

“Is nothing,” Ilya says nonchalantly. 

“Stop, oh my god, Ilya, stop. Be—be serious for one second. Just one, please? I promise then you can go back to—to deflecting the truth whenever you want, I swear, but I kinda need you to lock the fuck in right now, Rozanov.” 

Ilya clears his throat, “Okay.” 

Shane chews the words inside his mouth for a while, trying to untangle them enough he can actually say some instead of letting the silence stretch between them for no reason other than he felt he was fucking things up already. 

“When I think about you,” he tries, “About you talking me through—things, back last week when the video came out… and then driving to Montreal, and staying with me… and—booking a hotel room in Albany to make sure you already have one in case I agree to drive down instead of flying… when I think about the words—because I do, Ilya—I think about them all the time—but they feel so… wrong?” 

He hears it immediately, is already wincing even before Ilya’s sharp inhale and the edge of desperation as he says, “Wrong?” 

“Not—not wrong because I don’t feel it. It’s just the word that is wrong,” He tries to explain. “It feels so… like it's not enough? Like, you—you met my parents, and—and charmed them enough, I guess? that it's been days and my mom hasn’t tried to get me to explain yet. You—you reached out to Marchant when his shit got leaked, way before mine, and you were… nice to him.”

“I told him not to tell people.”

“Ilya,” Shane huffs out exasperated. 

“What? Is not deflection, just truth.”

“Sure,” he says, but continues anyway. “It feels like… if I say it to you now, it’s wrong because the word is not enough. Like—you gave me a guidebook showing you spent years collecting places you wanted us to see together. In a city where neither of us lives. Lived. Whatever.”

Shane takes a deep breath, wondering if he's making any sense to Ilya. “The point is, all the while I was out there thinking I was alone in this, that I was so fucking stupid for—for doing this wrong and wanting more when that was not the deal… but you were already out there, the whole fucking time.” 

“Yes,” Ilya concedes, “But the word does not feel small,” he says almost wistfully.

Shane closes his eyes, bumping a closed fist against his forehead. He was so fucking stupid. 

Less than a week ago Ilya had left his house in Montreal after their fight promising he was coming back just so Shane wouldn't cave in at the thought of being abandoned. And now that it had been his turn to handle Ilya's heart with care, Shane hadn't even been considerate enough to reassure Ilya of his feelings before leaving himself.

And Ilya hadn't said a single word about it the entire time they were together, despite the fact it had clearly been on his mind too.

It killed him that Ilya seemed to just be along for the ride and take his clues from Shane on this, instead of—of getting angry and demanding answers, as if it wasn't his fucking heart Shane was holding with shaky palms trying not to drop it. 

The least Shane could do right now to fix his mistake was to try and offer Ilya a translation tool, and if it didn't work then maybe Shane could drive back to Albany and try again, and keep trying until Ilya got mad enough at him for fucking up in the first place.

“It does to me… it feels small because—because it sounds like not enough? Like, it sounds like the shape is wrong, when I try it—like, I think it, and I say it to myself, and it feels enough, but then you do something—not bad, the opposite. 

You do something like make sure the bellhop in the room doesn’t look at me, because you know I’m freaking the fuck out and you’re trying to—to stay calm so I will stay calm—and the word feels like it’s a fucking joke.

I know it’s not,” he manages to tack on before Ilya can say anything. “I don’t know how to explain it, Ilya, I’m trying–” 

“I understand,” Ilya says. “I think I do.” 

Shane clears his throat, “You do?” 

“I think is same for me,” he says, a little wobbly, “But the word is all I have.”

He lets himself close his eyes, because it’s still the same for Ilya, even if he’s handling this with about as much finesse as a bull in a china shop. “That’s why I should have said it. Because it’s not—it’s not about me, it’s about us, and you need to hear the words.”

“I do not need to.” 

“No deflection,” Shane reminds him. 

Ilya lets out a deep breath, and quietly admits, sounding almost sorry; “Okay. Yes. I do—I do need to.” 

“I love you,” Shane answers immediately.

The stillness of the next moment is comforting rather than harrowing.

It already speaks something to the way Shane's synapses are reshaping around Ilya in real time—Shane feels proud he already understands Ilya enough to see past Rozanov.

He's proud he was able to figure out what Ilya needed—truly needed underneath the layers of bravado, jokes, and fast cars.

Even if it feels like such a small, insufficiently precise word to convey the exact height and width of Shane’s heart. 

“I love you too,” Ilya says, voice cracking halfway through. 

It feels more like a starting point than reaching a finish line. 

—

In the aftermath, Shane doesn’t feel any different—he’d thought maybe it would feel liberating, to finally release the words into the world, but the truth of the matter is much simpler; he doesn't feel any different, because the words are not enough for him—but the words are not for him.

So who cares if the vocabulary hasn’t been updated yet? If Merriam-Webster lacks an entry in there somewhere, tucked between pages and pages of words people have spent thousands of years combining together to string up thoughts, and confessions, and poetry, and literature—over a million words in the English language and no one knows they are using the wrong one, because the truth of the matter is that no one has figured the right one out yet.

Maybe one day Shane would find it. Maybe not. Maybe that wasn’t the point at all—maybe the point really was in the pronouns, and not the words surrounding them. 

—

“I can’t believe I said it parked in a shitty ass haunted rest stop somewhere outside of a town called—Clintondale.”

Ilya’s chuckle is a little wet, and Shane wishes he'd driven back instead of stopping, so he could kiss the other and hold him instead of having to stare at a—

Uh. 

“Ilya,” he says.

“Yes?”

“I think that truck driver is getting blown behind his semi.” 

The answering bark of laughter is so explosive Shane can’t help but follow suit, “Oh my god, he is! I can see her kneel—what do I do?!”

“Ask if you can watch?” 

“Oh fuck right off Ilya, what if they think I’m like, waiting my turn or—I don’t know, waiting to kill them, or—maybe I should go inside the toilet and wait for them to finish, give them a little privacy.”

Ilya laughs even harder, “Hollander! Just leave the fucking rest stop before this turns into splatterpunk book!” 

Shane groans, angling himself so he’s staring at just the vending machine, “What’s a splatterpunk book?”

“Is like really graphic horror. Like shock value horror, lot of gore and violence. No hockey in it. Not for you.”

“Oh,” Shane says with a frown; “You read those?” 

Ilya makes a non-committal noise, “Sometimes. Is very heavy. I like normal horror better.” 

“Right. Normal horror,” Shane deadpans. 

The other snorts; “Horror is good, Shane. I am reading one now that is about stupid American tourists who stick their nose in stuff they don’t understand, and bad things happen to them.”

“Sounds charming,” he teases. “What’s it called?”

“The Ruins,” Ilya says. “I’m almost done with it. Maybe I can finish now before I go back to Boston, if you’re done with romantic truck stop love confession.” 

“I’m going to drive back and smother you with a pillow.” 

“Drive safe,” Ilya says with a chuckle before hanging up. 

— 

As he waits for the truck driver and his companion’s activities to come to a close, Shane pulls up the notes app on his phone and types for ten whole minutes without stopping.

He exports the note, emails it to Tiên, then calls her immediately after. 

“Hi Shane! How’s New York?” 

“Hey, not there yet. I’m stopped somewhere after Albany,” he says. “I sent you something.” 

Tiên hums, “I see it, checking now.” She’s quiet for a brief minute, and then, “Uh, Shane… I think this statement is very raw… very emotional… I mean, it's good, but are you sure?”

He shifts his gaze from the vending machine to a piece of lint on the dashboard and frowns, “What do you mean? I thought you wanted me to—to make a statement.” 

“I do!” She rushes to explain. “I really do. I would have suggested it earlier, but I know you had bigger problems. Not that this is a problem, but I work in social media, you know? Everything is a problem on the internet. Anyway, I digress—you're always a lot more… sterile when you talk to the world. That’s the voice we chose for all your posts so far.”

Hollander versus Shane, he translates in his head.

“It’s okay,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t exactly possess, but wants to try on for size anyway. “Just this once. You can post it.” 

Tiên lets out a small whoop of victory, typing something out on her keyboard. There’s a moment of silence, and then the Slack notification tone starts pinging about five times in quick succession. 

“Uh,” she says, sounding surprised, “Farah likes it too. Wait, let me take a screenshot so I can blackmail her later. Now—if we're going ahead with this, I feel contractually obligated to tell you I am vetoing the sentence ‘everything else is just gravy for your poutine’, because I’m not about to put this on social media and have you laughed off Twitter forever.” 

Shane winces, “That bad?”

“No, worse.”

“I’m sorry, writing is not really my… I don't know how to end it?” he asks, because he’d thought writing his own statement was a good idea, instead of leaving it up to Tiên herself, but as he’d already established that day—words were hard and insufficient most of the time.

“Tell you what,” she hums, “What if instead of the regional food metaphor plus painfully awkward smiley face we said ‘just noise’? Or ‘irrelevant’?”

“Noise. I like noise,” he says, which is probably the first and last time he'll ever utter that sentence. 

“Great!” Tiên smiles, “Then tomorrow I will post this like it is, okay? No edits. Minus the poutine.”

He knows that—despite it all, despite other people's best efforts—he's made it almost all the way to the top of the mountain. He knows he's about to voluntarily fumble the boulder again, and is going to have to go back to square one and start climbing again, but also—hadn’t he just told Ilya the truth, and kept him in the process? 

Wasn’t he past the halfway point of his 599 km drive to New York? 

Hadn’t the worst thing already happened? 

So what if his statement was more Shane than Hollander—let them all look once, and then never again. 

Let them see he was Shane fucking Hollander, and hockey was made for him, and they couldn't push him around without expecting a fight. 

Let them see he wasn't fucking broken, and he was here to stay.

“Okay,” he says. “I need to confirm with Francesca DeLuca first, but I’ll tell you when I’ve done it.” 

“Sounds good,” she chuckles at something happening on her end of the call, suddenly typing so fast her keyboard sounds like a shoebill for a few seconds. “And—Shane, it’s really good, you know? People will love it,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

He nods to himself before saying goodbye, and gets ready to bridge the rest of the distance separating him from New York. 

When he looks up from his phone, the truck is gone. 

—

If it’s true you can’t say the wrong thing to the right person, then the Voyageurs’ trade statement was further proof that Shane had not, in fact, been the right person. 

In Shane’s professional opinion, the statement had been a cruel fucking joke. 

Tiên had sent it to him with the rest of the press review, tucked in quietly towards the end of the PDF between a retired player's think piece and—funnily enough—an article by Boston.com almost as if she didn't want to draw attention to it. 

So, of course, Shane had zeroed-in on it with laser-like precision, hadn't been able to stop himself from reading the same way you can't look away from a car crash.

‘The Montreal Voyageurs would like to thank Shane Hollander for his contributions to our organization over the past six seasons’, it read.

Like he'd been paying taxes instead of breaking his spirit on the way to make them millions. 

There was one small, concise paragraph about his professionalism, leadership, and talent—six years compressed into a few scant words that could literally have been about anyone else.

‘We are grateful for everything Shane has done for this organization and for the city of Montreal. We wish him continued success in the next chapter of his career with the New York Admirals.’

And that was that.  

So much bullshit.

He wasn't expecting them to say ‘gay bad, Hollander worse,’ but still. Seeing himself reduced so bluntly to scraps of a thing Montreal had once owned and proudly displayed like it was their birthright, a ghost of Christmas Past made once again so small he could fit inside three sparse paragraphs—it was painful nonetheless. 

And the truth underneath the hurt was this: not driving back to Brossard and punching someone, anyone in the face—that had been an exercise in self control.

He'd packed his Albany bag instead, and then the rest of his suitcases, and his car, and thought fine. He thought; I'm gonna make you choke on all my continued success. There's gonna be so much of it you'll wish you never fucking drafted me in the first place. 

And then he'd left.

—

Somewhere between the Bronx and Manhattan, Shane crosses a bridge he immediately forgets the name of.

It's such a jarring thought, to realize he didn't retain a single memory of the name, that he immediately knows he has to stop the car somewhere right now and walk for a while.

So of course he spends about half an hour circling around the same three blocks like a shark scenting blood in the water, but the version of the shark that’s looking for a single square foot of parkable real estate.

In the end, Shane manages to essentially wedge the Land Rover between a dumpster and a paisley-print couch that looks like it's acquired its own ecosystem, and has to scoot over to the passenger seat to exit the car through the window. 

Good enough, he thinks.

There doesn't seem to be a parking meter anywhere, but there are four signs in a semicircle that seem to be unaware they're contradicting each other. 

Don't park here, but park here only on Wednesdays through Saturdays, or Saturdays through Tuesdays, or Wednesday and Fridays, and only during these five very specific time-frames that just about add up to a total of 35 minutes of allowed parking time per slot. 

One of the signs lists three separate parking regulations in print so small he needs to get his glasses from the glovebox just so he can read them—and not understand a single word. 

The last sign just has a  ‘NO PARKING - TOW AWAY ZONE’ threat on it, and a scribbled ‘fuck you’ handwritten underneath in thick black marker.

Shane's hands feel clammy as he takes a few pictures of the signs and then his car, and then his car in relation to the signs. 

He's pretty sure he can find money somewhere in one of his bank accounts to pay the fine he just knows he's bound to get, but if they towed his car at this point Shane would probably have a breakdown in the middle of the street, and end up having to call Francesca DeLuca—the New York Admirals’ President of fucking Hockey Operations, who insisted on being Shane's point of contact for the first few days like he's a Fabergé egg instead of a 200 lb Canadian—and that didn’t really scream “hello New York, thanks for having me”.

He sets an alarm on his phone for 20 minutes so he has a decent amount of time to get back to the car before he misses whichever timeframe is the correct one and gets towed. 

Just in case he does get towed despite his best efforts, he takes the overnight bag with him. Most of his valuables were going to fly to New York next month together with Shane’s parents, but he'd taken Ilya's necklace with him. 

Frankly, owning the necklace felt less like owning jewelry and more like being entrusted with a newborn baby.

He didn't want whoever took his car to rifle through his bags and find six hundred-plus diamonds set in platinum—at this point the necklace’s net worth was probably higher than his own. So he'd stashed the box in his duffel, wrapped around a thick cashmere sweater that was probably more appropriate for January than March—but there the Harry Winston box rested, safe from whoever was going to inevitably tow Shane's Land Rover and break in to steal all his stuff. 

As he looks around the street trying to figure out which dumpster the traffic police can jump out of, he spots a Taco Bell. 

Which, admittedly, is not like one of those places you look at, and it makes your heart skip a beat with delight—but Shane's heart was a little wrung out today anyway, and he'd skipped breakfast to stay in bed and kiss Ilya until the last possible minute, so by now he needed calories. He needed sugar, and caffeine to make sure he didn't completely crash out before getting to his new apartment. 

Hence the Taco Bell. 

The second he steps foot off the curb, Shane almost gets run over by a 2007 gold Honda civic that’s peeling down the street as if it's in a NASCAR race, and decides he really does fucking hate New York traffic.

—

The teenager behind the counter gives him a tired smile, “Hi, what can I get you?”

Shane's looking at the menu boards, which display about 18 drink options—none of which seems appealing to his stomach or brain—but he’s already here, and they do serve food which the FDA presumably signed off on, so there’s really no point in retreating now. 

“Um,” he says, “Do you maybe happen to have a nutritional table for—for the drinks?”

It's a perfectly normal request you just made, he thinks, don't freak out. It's perfectly normal to walk into a fast food chain known for causing more dyssentery than a goddamned trip on the Oregon trail, and ask for a fucking nutritional table. 

The teenager slowblinks at him, “... no. I think we do online though?”

Shane nods, moving a little to the side so the normal people in line behind him can order their Doritos Locos Tacos and Crunchwrap Supremes as he Googles ‘Taco Bell nutritional information?’ and half expects Google to surface results for psychiatric establishments instead. 

After a little bit of scrolling and closing about fifty-eight pop-ups of announcements for new food items, Shane finds what he's looking for. He orders a medium Mountain Dew Baja Blast and nothing else, which only serves to confuse the cashier even further. 

Shane might end up hating himself for this later, but right now empty calories and more sugar than he'd normally have in a week sound pretty fucking good. The rest is a problem for Future Shane, who will hopefully have time for a shower and a nap—not necessarily in that order—before he starts dealing with food again. 

He tips the teenager, then takes another 5 dollars and puts them in the tip jar, just in case he was supposed to do one and not the other, and finally leaves his first Taco Bell, taking a sip of his neon drink as he does. 

It tastes loud. 

Shane almost debates going back to his car immediately, but there's still a good chunk of time left before the towing alarm goes off, and he knows where he's gonna go next when he spots a Barnes & Noble a few windows up from Taco Bell. 

He hoists his duffel bag more securely on his shoulder and pushes the door open, getting immediately hit in the face by the building's overenthusiastic heating. Shane starts sweating and tugs a little at the collar of his tee.

The lone employee is turned towards his computer screen, talking on the phone loud enough that Shane catches most of it.

“We need to restock 50 Shades again, Gary, I literally just unpacked 50 units yesterday, I don't understand what people—yes, yes, read whatever makes you happy, I don't care, but if I have to put together another sexy display with like, fur handcuffs and blindfolds, I'm going to call my uncle Carmine and ask him to put a hit on—what do you mean I’m stereotyping? I’m stereotyping myself, Gary! Uncle Carmine owns a bakery in fucking Queens, he’s not mafia—the fuck is he gonna do, stab a guy to death with a cannoli? What do—oh fuck you Gary, you and the sanctimonious piece of shit high horse you rode in on.”

Shane tries to get as far away from the discussion as possible, and meanders through the various bookstore sections, looking for horror and getting absolutely sidetracked by Russian for Dummies, which he picks up without a second thought, together with a Russian dictionary, a deluxe edition phrasebook which also comes with 5 CDs of spoken conversation, and a Russian translation of The Little Prince.

He's just finished stacking everything, Baja Blast on top, when the employee appears in front of him, looking absolutely starstruck.

“Shut the actual fuck up—Shane Hollander. In my store.”

Shane groans inwardly, his social battery already shot to hell, but he can tell the other is a fan, so even though he's tired and currently holding about ten pounds of books, one questionable drink, and an overnight bag containing a diamond necklace probably worth twice the cost of his own car, he tries his best. 

He puts on the most personable smile he can, given his current emotional climate, and waves with his free hand, “Hello, nice to meet you, uh—Matt.” 

“You know my name?!”

Shane clears his throat, gesturing at the other's nametag.

“Of course, what a dumbass, sorry dude—hey, can we take a selfie when you're done buying? Unless you’re in a rush. I get it—places to go, hockey to play. All that.”

Shane absolutely does not want a picture of himself taken today—or any other day, really, but especially not today, and not while he’s carting around a Baja Blast because his nutritionist would kill him if he ever saw that—but then he remembers his nutritionist actually ghosted him like a Tinder fuckboy, so he shrugs, “Of course, I'm happy to—to sign an autograph too, if you want?”

“If I want, he says! I almost shat myself when I read you got traded to us, I already bought season tickets for next year!”

Shane's smile is more genuine now, “Thank you, I will do my best not to disappoint.”

The other waves a hand in the air and makes a pssht noise, “As if. Shane fucking Hollander,” he says again with wonder. “You looking for something else besides your… ah… Russian language books?” 

Shane clears his throat. They're just books. All they do is communicate that he’s a cultured bilingual man who is looking to pick up another language. They don't say he’s finally escaped situationship hell with his own Russian fuckboy in tow—unless he says it himself, of course—and he’s not gonna say that, right, he’s gonna say—

“Yes, actually, I'm looking for a horror book called The Ruins? Um, I don't know the author, sorry, I just dropped by on a whim so I’m not very prepared… but, but I can look it up on Google if you can hold my–”

“No sweat, dude, it's by Scott Smith. It was pretty popular when the movie came out. The book is better, of course,” he says as he leads Shane through to a different group of aisles arranged around a small sitting area. He drops the book onto Shane's pile, “here you go.”

“Thanks” he says, making sure the Baja Blast isn't about to topple over and cause a tsunami in the horror section. He looks around for a second, then remembers one of Jackie’s rave reviews from a couple of months back, “Um, my friend recommended Gone Girl, and–”

“Dude, you haven't read that yet? We're fucking fixing that now, follow me,” Matt says taking half of the books from Shane's pile. “And you like mysteries, right? I read it on Men's Health last year—killer lower body routine, by the way… my friends and I tried following it for a week and threw up on the machine halfway through the stairmaster. They almost banned us from Planet Fitness, how the fuck do you do 450 floors twice a week? That's like five Empire State Buildings, you're fucking crazy, dude. Mad respect.”

Shane feels an irrational swell of emotion, because this guy really is a fan, has even read the interview Shane did with Men’s Health and remembers Shane likes to read mysteries, not just hockey books. “Uh, it’s—it’s actually 500 now. Floors. But it took time to get there, don’t—don’t try to do it all at once if you haven’t before.” 

The other looks at him with a horrified expression, “Five hundred? How are you fucking real?” before stopping in front of a display. He picks up a book for Shane's pile, “Anyway, you gotta read The Girl on the Train too. Now, let's get you Gone Girl—let me just put these at the counter first.”

By the time he leaves the bookstore, Shane’s holding one stupidly heavy Bag of Books tote bag, a brand new Barnes & Noble membership, and a copy of a historical cowboy romance Matt the employee assured him was worth a read despite the fact he seemed to be well aware Shane only ever read hockey nonfiction, or mysteries. And now apparently horror. 

And Lustful Sunrise. 

The oily man on the cover was half naked but wearing a stetson for some reason. 

Shane hadn't had it in him to argue, but he had taken a picture for Ilya once he'd climbed back into the safety of his car (still miraculously parked where he'd left it despite the fact he'd gone way over time at the bookstore) and sent it to him with the caption “Barnes & Noble employee says this is a must read.”

Lily
who is this
what are you doing with jane's phone 

Shane 
🖕🏻

Lily 
ah it is you then

Shane 
Stop texting while you drive a yellow sports car across Massachusetts.

Lily 
stop texting while i'm driving
i'm not btw I'm at a gas station
you?

Shane
Crossed into Manhattan. Gonna find my condo now.

Lily 
okay 
text when you get there 

Shane
You too
Drive safe

—

Shane looks down at his phone, frowning at the information listed on his housing packet. 

56 Leonard
56 Leonard St.
Tribeca
NY 10013

When he taps on the enclosed Google Map, his live location pin stacks exactly next to the one for the building the Admirals leased for him. Someone literally looked at the poorly aligned glass noodle and went, “yep, that sure screams Shane Hollander to me. Sign the lease.” 

Shane realizes he’s probably spent too much time parked in front of the entrance with his blinkers on only because the doorman has moved from what appears to be the building entrance to his car, and is now politely knocking on the window.

“Hello,” he rushes to explain once the tinted glass is no longer in the way, “I’m sorry for occupying this parking space, but I wanted to confirm I’m in the right place?” 

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, and a smile spreads across his face, “Hello, Mister Hollander. You definitely are, although I wasn’t expecting you to drive. My name’s Isaac.”

Oh god, Shane thinks. 

“Ah, last minute decision. Sorry if I, uh, ruined a timeline or… something.” 

“No worries at all, I will just let the others know,” he motions to someone Shane can only half-see though the glass of the building's entrance, and a man dressed in what can only be valet livery walks up to them. “Charlie, please take Mister Hollander’s car to his parking spot, and take any luggage up to 42AE.”

“Oh,” Shane immediately scrambles, “There’s no need, really, I can park myself, I just don’t know where–”

“Why don’t we let Charlie do his job, and in the meantime I can introduce you to the concierge staff so they can register you and explain how the building works?” 

It’s definitely not a suggestion. 

Shane sighs inwardly, grabbing his duffel bag and phone, and climbs out of his car, handing the fob to the valet with a “Thank you, uh, Charlie—there’s only three suitcases in the back, and—and the Barnes & Noble tote. I’m taking this with me,” he finishes, awkwardly patting his overnighter. 

As he finally takes a minute to look around the entrance at the street and other buildings, his eyes snag on the… structure? sitting next to the entrance, half squashed between the pavement and a jagged tangle of glass and metal girders. 

What the fuck is that? he thinks. 

“Lovely, isn’t it? It’s by Anish Kapoor,” Isaac says. 

“It is,” Shane agrees diplomatically, having absolutely no idea who Anish Kapoor is. 

—

After entering the building, it takes him forty-eight minutes until he's actually standing inside the threshold of his new apartment. 

Surprisingly enough, only one of those minutes is spent in the elevator. The rest of the time is spent “debriefing with the concierge staff,” as Isaac tells him, getting fingerprinted and instructed to download the residents-only 56 Leonard mobile app, which serves as a one-stop-shop for a number of things that Shane is reasonably sure can be done with other gestures, like call the elevator. 

An elevator that climbs so fast Shane’s ears honest-to-god pop somewhere around the twentieth floor.

"That's not normal," he mutters to himself as the number on the touchscreen panel keeps climbing. 28. 31. 37. 40. 42. What the fuck am I gonna do if there’s a fire? he thinks, looking down at the twenty-page glossy brochure the concierge gave him, and hoping there’s at least one evacuation procedure in there—aside from documents that also somehow include a copy of Shane’s fingerprints and an NDA that can essentially be summed up as “whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.

Before going in, he takes a minute or so to try every single unlocking device he was just given, and feels absolutely ridiculous upon discovering he can now open the door via keycard, fob, his own finger, and something called a ‘GlassKey’—which essentially just seems to be an iridescent plexiglass key, and looks even stupider than it sounds.

When he actually does make it inside, the apartment is… big. Not like Résidences du Vieux-Port big, more like Versailles big. 

He forces himself to ignore everything, including the fact he can see his moving boxes already neatly stacked to the side of the entrance—meaning life has yet to defeat Yuna Hollander’s organizational skills—as well as the suitcases he’d driven from Montreal, and the Barnes & Noble bag—meaning someone else had easy access to his house and was there before him, potentially rifling through his stuff. He shakes the thought away and enters the first closed door he sees. 

It’s mercifully a bedroom. 

Shane takes off his clothes with limbs that feel sluggish, like he’s wading through quicksand, and just drops them to the floor before tossing himself onto the bed. 

What the fuck am I doing here, he thinks right before closing his eyes. 

He falls asleep in less than a minute. 

—

March 2016
Thursday 04:50 p.m.
New York

Someone has changed his ringtone. 

Shane slowly blinks awake even as his brain is already whirling through a series of frazzled half-thoughts about whether it was Ilya, whether he's been hacked, whether there's anything incriminating on his phone. 

Meanwhile, the phone keeps ringing in the wrong tone. 

Shane reaches out for it with a leaden arm, and finds it’s not the ringtone that has changed, but everything else around it. 

He taps ACCEPT on the 56 Leonard app notification that reads ‘doorbell,’ and says “Hello?” in the groggiest voice he’s ever heard himself make. He feels absolutely run through, his mouth cottony and clumsy.

“Mister Hollander, I have a package for you,” says the person on the other end of the line, probably one of the members of the concierge staff Shane met earlier but whose name he has zero memory of. It was something starting with a K, maybe Kevin. Klaus. Kieran. Something like that. 

“Coming,” he mumbles. 

Shane shakes his head a couple of times hoping to clear it, but sending all his thoughts clattering to the ground instead. How long has he slept for? Is it still Thursday or is it Friday already?

He does his best to get up quickly, but it’s kind of a moot point because he just feels like he’s suddenly carrying too much weight for his spine, so he walks to his front door with wobbly knees. 

“Beautiful flowers,” the man—Quentin, the name tag reads—says with a smile once Shane manages to open the door.

Of course Ilya sent him flowers straight to New York before Shane even had time to process he was still alive and supposedly a member of society. And—yep, there’s a box, too. Of course Ilya couldn’t even fucking give him time to adjust before—before doing something like this, something so fucking—and why the fuck is he angry right now? Just because the man he loves sent him flowers? He’s a fucking loser, he doesn’t dese–

“Shall I put these here?” Quentin says once it’s clear Shane isn’t about to do literally anything useful like move to accept the flowers, or any other number of rational actions. 

Shane clears his throat, and tries not to think about Quentin going back to the rest of the concierge staff to talk about how slow and stupid Shane Hollander is.

“Thanks—thank you, yeah, just give them to me. Thank you,” he says cradling the bouquet to his chest and feeling like a fucking asshole for trying to somehow blame Ilya for Shane’s own inability to adjust to situations quickly. “Sorry I’m a little slow, I’m very tired,” he adds with a small smile. 

Quentin nods, “I can imagine. May I suggest… why don’t you take a tour of floors 9 and 10, once you’ve woken up a little? We have a wonderful steam room, a sauna, and a hot tub. All great for relaxing after a harrowing day of driving,” He finishes with a smile. 

Shane nods, trying to swallow the thickness in his throat; “I’ll take a look, thank you for bringing these. Oh, wait—” he pats his pockets searching for his wallet, because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to tip the building's staff, but he's just patting his naked thigh instead because he's not wearing his sweatpants and—did he just open the door completely naked except for his briefs? 

The fuck am I doing, he thinks as he shifts the considerable bulk of the bouquet to try and cover himself, “I don’t… I don’t know where my wallet is, could you—could you give me a minute, please, I would like to–”

“There’s no need,” Quentin says with another smile, “It’s in the building’s regulations as well; tipping the concierge staff is not required. It is surely appreciated, mind you, but there’s no need to fret. Why don’t you enjoy your flowers instead, and then head down to the sauna?”

Shane feels like a piece of shit. Why does he keep messing things up today? He’s been on uneven footing ever since leaving Albany, almost as if the further he drove from Ilya the louder everything got, and it would be how many days before he could center his gravity around Ilya again? 

He nods his goodbye to Quentin, too tired to say anything else. Shane closes the door behind him and slides down against it, spilling to the floor gracelessly while he clutches the flowers and box to his chest. 

Can you be homesick but like, for a person? He feels like the day started on one end of the spectrum, and is already shifted to the complete opposite. It’s barely 5 p.m. 

From where he’s sitting, he can see the apartment is drenched in golden light, all the floor to ceiling windows in the living area letting in warm, buttery sunlight that almost seems to make the ultra sleek and modern furniture shimmer. 

It only makes him sadder.

He’s in this place people would probably kill to live in, with an an app on his phone that he can press to summon literally any number of people from the army of support staff, and all he wants is to be back in room 212 and for it to be this morning at 6 a.m. if not yesterday directly, when he'd first gotten to touch Ilya after four days that had felt like geological eras. 

Shane forces himself to set the flowers aside so he doesn’t crumple them up. He’s just started learning about floriography so he’s not sure about the lavender one but even he knows, he fucking knows, what red roses mean. 

He knows Ilya's a—an absolute fucking menace who jokes about everything but has somehow already sent him what appears to be 50 red roses and whatever’s in that goddamned red and white box, because he’s not only a menace but an asshole to boot, and Shane is so fucking in more-than-love that he thinks he’s probably crying because he misses Ilya so much he's homesick with it. 

And not only Ilya, but—he misses Hayd and Jackie. 

He misses his mom and dad. 

He misses his house in Montreal with the big bathtub, the soft, plush carpets, and the fridge who beeped at you so angrily if you dared leave it open for more than 10 seconds. 

There is a giant chrome… blob? at the entrance of this building, and the building itself looks all wrong, like someone just learning to use a forklift had gone to town with each pallet-like floor as they were stacking them on top of each other, and what the fuck is he doing? He doesn’t belong here. 

In this luxury apartment with heated floors and a doorman at the entrance. 

In New York. 

What was he thinking? This was not his city. 

He could have just asked to go to Ottawa, why hadn't he done that? If he had—if he had, right now he’d probably be with his parents and Hayd and Jackie and the kids instead of crying into a bouquet of roses at 5 p.m. on a Thursday evening. 

He could have gone to Boston, and he would be with Ilya. 

Why hadn’t he chosen Ilya? Was he… was he a bad person for this? Was he already behaving like the shittiest… not-boyfriend, because this was another word that sounded painfully insufficient, but what else was he if not Ilya's person—what if Ilya was upset about this? About Shane choosing New York instead of Boston?

Fuck, Shane hadn’t even thought about telling him—about telling him it wasn’t that Shane didn’t want to spend every single second of the day with Ilya, because at this point he was pretty sure he’d allow experimental surgery on himself so he could literally attach himself to Ilya like a limpet, and how fucking insane was that? 

But no, he hadn’t told Ilya anything. That he hadn't chosen Boston because it would have been a choice solely motivated by Shane's desire to spend more time, all the time, with Ilya, so they could weave their lives around each other and Shane could disappear into Ilya. 

That he hadn't chosen Boston because it wouldn't have been fair on either of them, not right now, not while Shane wasn't even sure he could stand on his own two feet for long without needing Ilya to support him, because maybe he couldn't say the wrong thing to Ilya, but he could be the wrong thing for him, and they'd already hurt each other enough throughout the years—it was time to grow now into someone who could deserve Ilya.

So he hadn’t told Ilya that he’d chosen New York because he wanted to play for them, with them, wanted to work on the parts of himself that he'd inherited as a result of growing up as he had, of behaving like he had—he wanted to become more of a Hunter than a Hollander, and that's why he'd chosen New York.

With its 8.5 million people, and its complicated geography, and the sprawling skyline of uneven buildings.

He'd chosen New York because he wanted to. 

“Shane,” he tells himself kindly, like Ilya would. 

His name echoes loudly in the quiet of the hallway.

“Shane, you have to calm down.” 

You can’t keep doing this to yourself, he thinks. It wasn't fair to him or Ilya. He was supposed to be an apple, not half of it. 

He looks down at his wrist and traces his fingers along the chain, rubbing the places where the links intertwine. 

Shane kind of wants to see the metal glimmer in the sunlight, so he gets up from the floor, grabs everything he needs, and goes exploring. 

Walking straight ahead after entering the apartment had led him to a bedroom, so this time he decides to follow the rays of sun and walks right. 

That seems to be a good choice, because suddenly he’s in a living area bathed in warm, buttery light, with a huge sectional couch in the middle and a round table next to a kitchen island. 

There's a gift basket on the island—the biggest he's ever seen in his life—but Shane decides to ignore it for now, because he has more important things to do.

He starts opening cabinets looking for something that resembles a vase, and finds one almost immediately, so at least he can save the roses, even though the jasmine and gladiolus bouquet from yesterday has sadly almost wilted on the way to New York despite the fact Shane stopped several times during the drive to drench the flowers in water trying to keep them alive long enough.

He read online he can press the jasmines and gladiolus petals, though, so he’s probably going to do that once he finds enough bandwidth. Right now, he can take care of the roses. 

He waters them and sets them on the table, feeling a little lighter as the room starts looking less like a showroom, and more like a place a human being would actually voluntarily inhabit. 

Looking at the bracelet shimmer in the sunlight as Shane moves his wrist this and that way also makes him a little lighter, so he does that for a bit until he finds his breathing is steady enough to call Ilya without it being absolutely clear he’s just spent the last half hour chasing twisters inside his own head. 

“Hey, New Yorker,” Ilya says in his fondest drawl as soon as he picks up, lighting Shane up like a roman candle.

He can hear the soft noise of a door shutting close, and voices nearby. 

“Hello. Can you talk?” 

“Yes, is just Connors and Vicky.” He snorts, “Connors has a date after the game tonight. With a girl from the chat,” he gloats. 

Shane groans, opening the fridge and blinking when he finds it filled to the brim. 

Uh, he thinks, grabbing a bottle of water and quickly closing the fridge, ignoring the rest before his brain can even start considering the thought of a stranger he hasn’t vetted yet handling his food and the structural organization of his fridge. 

“There’s no fucking way one of the girls from… from the evil group chat actually texted him. You’re fucking with me—Ilya, no,” he says, shutting down the joke immediately. 

The other makes a displeased noise, but it's half-hearted. “Is true, I swear. And the chat is now called ‘Rozanov Survivors Support Group,’” he chuckles. 

Shane hums, downing half the water in one long swig and immediately feeling more awake, “Maybe I should be in there, then.” 

“So you can be jealous of face mask and toothpaste? Sure, be my guest. I tell Connors to add Jane when he’s done freaking out over which ugly Abercrombie polo to wear.”

He grabs the giftbox and moves towards the couch, noticing in that moment that his new TV is even bigger than the last, and also comes with a wall mounted projector set up. 

Shane sits on the couch so his back is to the wall with the screen, and just looks outside at his view of the Hudson river. He tries wiggling a little in an effort to sit more comfortably, but the couch is stiff in a way that says ‘I'm expensive’ rather than ‘I’m new,’ so he’s probably going to have to go couch shopping at some point in the near future. 

“Hey, sorry I didn’t text you when I got here. I literally passed out on the bed.” 

“You passed out?” 

“No, I mean—I was just tired, so I fell asleep immediately. I didn’t faint.” 

“Ah. Is okay, I turned on location share on Find My Friends, so I knew you made it.” 

Shane smiles, feeling warm and cared for at the thought; “You what?” 

“I turned on location share on your phone.” 

He chuckles a little, warmth uncoiling inside of him and spreading throughout his body, “For how long?” 

“Indefinitely,” Ilya says. 

“Sounds efficient.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, dry as autumn leaves on the ground, “Is exactly what I thought when I did it.” 

“I bet,” Shane murmurs.

“Although,” Ilya says a bit sheepishly, “You might want to apologize to Yuna, because she has called me four times to ask if I'd heard from you.”

Oh fuck, he thinks, immediately scrambling to look for his phone so he can text his mom before realizing he's currently talking into it. Fucking relax, Hollander, he thinks again, getting up from the couch to walk around the living space in an effort to dispel some of the tension. 

“I'm sorry, I was really exhausted and–”

“Shane, I did not say ‘apologize to me,’ I am okay. Told my teammates it was my girl’s mom and now they make whipping noises every time I walk past. Is great.”

Shane sits on the floor in front of the massive glass windows, and looks out at the unfamiliar skyline. “Thank you for talking to my mother. And for the red roses. They're beautiful.” 

Ilya’s voice is teasing when he answers, “Make sure to tell Pike I’m providing flowers, yes? Actually, I tell him tonight when I destroy him on the ice.” 

Shane groans, “Ilya, do not terrorize Hayden—I’m trying to get him to like you.”

“I tell him about you falling to your knees when I buy ginger ale, he is going to love me by second period.”

Despite his best judgement, Shane laughs, “He's going to deck you in the face and call my mom to stage an intervention, don't—don’t be too hard on him, okay? With the chirps. He's had a shit week too, and Jackie and the kids are still in Montreal. Be funny haha, not funny mean.”

“Okay,” Ilya says quietly, voice going soft. “I will tell him I bought you roses and you narrated a truck stop blowjob at me, yes? make sure he knows what our priorities are.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, sweet like a kiss. “Tell him about the face masks and makeup remover hospitality operation you're running in Boston, he's gonna love that for sure.”

Ilya chuckles, “Hollander, you are obsessed with the face mask. Is just a face mask.”

He grumbles a little out of self-respect, but has the decency to remain quiet because yes, he seems to be entirely obsessed with the mental image of Ilya Rozanov, playboy extraordinaire, going to Walmart to buy aloe face masks in bulk and packing them in tiny gift bags for his hookups. 

“I have to go,” Ilya then says, sounding like he'd rather do anything but.

“Good luck tonight,” Shane says.

“Will you watch?”

“Will I watch you obliterate my hometown team, where my best friend now plays? Sure, I'll watch. Make it good for me, mh?”

Ilya chuckles, “I score hat trick for you. Pike goes home crying.” 

Shane smiles, watching the flowers on the table and the way the red of the petals plays off a beautiful contrast against the white and glass of his new apartment.

“Do your worst.”

—

Shane wasn’t lying when he’d called Ilya a menace, so the box does, in fact, contain a stack of innisfree’s My Real Squeeze Mask Ex 100% natural aloe sheet masks—but it also houses a few books, which only serves to reinforce Shane’s belief that Ilya listened to everything he said in a way that should be a little scary, but only makes Shane feel cared for. 

He's familiar with most titles, but hasn't read any, since they all appear to be horror or horror-adjacent. There's two Kings—Salem’s Lot and The Tommyknockers, a used copy of Jurassic Park, and a deluxe slipcase edition of World War Z.

The Tommyknockers—a book Shane has never even heard of before—has one of Ilya's post-its stuck to the front, the words “this is so good, read this first” scribbled on it in green pen.

At the bottom of the box, Shane is kind of horrified to also find a Smythson navy blue leather refillable notebook, the letters SH engraved in silver foil on the bottom right-hand corner of the cover, and a Montblanc box tucked next to it. 

He immediately grabs his phone to text Ilya, “You need to stop buying me expensive gifts, you're gonna go broke and then you'll have to sell your cars to make rent,” but he's feeling content now, relaxed in a way he hasn't been since leaving their hotel room in Albany. 

So what if Ilya couldn't seem to stop himself from dropping frankly worrying amounts of money on gifts for him? 

Yesterday Shane hadn't been able to say I love you because it sounded ridiculously insufficient as it tried to encompass the breadth of Shane's heart, and today he'd stopped in front of a vending machine off I–87 and told Ilya those exact words because they were for him, not Shane.

Maybe all the gifts served the same purpose for Ilya. Maybe buying Shane a limited edition fountain pen inspired by Romeo and Juliet that was one of only 715 in the whole world was Ilya's way of trying to bridge the gap between heart and language. 

Shane gently traces the grained notebook cover and rubs his fingerpads on his monogram, feeling absurdly fond over his initials, and the fact Ilya seems to be genetically incapable of doing things halfway. 

The notebook sleeve feels like real leather, which Shane is not a huge fan of, but there is no way in hell he’s ever going to bring this up with Ilya—he’s just gonna have to use the notebook as much as possible, so the poor calf who died for Shane’s sins at least won’t have died in vain. 

Once he opens the cover, Shane is not even a little surprised to already find three refills inside, secured by the elastic band. What does surprise him, however, is the cream colored card tucked into the inner pocket.

I saw your book journal when I was in Montreal.
You can use this for horror books. Or for New York things. 
Have fun, nerd.
— Ilya  

Shane immediately knows he’s one-hundred-percent going to put the note up on his fridge. 

He knows it’s maybe a bit risky, but doesn’t really care. Anyone that is able to get close enough to Shane's fridge to read Ilya’s neat handwriting probably already knows why Ilya Rozanov is writing him notes. 

And even if they don’t—so what? Shane had never signed paperwork agreeing the rivalry was supposed to extend to their private lives. There was nothing wrong with them being friends off the ice, was there? 

Even if there was, it was probably a little too late to course correct at this point. Might as well stick the card to the fridge door so he could see it every time he went to open it.

Shane is carefully rifling through one of the boxes filled with kitchen items when his phone buzzes with a text. 

Lily
I would sell all my cars for you

Shane laughs softly and presses the phone against his chest.

So what if he feels lost sometimes when he thinks about how he would carve out his heart with a knife and offer it to Ilya on a silver platter, how he would let Ilya sink his teeth into it and devour it until there was nothing left? 

The heart wasn't Shane's anymore anyway. 

—

Shane puts it off for as long as he can, but in the end he has to call Francesca DeLuca and let her know he's alive and staring at the contents of his gift basket, now scattered across the countertop as he tries to figure out which cabinet is going to be for canned goods and which one will host grain products. 

He puts the champagne in the wine fridge—which is a hilarious thing to own when you’re someone who barely drinks alcohol—and the I ♥️ NY mug in the dishware cabinet, and then steadfastly refuses to even think about the five pages of printed out reservations for two people booked at restaurants whose waiting lists Google tells him are longer than the Hudson river itself. 

He also refuses to look at the attached card that reads ‘for you and your partner,' like Shane's a junior accountant at Scotiabank rather than a stupidly besotted hockey player who can never, ever use a reservation for two with the person he’d actually want to. 

Shane's touched by the museum passes, which definitely fall more into his comfort zone even though he's never been really big on art, but maybe when his parents get here they can all go together like they used to when he was little.

The Lady Liberty keychain immediately replaces his old Voyageurs one. That one he tosses in the plastic recycling bin—or what he desperately hopes is the plastic recycling bin anyway.

When he does settle down with a ginger ale and his list of contacts for the Admirals, he's feeling a little more grounded, and is determined to make a good first impression. From Farah's description he doesn't really know what to expect, but the booming “DeLuca here” he’s greeted with sounds about right. 

“Hello, uh, miss… Missus? DeLuca?” he says, feeling like an absolute troglodyte who has never spoken a word of English before in his life. “It’s Shane. Hollander.” 

Good first impression my ass, he thinks. 

“Shane motherfucking Hollander, as I live and breathe,” she says with the same level of luxurious satisfaction with which Ilya had said ossobuco the day before.

“Hi. Sorry I didn't call earlier but I took an unplanned nap.” He blurts before grinding his teeth and resisting the urge to throw his phone in the garbage disposal, then press the on switch. Maybe if he keeps saying the stupidest things they can just trade him back, and pretend none of this ever happened. 

“Ah, don't even worry about it. I wasn’t expecting your call until much later, actually—did you get upgraded to an earlier flight or something?” 

Shane hums, “No, I drove. I arrived a little after noon.” 

There’s a long silence on the other end and Shane hears someone passing by say “Hey Fran, we still on for drinks later?” to which she replies “You know it” before refocusing her attention on the phone call. 

“I didn’t quite catch that, can you repeat? You… drove? To Manhattan?”

He clears his throat, “Yep.” 

“Was there something wrong with the flight? We could have switched things around it if you’d–”

“No no no, the flight was perfect, everything is perfect—thank you for the gift basket, by the way—I just… felt like driving. I stopped in Albany.” 

“Albany,” she echoes. 

“Yes, um, just to sleep.” He clears his throat again, trying to corral the conversation in a direction that won’t make him feel like he’s just driving home with every sentence how poor his social skills are. “Anyway, yes, I just wanted to let you know I made it, and—and the apartment looks beautiful, and–”

“It is, isn’t it? You check out the Sky Estuary yet?” she says as if it’s supposed to mean something to Shane—who tends to have a pretty decent grasp on the English language most of the time, and he could have sworn he knew what the words ‘sky’ and ‘estuary’ meant, but somehow they’re together in Francesca’s sentence, which makes absolutely no sense. 

“The…?”

“It’s the amenity suite, 9th and 10th floors. Definitely check it out today, even if you don’t do anything else.”

“Sounds fun, I’ll do that—thanks.” Shane is definitely not going to check out the Sky Estuary today, would in fact rather grab his car from whatever underground luxury hellscape it has been stuffed into and drive it around just for the sheer pleasure of experiencing the best of Manhattan’s road rage. 

“You got the gift basket you said, yeah? So the food arrived as well?” 

“Yes,” he cringes inwardly, remembering there’s a fridge he has to navigate if he wants to eat tonight—which he definitely has to, considering at the very least he has practice tomorrow. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure’s mine; I sent our team nutritionist to deal with it because I didn’t know if you’d carried yours over from Montreal—or if you even have a private one—but I personally vouch for Michi. Everyone on the team swears by them.” 

“I recently terminated the professional relationship with my nutritionist in Montreal, so, ah—thank you for recommending… them?” 

“Of course! Only the best for Shane Hollander—I gotta say, I could not believe Farah when she said you might get traded. Do you have any idea how many GMs would kill for a player like you?” She chuckles, “Thanks to Montreal for lacking even a crumb of business sense. I almost sent them a thank-you card; ‘thanks for the hockey royalty, love Fran’.”

Shane isn’t sure whether he should feel flattered or like a cow someone’s ogling at the market, so he lands somewhere in between: “That’s very… generous, miss…?” 

“Don’t even try that with me. My name is Francesca, and I expect you to use it, yeah? None of that ‘miss’ bullshit.” 

“Okay,” he says, “Then I’m Shane.” He thinks he might end up liking her, if he’s able to get past the aggressively forward managing style he’s totally unaccustomed to coming from Montreal—but then again he supposes you didn’t manage hockey operations for an Original Six team without turning a bit feral along the way.

“Nice to meet you, Shane,” she says with a teasing lilt. “Now that we’ve made contact and I can prove to the GM I wasn’t lying about locking you down, I gotta go out and celebrate. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? You have your schedule?” 

“Yes, thank you. Actually, there’s one last thing. I don’t know if Farah told you, but tomorrow I was going to… release a personal statement about my, ah, sexuality,” he manages to say without making it sound like he’s asking for permission. 

“Sounds good, do you want to do it through the Admirals’ official channels?”

Shane blinks, “No, I—I would rather do it on my socials, if… if it’s okay? I haven’t talked to anyone from your media team yet. I mean our.” 

Francesca chuckles, “Don’t worry, you’ll talk to them soon enough. They're all frothing at the mouth to be the one that gets to interview you for the Welcome Aboard hashtag. Anyway yeah, no problem. We’ll just… retweet it, or whatever nonsense social media want, yeah?”

 “Okay, thanks.” 

“Alright, I’m going, you go check out the Sky Estuary now. And, Shane?”

“Yes?” 

“I can’t fucking wait to finally see you on my ice,” she says before hanging up. 

—

While Shane does not check out the Sky Estuary specifically (which, according to his 56 Leonard app seems to only refer to the aquatic amenities on the 10th floor), he does spend an hour running on one of the 17 treadmills available on floor 9, and then takes a shower in one of his stupidly large bathrooms. 

The thing is—it’s not that he hates the apartment. It’s not. 

Sure, right now it looks more like something out of American Psycho or a rich actor’s Open Door segment for Architectural’s Digest, but Shane can see the bones. 

He can see that if he changes the couch, gets rid of the totally impractical chairs, gets a coffee table that’s not made of fucking crystal, so he can actually use it instead of looking at it wondering when he's gonna accidentally shatter it into pieces, if—if he gets a bigger island maybe, or a bigger table, or both, he could get used to it. With time. 

For one, the view is beautiful. 

Not the one with—with the skyscrapers, none of which he can identify (and almost doesn’t care to) except for the One World Trade Center, but the one facing west, over the Hudson. Shane can actually see himself getting pleasantly lost in himself as he watches tiny tugboats and ferries move across the water. He’d already found it soothing earlier, when he’d been talking to Ilya, so it was definitely a plus. 

The thing is—he doesn’t belong here, and he’s not really sure it’s just a matter of geography, or interior design. 

How do normal people make choices every day, knowing that the choices might end up being wrong? You can’t exactly backpedal on a multimillion dollar trade plus move to New York. You were supposed to choose right the entire time, because the next five years of your life were tethered to your team, and there was no escape if it turned out you’d made the wrong decision. 

It’s not like you could show up on your first day and say oopsies—maybe another player could, but not him. 

But everything was just so loud, even his new gigantic flat screen’s volume went from mute to migraine levels with one click as Shane struggled to find a comfortable position to sit in so he could eat his food and watch Boston VS Ottawa in peace. In the end, Shane grabs his bowl of steamed salmon and brown rice and sits crosslegged on the floor, his back resting against the kitchen island. 

Has he ever been truly alone before? 

Not lonely, actually alone. 

He was in a city of 8.5 million people, and not a single soul could reach him if something was wrong. 

He could fall apart right here, right now, on his kitchen floor, and no one would know. 

On his giant screen, he watches Ilya and Hayden skate closer until they’re facing each other across the red line, and Ilya’s immediately running his mouth because of course he does. Hayden rolls his eyes and takes off his glove with his teeth to flip the other off, Ilya laughing as he raises his palms up and clearly says ‘okay, okay’ as he skates backwards towards the Bears’ bench. 

Shane smiles, taking a bite of salmon.

Maybe he could give it a couple of months, and if he still felt so out of place, then maybe—maybe he could move. That was an option, right? He wasn’t, like, married to this apartment he would have never chosen for himself in the first place. 

Or maybe he could work on the space for two, three, maybe four months—five tops—rifinish the cabinets so the vibe was less ‘upscale sci-fi hospital’ and more ‘an actual human lives here’. Buy some decent stools for the kitchen island. Definitely a new couch. Some lamps. Mood lighting. Maybe a curtain or two, because the floor to ceiling windows made him feel incredibly exposed, nevermind the fact he was forty-two floors up into the air. 

Maybe he could even check out the Sky Estuary for himself, and see what all the fuss was about. 

—

Shane has never struggled so much before. 

On the screen, Hayden literally trips on the puck and faceplants two feet away from St. Simon, who slaps the puck away at Marleau, then points at Hayden and laughs. 

For fuck’s sake, he thinks with a sigh and closes Ilya’s iMessage thread to open Hayden’s so he can text ‘did you literally just trip on the literal PUCK, is there something in the water in Ottawa,” but then stops himself and thinks. 

He’s currently texting his live comments to both Ilya and Hayden separately, and the lack of efficiency caused by having to type-tap out of the thread-open a separate thread-type-tap out of the thread-rinse-and-repeat is driving him a little bit more insane with every ‘tap out of the thread’. 

He could make his life easier by putting both people together in the same thread, but that means he would be putting both people together in the same thread, and that sounds like the worst idea Shane’s had since he decided to move to New York, which had been a pretty big one already. 

What’s the worst that could happen, though? That they’d insult each other to their faces? Like that had never happened before. 

What if he trusted them though—in the same way they trusted him—what if Shane put them together in the same room like a child playing with Barbies, what if he sat them down and forced them to acknowledge each other, and the role they played in Shane’s life? What was the worst that could happen? 

The worst has already happened, he thinks, so he does the unthinkable and creates a new group chat.

This is for hockey ONLY
(Hayd, Lily, Shane) 

Shane
Hayd, did you literally just trip on the literal PUCK? Is there something in the water in Ottawa?
Ilya, your tape job looks terrible. 
Why is nobody forechecking? 
I can understand Ottawa but BOSTON? 
Did you all forget how to play? 
Nice goal, Ilya :) 
Hayd that’s a good backcheck!
Oh. Nevermind. 
Is Connors okay? He looks drunk. 
If that’s how he handles the pressure of having a date post-game, I hope he never starts meeting with another player because he’d never be able to handle it.
He literally looks like he’s about to vomit. 
Hayden, PLEASE, what the fuck was that??? Your WIFE is watching, have some self-respect 
Ilya for the love of god stop forcing cross-ice passes. You're not playing with your All-Star team. It’s just the fucking Boston Bears. 
Guys do you NEED me to drive to Boston and slap you both?
The fuck is going on. 
Whatever salary he’s on, Hayes definitely needs a raise, holy shit… How mad are you @Lily ? No hat trick for you :)  
Are you sure Connors isn’t concussed? 
Chouinard is literally built like a brick wall. Do you know how much he benches @Hayd ? 

He keeps texting until Ilya scores Boston’s fifth goal of the evening, then gives up the ghost, muting the tv and grabbing Russian for Dummies instead. It takes less than five minutes from the game’s end before his phone starts buzzing like an angry wasp. 

This is for hockey ONLY
(Hayd, Lily, Shane) 

Lily 
hollander you are mad
???

Hayd
I do not consent to my data being shared with 3rd parties wtf 
Also fuck you, like you never trip on the ice! 

Lily
at least does not trip on skates like toddler who just set foot on ice
was beautiful to watch
sad for your team 
but beautiful 

Hayd 
Fuck you too!!! 
And do not bring Jackie into this @Shane come on man 

Lily
no thanks i’m good with current arrangement 

Hayd
You’re just mad cos I’m still winning the Reddit poll

Lily 
i feel sorry for your wife and children 

Hayd
I’m leaving the chat 
@Shane come back and tell me not to leave the chat 
@Shane ????? 

Lily 
christ pike you sound like a fedora incel
leave m’lady alone
he is probably busy writing angry letter to sports news for including your goal in tonights highlights

Hayd 
What the fuck is an incel

Lily 
lol

He smiles, biting his lip to resist the temptation to intervene (and also ask what an incel is). Let them chirp until they got blue in the face—at least they were getting used to each other, and neither of them had threatened bodily harm yet. 

On his part, Shane has more important things to focus on right now, like trying to memorize the cyrillic alphabet. 

—

March 2016
Friday, 08:20 a.m.
New York 

In the morning, once Shane manages not to throw up at the elevator's drop in gravity, he approaches Quentin at the concierge desk to gently slide a twenty dollar bill over the counter with a; “Thanks again for bringing the flowers up yesterday.” 

The man blinks at the money for a second before picking it up, and nodding his thanks. “Much appreciated, Mister Hollander.” 

“No worries at all,” Shane says. “Um, I need to get my car but I’m not sure where–”

“Good morning, Mister Hollander,” Isaac greets him from the door. “Your car is waiting outside.” 

He frowns, but thanks Quentin again and makes his way outside, wondering if living in a luxury residence meant from now on people were just going to use his stuff without telling him first, and expect Shane to feel anything but anxiety at the thought of someone invading his space while they did things on his behalf.

Leonard street is quiet—which is nice considering Shane was fully expecting to immediately get assaulted by noise—but it’s also notably empty of his Land Rover. 

“Isaac, did you say–” 

Someone honks three times, then yells “Shane Hollander!” and Shane knows that voice now, but still his shoulders go up as he turns and sees Francesca DeLuca waving from where she's parked outside the entrance to 56 Leonard. 

“Come on,” she says, motioning to come inside. 

He nods a distracted good day to Isaac and climbs into the New York Admiral’s President of Hockey Operations’ car like he’s a child on his first day of school. 

Her smile is so big and excited Shane immediately feels like an asshole for spending a large part of the previous day wondering how bad she would take it if he told her he just wanted to go back to Canada, and sorry about the extra paperwork eh?

“Good morning Mis—Francesca,” he corrects himself and she winks in delight, handing him a travel cup of coffee and an assortment of sugar packets, sweetener pills, creamer cups, and coffee stirrers. 

She then produces another bag from somewhere in the vicinity of the steering wheel, and despite the fact he’s already had breakfast, Shane immediately feels his stomach growl. Whatever's wrapped in that oil paper smells so good it’s worth investigating immediately. 

“Good morning, Shane. Thought I’d drive you to work today, don’t want you accidentally winding up in Connecticut. Lox bagel from Ess-a-Bagel,” she adds handing him the food. “Best bagel place in New York. Don't trust whoever says the best bagels are from New Jersey—they’re fucking losers.”

Best bagels or not, Shane can't stop the pornographic moan that slips past his self control at the first bite. He feels himself blush and clears his throat, shooting Francesca an apologetic smile. “Ah, sorry. I don't normally have carbs and dairy so sometimes it's kinda like—” he closes his fist and opens it quickly, making a tiny boom noise, “Explosions.”

Francesca looks absolutely riveted by the exchange, and either her performance should be submitted for Oscar consideration or she's genuinely happy that she's taking time out of her no doubt incredibly busy schedule to feed Shane second breakfast and drive him to practice like she's his mom.

“See, this is why I could never be an athlete,” she says, “No carbs and no dairy sounds like a fucking nightmare. My grandma would probably cry if I told her no pasta and no cheese. I would kill my nana. Her lasagna won first prize five times in a row back in Italy.” Francesca then leans into the space between them and waves a hand, yelling out the window; “Bye Isaac, your tickets will be at will-call! See you tomorrow at the Garden!” 

“Oh,” Shane says as they peel off so quickly they presumably leave 30% of Francesca's tires on the pavement, “You know Isaac?”

“Nah, I just met him,” she answers, like that clears things up.

This is gonna be a long drive, Shane thinks as Francesca drives through a red light and then feeds a battered copy of Shakira's Laundry Service to the car stereo.

He shrugs and works on the rest of his bagel. 

—

Turns out, Farah was right about the hand gestures. 

In the thirty-five minutes it takes them to drive from 56 Leonard to Tarrytown, Shane learns three very important things about Francesca; one, she’s incredibly touchy feely. 

Not in an inappropriate way, but she playfully smacks Shane’s shoulder and grabs his arm, pointing at things along the way and just generally touching him more times than Shane normally allows a stranger, which is approximately zero times. 

Two, Francesca drives a Porsche Cayenne Turbo, and is not afraid to use it. The second time she does a triple-lane merge with the skill of a Formula 1 driver, Shane surreptitiously sits up straighter, making sure to keep his limbs relaxed so his bones hopefully won't get too broken in case of an accident. 

Three, Francesca is bilingual, and her second language is what she calls ‘New York honk system’. She plays the horn like Shane assumes Mozart played the piano—that is, if Mozart was a 5’7’’ high powered New York exec with brown hair. 

Despite his best efforts, by the time they get to the sports center Shane has already taken an ibuprofen for the headache, and is tense like a violin string as he tries not to jump like a scared cat every time Francesca leans on the horn to signal get out of my way or any variation thereof. 

When they walk inside the MSG Training Center, though, Shane finds himself breathing a little easier. 

Yes, this isn’t CN Complex, but he feels more at home here than in his own apartment. While the layout is different, the content of the facility is not a surprise. A gym, weight room, physical therapy area, three separate lounges with an annexed kitchen, and one big catered one which Francesca calls “the galley,” like they’re in a nautical novel instead of a Westchester suburb. 

She takes him through the offices next—a brisk walk that Shane has to interrupt approximately twenty times to shake hands and sign a number of jerseys, pucks, and ball caps. Once they stop walking, they’re standing in front of Francesca’s own office, and Coach Murdoch leaning against the doorframe with one foot planted on the wall behind him as he scowls down at his iPad. 

“Hey Harv,” she says as she walks inside, gesturing for Shane to follow. “Here’s your new toy, please don't break him before lunchtime.” 

“Thanks,” Murdoch replies with a smirk. “Hollander, I spoke with Theriault earlier this morning and he said you skipped about a week worth of practice. Any reason for that?” 

Shane has always held Coach Murdoch in the highest regard, so he’s sorry when instead of the polite response the other deserves, Shane just shrugs and deadpans, “The one I can think of is him turning me away from practice itself on account of, ah, being a pansy ass Captain? Can’t remember the exact words,” he lies. 

Theriault’s casual cruelty is burned into his brain so starkly he’s probably never going to forget the words, but this is neither the time nor the place to show how much they still affected him. 

Francesca snorts, and Murdoch rolls his eyes, “Fran, please.”

“What? Did I not fucking say it was Theriault’s fault? Didn’t I? The man would not be able to take care of a chia pet, let alone Shane Hollander.” She holds out a hand, wriggling her fingers, “You owe me fifty bucks.” 

Coach Murdoch sighs, digging for his wallet and handing Francesca a few bills, “Thanks a lot, Hollander,” he says but not unkindly. 

Shane clears his throat, “I—I have a home gym—had, I mean. In Montreal. So I trained every day, but I haven’t touched ice in, um, ten days.” He feels a yawning pit open up inside his chest; what if he’s forgotten how to skate? 

“Alright,” Murdoch says with a shrug. We’re starting on-ice practice in twenty; come, I'll show you to the locker room.”

—

As they meander back out of the office area, and through one of the lounges to a big rec room, Murdoch keeps talking; “We normally do game tape review in the morning but I wasn't sure when you'd get here so I moved it to after practice.”

“Thanks, Coach,” he says. 

“I know you've always been a center, but–”

“I'd like to try playing wing, too,” Shane says maybe a little too enthusiastically. “I know all your centers are also wings, so I'd like to try as well. Can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I—yeah.”

“Ours,” Murdoch says.

Shane frowns, “Sorry?”

“Our centers. Not yours. Our team, our centers.”

He swallows past the knot of shame in his throat. Right. He belonged to New York now, so he better start acting like it. He was not going to run back to Canada with his tail tucked between his legs, no matter how much he wanted to last night. 

“That might honestly take me a while,” he explains in a quiet tone, “but it's not because I'm not happy to be here, Coach. So, ah, sorry in advance?”

Murdoch stops in front of a red door with a framed 2015-2016 Admirals team photo hanging on it, dutifully signed by each member of the team. 

“Is that just the Canadian in you, or does that come from Theriault?” he asks as if that's supposed to make sense to Shane. 

“Uh, the…?”

“I've known you ten minutes and you've apologized at least three times. You’re a polite man, sure, but I know Michel too.”

Oh, he thinks, then frowns, trying to figure it out. At this point Shane feels like he has spent a lifetime apologizing for being good at everything you threw at him, and yet somehow feeling like he never met expectations. 

“I'm not entirely sure,” he says with a small smile.  

Murdoch makes a non-committal noise, and shrugs; “No matter. Either way, yes—I’d like to try you out on a line with Scotty today. Don't think too hard, what's your best; left or right?”

“Left,” Shane immediately replies. 

“Alright,” Murdoch says. “Welcome to the team, then,” he says, opening the door to the locker room and leaving Shane to step in alone. 

There's a moment of absolute stillness before someone says ‘oh shit he’s here,’ and Carter Vaughn bounds up to Shane, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him like he’s trying to look for change between the couch cushions. 

He envelops Shane in a hug and says, “I can’t believe you’re really here!” 

Matti Jalo appears from behind Vaughn in all his blond golden retriever glory, and pats him on the shoulder with a smile and an eyebrow wiggle, “Finally my Make-A-Wish came true and we have a good center.” 

“Oh fuck off Eurotrip,” Scott Hunter chimes in from his spot next to a refreshments table packed with fruit, recovery shakes, an assortment of electrolyte packets, and enough protein bars to feed a small army, as well as what appears to be a plexiglass cube filled with money. Hunter winces as the PT massaging his shoulder executes what looks to be a Mortal Kombat finisher on his deltoid.  

“Your cubby’s next to mine,” Eric Bennett says in lieu of a greeting once Vaughn decides that Shane is not, in fact, filled with loonies and toonies, and stops shaking him around like a rattler. 

He takes Bennett’s outstretched hand with a smile and starts unpacking his new gear, the smell of new plastic filling his nostrils. It is, objectively, a terrible smell, but it smells a little like home and Shane's blood is starting to thrum with pent up energy. 

He's never gone so long without being on the ice before—not without an injury anyway, and it was kinda sorta fine while he was busy dealing with the immediate aftermath of the leak, and with the immediate aftermath of Ilya, but now that he's back in familiar territory he feels the pull of the rink like a siren call. 

He unpacks his training bag next, stashing a few compression shirts, shorts, and socks on the shelf before grabbing the picture of his parents from the outer pocket and pinning it to the cubby wall with a small ball of Blu Tack. He's just finished sticking a picture of the Pikes and Pikelets next to his parents’ when he feels eyes on him like a physical thing, like being struck by a hot poker directly at the base of his skull. 

When he turns to investigate, Shane’s eyes land on a pair of shockingly green ones, belonging to what appears to be a cross between a literal child and a deer caught in headlights. As Shane gives him a little wave, the other blushes, snapping his head down to look at his shoes while Joel Miller nudges him with an elbow, murmuring something.

“That's one of our rookies,” says Bennett. “He has a picture of you taped in his cubby, so be gentle when he inevitably does something stupid,” he adds with a stern glare. 

“I would never be mean to a rookie,” Shane replies, starting to take off his clothes, “Only assholes are mean to rookies,” he concludes, folding his hoodie and shirt and dragging out a compression shirt from the bottom of the bag. 

“True,” Bennett agrees. “Anyway, where are you staying? Scarsdale?” asks Bennett.

“56 Leonard,” Shane answers with a grimace, then remembers he should be at least outwardly very grateful and tacks on, “Really gorgeous Sky Estuary,” feeling like a clown in the process. 

One of Bennett’s eyebrows climbs toward his hairline, “Tribeca? I wouldn't have pegged you for the Manhattan skyscraper type.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s teasing Shane, so he lets himself relax a little, “I'm… I'm really not, but the team leased it for me. It's very. Um,” he attempts one of the four distinct types of hand-waves he saw Francesca make in the car, “Big.”

As he’s waving his compression shirt around in an attempt to convey the exact breadth and width of ‘big,’ Shane realizes he’s half naked—which wouldn’t normally be uncommon in a locker room, but this is post-leak Shane, so maybe he shouldn’t be half-naked around other men, because what if he makes them uncomfortable? What if they think he’s taking his time getting ready so he can—ogle them like a pervert? 

He takes a quick look around the room and realizes everyone else is also in various states of undress, so he closes his eyes and leans forward into his cubby, trying to make it as clear as possible that he’s not—he’s not looking, he’s not here to—to prey on the straights or whatever other bullshit his new teammates think he’s doing. 

What the fuck is he gonna do after practice, when he has to shower? 

A gentle hand falls to his shoulder, “You okay, Shane?”

When he opens his eyes, Vaughn is standing next to him, looking concerned and wearing only a pair of neon green briefs with red smiling mouths on them. Shane snaps his gaze back up to Vaughn’s eyes, and finds him smiling reassuringly. 

“Those are the ugliest fucking briefs I’ve ever seen in my life,” Shane says, and allows himself to raise a hand to Vaughn's shoulder, squeezing it once to confirm that yes, he’s okay. 

Vaughn squeezes back, “That’s because you have the fashion sense of a blind raccoon.” 

Behind him, Bennett tries to hide his laugh behind a—very ineffective—cough. 

“Hey,” Hunter says before disappearing into his shoulder pads like a turtle, “Isn't the Bean at the base of your skyscraper?” 

Jalo immediately groans, “Do not.”

Shane frowns, “The what?” 

“The Anish Kapoor,” Bennet clarifies without clarifying. 

“People keep saying that to me like I'm supposed to know who that is,” he frowns. 

“He's the guy who trademarked black,” Greg Huff chimes in with the same tired voice of someone who’s heard the same story one too many times. 

“That's a gross generalization Huffy, and you know it,” continues Bennett with narrowed eyes, an accusing finger pointed straight at Huff’s chest. 

“Here we go again,” whines Jalo while he finishes tying up his skates, “Why is Benny allowed to jerk off to Anish Kapoor in public but if I put on music I'm getting banned from aux cord privileges?”

“I do not jerk off–”

“Uh yeah you kinda do, man,” Ryley Robinson pipes up from Shane's left. 

“He's a brilliant arti–”

“It's literally a shiny bean? What’s so great about that, my mantis shrimp could do a better job and she literally has no hands,” says Robinson.

Someone behind Shane lets out a distraught noise, “Not the fucking mantis shrimp again, please Ryley.”

Robinson straightens up, “Hey, what’s your problem with Aurora? She’s sick and in the quarantine tank, have some respect even if she’s not—not—not a fucking bean, or whatever.”

Shane decides he does not want to find out what a quarantine tank is, and just focuses on putting on his shin guards instead. 

Bennett grabs his goalie mask from the bench, “Would you look at the Mona Lisa and say that's just a woman?”

“At least the Mona Lisa took skill to paint,” says Nathan Drake from where he’s trying to balance stick tape on his nose like a seal, “The bean is just… a fucken’ bean, y’know Benny?”

Jalo gets up with a frustrated noise, tying his long blond hair into a low ponytail, “Can we stop please, I can't do this again—I go home and dream about beans. I did not leave free healthcare behind for this.”

Hunter laughs, “Don't look at me, look at Benny!”

“I’m looking at you because you're the one who triggered him,” Jalo says with a whine, “Because you're a fucking oaf, Scotty.”

“Your mom's an oaf,” Hunter responds with the same maturity of Ruby and Jade when they’re arguing with each other. 

Jalo scoffs, “Don't you talk about my mama like that, she is a beautiful princess,” he says, accompanying the sentiment with a sweeping gesture and laughing.  

“Um… Mister… Mister Hollander?” comes a voice behind Shane. 

A bunch of groans all rise around them. 

“Kid, what the fuck,” says Miller while shaking his head. 

The rookie turns towards Miller with a pained expression, “You said!” 

“I didn’t tell you to call him Mister Hollander, that’s just embarrassing.”

Drake sits back on the bench and fiddles with his shoulder pads, “It’s like watching a car crash in slow-mo.”

Despite the ribbing, the rookie is still standing behind Shane. He’s clutching his phone like a lifeline, and is red as a beet, but he finds the courage to ask; “Can we take selfie?”

Something fond immediately blooms in Shane’s chest, because he knows that accent, he loves that accent. It's much thicker than what Ilya sounds like now, but it sounds—it sounds just like Ilya did when they were younger, when they were rookies themselves. 

He gives the other an encouraging smile and nods, asking; “What's your name?”

“Orlov. Daniil,” he almost trips over himself in his haste to answer. “Thank you for picture,” he adds. 

Shane is somehow still half naked so he says, “Can I put on a shirt first?”

The rookie—Daniil, Shane thinks, immediately vowing to himself that he’s gonna make sure no one treats him poorly—nods enthusiastically, his topknot bouncing back and forth like a little bobblehead on top of Daniil’s actual head. 

From the other side of the locker room, Drake snorts and says in a sing-songy voice, “Aw but a shirt is gonna make it that much harder to jerk off over Mister Hollander—wait,” he immediately raises a hand when Hunter straightens up and opens his mouth to say something. “I heard it, I heard it—sorry Orly, that was not funny.” 

Drake walks towards the plexiglass cube next to the protein bars, and drops a dollar in before frowning and turning towards Shane, “Hollander, should I put a dollar in for you as well?”

Shane's brain is still kinda going through the five stages of grief over the joke, but in between being angry over the fact the locker room was supposed to be safe, and sad at the fact Orlov hadn’t even said anything weird, Shane manages to land on the fact Drake has already apologized to Orlov and admitted the joke was not funny, and is now asking Shane about… making a donation?

“Um,” Shane says.  

“Since you're gay?” Drake offers as explanation.

His give-a-fuck-meter is starting to glitch a little, these days, so Shane rolls his eyes and spits out “So what.” It’s maybe a little more forceful than originally planned, but Shane’s not going to make the same mistakes again—if a teammate fucks around, they’re going to find out.

“Now you're definitely putting another dollar in,” says Robinson with a chuckle. 

Hunter takes pity on them all, and tells Shane; “Drake was traded from Toronto.”

“Yeah, I'm still being rehabilitated. Sorry man, I really don't care that you're gay, it's just like a pavlovian response from spending three years in the same space as Dallas Kent's sweaty jockstrap.”

“That's a cool band name,” comments Robinson, sounding almost impressed. 

Under normal circumstances, Shane would try to be a little less himself and accept the apology with grace, but right now he’s not sure he likes Drake at all, so instead he says; “Pavlov was a terrible man,” Then tries to gentle it a little with, “Um I mean, so you have like a swear jar?”

By this point, Shane is fully dressed except for his skates, so he motions Orlov to come close. He reaches out an arm to hug Orlov’s shoulder, but stops himself and almost lets his arm fall before Orlov perks up and all but climbs Shane in his haste to half hug him. He takes about fifty pictures of the two of them, which is objectively ridiculous, but Shane doesn’t mention it.

“It's the shitty joke jar, everyone's subject to it,” Hunter says proudly as Drake drops another dollar in the plexiglass box for good measure.

Jalo snorts, “It’s for everyone, but Nate is at a disadvantage because he spent three years in the locker room equivalent of 4chan.”

“What's 4chan?” Shane asks as Orlov thanks him with a smile and literally skips back to his cubby, where Miller gives him a fond smile. Shane catches Miller say, ‘See? I told you he was gonna say yes,’ and decides he likes him. 

Not many in the Voyageurs would have been that kind to a rookie—which is an absolute shit thing to think, but it was an even shittier thing to witness. 

Jalo makes a vague hand gesture, “It's like Reddit but worse.”

Shane groans immediately, “God—I fucking hate Reddit.”

Vaughn perks up at that, “Did you see there's a poll–”

Shane rolls his eyes, because of course someone was going to mention the poll at some point. 

At least for once it wasn’t Hayden.

He nods, “All I know is, my best friend is winning it, and I've never even spoken to the guy on number two.”

“And number three is literally Rozanov,” Jalo finishes with a laugh. 

Shane's brain bluescreens for a second because of course someone was going to point out–

“Can we not talk about Rozanov when I'm eating?” Says Drake, who has taken advantage of the Shitty Joke Jar’s strategic positioning to crack open an orange like he’s about to bless Simba on Pride Rock. 

“You're always eating,” points out Jalo. 

“And yet you still talk.”

Miller goes up to Shane then, “Hey, what was that about Pavlov?”

Shane blinks up at him, allows himself to drop his shoulders and breathe, secure in the knowledge that none of his new teammates are about to jump several sharks and somehow guess Ilya should actually be number one in the poll. 

You’re fine, he tells himself before launching into an unabridged explanation about early psychology, conditioning, and John B. Watson as more of his teammates drop what they’re doing and listen to him with increasingly more horrified expressions. 

By the time Shane’s done explaining, Drake is sat on his bench crying about Little Albert, saying “What the fuck, man?” over and over again. 

Shane walks over to hand him a tissue, and decides he kinda likes Drake, too. 

—

The moment he finally, finally touches the ice again, Shane understands why Francesca DeLuca treats him like a Van Gogh on loan instead of a slightly dinged up hockey player. 

It's not so much the drills but the scrimmage that seals the deal and reminds him exactly who he is. 

One second he's chasing Hunter across the blue line, and the next he spots it—the tiny opening Hunter leaves for a fraction of a second. The kind of mistake nobody notices until it's already too late.

Shane reaches out, lifts the puck clean off Hunter's stick, pivots hard enough to spray ice across the boards, and suddenly there's nothing in front of him except open ice. 

When the puck hits the back of the net, Bennett pulls off his mask just to stare at Shane for a few seconds. 

That’s when he knows, he knows, he finally knows. 

Yeah, I can make this work, he thinks, and smiles. 

—

After practice, Hunter drives Shane back to Manhattan and doesn’t say a word when, instead of engaging in conversation, Shane just lets his head rest against the headrest, scrolling through his emails and acknowledging Tiên’s one letting him know his personal statement has been posted. 

Shane lets his brain level out for a little while, lazily flipping through the Admirals’ playbook and how each line clicks together, where he can fit, how game tape review had felt more like sitting down for a chat instead of a military debrief he had to absolutely excel at. 

Drake had sat next to him, asking about his edgework, and Shane had found the words just tumbling out without much thought—just words, just talking, just sharing information with a teammate. 

In the row in front of them, Orlov had twisted in his chair to listen to Shane, so he’d started explaining in more detail how he’d learned from figure skaters how to maintain balance while leaning more aggressively, how to not be afraid of the feeling of falling but using the weight of the gear to his advantage instead. 

It felt good, being around people who seemed to appreciate him just for being there. 

“Is everything okay?” Hunter asks with a frown, “Your phone’s been going off like crazy.”

Shane looks down at it, and notices the group chat with Ilya and Hayden already has 27 unread texts, but when he scrolls through them it’s just the other two arguing over which Fast and Furious movie is best, so Shane lets them be and continues relaxing instead.

“Yep,” he says. “All good.”

—

“Hey,” he says, already halfway through his meal by the time Ilya’s face appears on screen. “Sorry, I was hungry.” 

“Is fine,” Ilya says, settling in with his—Shane frowns. 

“Is that McDonald’s?” 

Ilya stuffs his face with about twelve fries in a single bite, “Sure is.” 

“Uh,” Shane says. He’s never going to understand how Ilya’s diet works.

“How was hockey?” 

Shane shakes himself and takes another bite of his ginger-miso chicken bowl, “It was…good. Fun,” he says, surprising himself a little at the descriptor. 

“Good,” Ilya hums. “Fun is good. Ready for tomorrow? They will play you, yes?”

Shane nods, “Yes, 2C for now. After that, we’ll see.” He chuckles as Ilya plays with the Happy Meal toy, making it jump from the box to the sandwich to the fries, “Is that a bird?”

“Furby,” Ilya clarifies, turning the little black nugget towards Shane and bringing it close to the camera. “Is cute, yes?”

“Very cute,” Shane agrees, and doesn’t even try to hide the absurdly fond smile he’s sure is written plain on his face. “If only your fans could see you now,” he adds, just to be a little shit. 

“They would be jealous because black Furby is rare. This week is orange and black, but there’s very few black ones,” he gently pets the plushie with one finger, tilting it left and right so it looks like it's walking across Ilya’s palm. 

Shane bites his lip to hide his laugh, “I’m very proud of you,” he says. 

Ilya looks up at him and winks, “I am very impressive.” 

Shane thinks he would be happy to do this every day for the rest of their lives. 

—

March 2016
Saturday, 04:12 a.m.
New York

Shane is terrified. 

There are ancient vines out there somewhere and they’re killing people, and he can’t stop reading. 

Fuck this, he thinks grabbing his phone and getting up from the bed, turning on all the lights in his stupidly big apartment as he goes. He wants to get to the living room, but takes a wrong turn and ends up in one of his walk-in closets instead of the hallway. By the time he finds the couch, Ilya’s finally answered. 

“Shane?” Ilya sounds so groggy Shane should probably feel more guilty about waking him up, but the vines are eating people. How the hell is Ilya sleeping when the vines are stripping the flesh off Pablo’s legs just like that, and Pablo doesn’t even fucking feel it because his back is broken?

“Fuck you,” Shane says, then immediately, “Pablo is dead.”

“Who?” Ilya sounds considerably more awake now, rustling of sheets in the background and the click of a light being turned on. 

“Pablo,” Shane repeats, louder, as if that’s the problem, that he’s not speaking clealry enough, not that—that the fucking vines strangled Pablo and now he’s dead. 

“Pablo? Serrano? Florida goalie?”

“What?”

Ilya makes a frustrated noise, “What Pablo, Shane, is not—I don’t know other Pablo, just the one on Cougars.”

“Ilya, in the book. Pablo from The Ruins.” 

There's a very long pause, so long that Shane feels compelled to shake his phone a little before saying, “Hello? Are you there?”

Ilya sounds completely awake as he snaps, “Hollander. Is four in morning. You wake me up for book?”

“I didn’t wake you up for book,” Shane snaps back, imitating Ilya’s accent. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that–”

“It is fucking stupid—is four. In morning. I got back from club one hour ago.”

“Club? What the hell are you doing out at a club until three?! It’s almost the playoffs.”

“St. Simon. Birthday. Hollander, I am hanging up now and you will put book away and sleep.”

He lets himself fall back against the couch cushions, “I can’t do that, I need to know how it ends–”

“They all die. Plant eat them all. Amy goes away. Friends of Pablo also die. Now sleep.” 

Shane blinks. 

“Ilya, did you just spoil the ending for me?”

“No Shane, I made us both favor. Go sleep. Please, luchik. I beg.”

Shane bites his lip because he can’t sleep now, especially after Ilya told him Amy’s the one that survives, but Ilya called him… something? in Russian? And begged him to sleep, so maybe he can make an effort. 

It is four in the morning, after all. 

“Okay,” he says, gentling his tone. “Sleep, Ilya.”

The other makes a tired noise, but doesn't say anything. 

Shane makes himself as comfortable as possible against his unyielding couch, and starts reading again while Ilya’s breath grows steadier and softer on the other end. 

“Ilya,” he whispers after a minute or so, “Are you sleeping?”

The other doesn’t say a word, and Shane smiles to himself before turning the page, Ilya’s quiet breathing in his ear. 

—

Hello everyone,

You've probably been wondering when or even if I would say something about this, and I know it's been a few days, but I needed some time to work through some things.

I've always been a very private person and I will continue to be one for as long as I'm allowed, but I just wanted to say this one thing to you, so there's no misunderstandings between us.

I'm gay. 

I know at this point it's not news to anyone, but it feels good to say it for myself instead of having someone else steal the words from me.

I want to thank my friends and family for the unwavering support they've shown me this past week, my new teammates in New York for making me feel welcome, and the many players around the league who reached out with kindness during a difficult time.

One last thing before we resume our regularly scheduled hockey talk.

If you are out there, and you're scared, I understand. I still am too sometimes. But the thing is, the people who matter will still love you. The rest is just noise. 

— Shane 

There is always a lighthouse.
There is always a man.
There is always a city.

*

(Bioshock Infinite)

Chapter End Notes

me: okay I need hockey NPCs
my brain: okay steal like 95% of them from Sony's IP, and one from Unknown Worlds Entertainment
me: sounds great, let's do it

 

I know what you're all here for, don't even lie.
and I'm sure it's not an update on john connors' date with the girl from the group chat.
here's the links to ilya's gifts + pricetags:

📓 Evergreen Refillable Large Notebook in Ludlow (navy) + personalization + 2 refills - CAD 1,227
✒️ Meisterstück Romeo & Juliet Limited Edition 715 Fountain Pen - CAD 12,100

objectively UNHINGED. for a pen Shane can't even use because he can't write with anything that's not a bic cristal soft. Ilya must never find out.

♥️ last but not least - Shane saying EXPLOSIONS is a nod to another one of my absolute faves, Select All by Regolith. It's such a beautiful, hot, comforting fic I might just go read it again right now.

🌜 a small note---I'm gonna do my best, but I don't know if I'll be able to post Chapter 6 next Saturday. it's taking me a while to finish writing on account of actually being three mental illnesses in a trenchcoat, so please don't be mad if it takes me a day or two longer pls thank u

Chapter 6: a new york kind of groove

Chapter Summary

shane's gaydar: 0
skip: 2

Chapter Notes

hello babe oh how I have MISSED YOU come here gimme kissy kissy smoochy smoochy ✨♥️👁️🫦👁️♥️✨

 

one important thing before I leave you to the usual nonsense: thanks to every single one of you for reading, commenting, bookmaking. you have no idea what all of you mean to meeee ♥️

also I swear I'm going to make this all look pretty with coding................. one day.

this chapter contains spoilers for...

🕵🏻‍♀️The Secret of the Old Clock (Carolyn Keene, 1930)

👽 Alien (Ridley Scott, 1979)

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
  We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
    No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,
            if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

*

(Dead Stars - Ada Limón)

There is one thing Shane has always struggled with, in his extensive search for movies and books that spoke to him with the same effortless clarity as hockey did. 

There is one last scene, one last page, and then—The End. Just like that. 

And like, sure, rationally speaking a movie can't go on forever, and neither can a book—unless you serialize it. But even then, even then the story has to get somewhere at some point, no?

The thing is—he’s always been more interested in what happens after the epilogue. 

Does the hero go on to lead a happy life, now that their trials and tribulations are over? It seems unrealistic, but then again—Luke Skywalker blows up the Death Star and gets a medal. 

That's the story. 

Nobody wants to hear about what happens six months later when he's trying to figure out interplanetary taxes, or about the Coruscant government issuing a warning because his picket fence is five centimeters too tall.

Not a very dignified ending. 

Thankfully, some genres had figured out a workaround.

A lot of procedural media was good because it just kept going on and on and on and on, sometimes way past its prime—nineteen seasons of Criminal Minds and two spin-offs and no real ending in sight despite the heroes being put through the wringer, so Shane could pretend it was okay not to see the part where they carefully clipped coupons out of a magazine and then went to Costco to shop for deals on chicken thighs.

Other genres were absolute hell for Shane's brain and its inability to chill the fuck out.

Sometimes you read something for five-hundred-and-ninety-nine pages, you flip to the next one and it just says:

The End. 

The author lives with their three Pomeranians and budgie Basil in a charming cottage in Muskoka. They have no plans on telling you what happens to Jane and Rochester aside from that one short paragraph you just read. 

Shane was never going to forgive Jackie for making him sit through pages and pages of emotional torment, Victorian yearning, and wives in the attic only for all of this passion to fizzle out at the end.

He was also never going to forgive Jackie for being the reason why Shane now knew about things like fairy courts, curses, and horny Beauty and the Beast retellings. But that's neither here nor there. 

The point is, Shane could not really understand the reason for writing so much pining, angst, love triangles (if the book was particularly uninspired)—pages and pages of emotional edging until the book was thicker than a dictionary, every feeling cresting and cresting and cresting until the main characters suddenly learned the art of communication, said their I love yous… and then nothing.

The End.

What do you mean the end? What happens the day after, the week after, next month? 

Are they still together by Thanksgiving? And which one do they celebrate, Canadian or American? And why the fuck are they celebrating colonization anyway? What about Christmas? Did they do Catholic or Orthodox? Both? Neither? What was the rule?

That's the biggest reason why, despite his best efforts (and sometimes Jackie's), Shane could never really get into a lot of popular titles—he wanted to see the arguments over someone buying the wrong laundry detergent, over someone forgetting to take out the wheelie bin on time. 

What about the real things? What about the in-between? 

Shane lives for those liminal spaces. 

—

Marchant
a ten year old in an Admirals jersey just yelled at me that you're gonna destroy us tonight…
I just wanted a slice of pizza?
his parents laughed at us 🥲

Shane smiles down at his phone, setting down the pile of Poirot novels he was busy unpacking. 

Shane 
On behalf of the Admirals, I apologize for our enthusiastic fan (and parents) haha.
Hope the pizza was worth it ;)

Marchant
it's okay. I like deep dish better anyway 🤫
see you tonight! 

March 2016
Saturday, 09:13 a.m.
56 Leonard
New York 

Shane fires back an emoji in answer and goes back to the box labeled books 1, determined to at least unpack one box before he has to be at practice.

That morning, after finishing The Ruins over breakfast, he'd taken a better tour of his apartment and realized that the odd assortment of little protrusions scattered along the hallway leading to the living area was supposed to be a series of floating bookshelves. So he'd decided to start unpacking something that wasn't necessary for survival (like his veggie spiralizer), and add some more color to the house via book spines instead. 

If he was still in Montreal, he'd normally spend game day reviewing strategies and watching a bunch of the other team's highlights to get in the zone, but his level of understanding of the Admirals' and the Neons’ playbooks wasn't going to change significantly over the course of a few hours, so instead Shane had decided to do something different—which was different in itself.

While he'd never been big on superstition, Shane was really big on routine. 

But the thing is, there was no routine left. 

It had started slowly but steadily unspooling after border crossing, and it was definitely gone by the time he'd reached Manhattan. So maybe it was time for Shane to do things a little different before locking himself in the same prison that had worked pretty well for him up until the point it hadn't. 

Maybe sometimes wheels needed reinventing too.

Or maybe it was just couches. 

—

Shane had a problem. 

Well, to be fair—he had more than just one, but right this second the biggest problem in his life was the unyielding couch in his living room.

For being a piece of furniture that sat in a forty-second floor luxury apartment in Tribeca, it was built for neither performance nor comfort. Not only was it giving him a kink in his back the more time he spent on it, but also scratched at his skin in such a way he had to throw one of his bedsheets over it to avoid feeling like he was being rubbed raw each time his arm accidentally brushed against the cushions. 

He couldn’t have people over—couldn’t have Ilya over—if his couch wasn’t good enough. 

Shane's couch in Montreal had been a big faux-leather four-seater, absolutely perfect for everything: hosting the entire Pike clan, holding all of JJ on the rare occasions when both he and Hayden stayed over, even fitting both him and Ilya whether they were spooning or otherwise occupied. 

It was even easy to keep clean, whether it was Jade drawing a masterpiece on it with markers, Arthur vomiting on it, Hayden spilling barbecue sauce all over it, or he and Ilya just… spilling all over it. 

The only problem with that couch was that it was a sensory nightmare. It made noise at the worst possible times, pulled at Shane’s skin when he was wearing shorts and tank tops (or nothing at all), made him sweat in summer. His designer had chosen it for him, told him it fit the space and the vibe perfectly, and after the fourth or fifth time he had been subjected to the words “the vibes are immaculate,” Shane had given up and let the designer do whatever he wanted. 

This time, though, there was no designer. 

Jackie
Found anything on the furniture sub? Reddit is good for that stuff 

Shane 
Not sure yet, but at least on this page the only poll I’ve seen is about Yankee Candles…
So that’s an improvement. 
What's a good fabric? 

Jackie
Depends… what are you planning on doing on that couch? 
Tell me everything 💅🏻🍸

Shane 
Probably going to have your husband sit on it, and he might hold a bottle of Sriracha while he does. 

Jackie
That sounds like a mistake babe 

Shane 
What’s your couch made out of?

Jackie
Atp probably at least 80% baby vomit and crayola purple pizzaz

Shane 
Oh, the problems you have, when the couch pulls out but the husband doesn’t! 

Jackie 
Samantha my angel you dropped this 👑
Hayd is asking why I’m laughing 
What do I tell him 

Shane
Tell him you’re watching a highlight reel of his game against the Bears. 
And that his edges suck.
But then run very fast so he doesn’t catch you. 

Jackie
On it boo 🫡

He hums to himself, lazily scrolling through the West Elm website and reading a PDF compendium of their fabric choices; there’s a showroom close by in Flatiron, twenty minutes north by subway, so it seems like the perfect place to check out whatever “performance basketweave slub” was—and especially if it was as soft as the reviews online said. 

Shane had a week before Ilya came over to spend the weekend—which meant Shane had a week to drop by the showroom and test both the couch design—a big modular four-piece ottoman chaise sofa that could seat at least four people, or two and a half very stacked hockey players—and whether the fabric threatened to break him out in hives or would potentially give him rug burn. 

And to confirm whether it was actually as easy to clean as MidwestMomma87 on  Reddit claimed. 

—

From an architectural standpoint, Ilya is not so much a liminal space as he is a whole open place.

An entire grand salon with floor-to-ceiling windows, crystal chandeliers, gilded wainscoting and original hard maple parquet, lined with rows and rows of shelves for Shane to peruse, thoughts like books all open for him, ready for his fingers to flit through and marvel at, each one better than the last. 

There is just so much light, inside of this Ilya-shaped space, so much brightness it sometimes hurts Shane’s eyes, making him want to look away and let himself get blinded at the same time—like going towards the sun in slow-motion, without being able to alter the trajectory or avert his gaze.

Was it like this for everyone else, too?

Or was he missing something—was there supposed to be some sort of limit to this, a cordoned-off area inside his chest, solely designated to contain the way he felt? What was it like, for other people? For—for Hayd and Jackie maybe, or for Jane and Rochester—what was it like for them? 

Was it enough to wake up every day secure in the knowledge that yes, you still existed in a world where the other was also present, even if you couldn’t touch him, and feel like that thought alone could carry you through twelve, fourteen more hours of life? 

Was it enough to pick up the phone and whisper a greeting, share a joke, talk about nothing and feel like everything was being said at the same time? Was it enough to know that a thousand people could look at you and see nothing, but all it took was the right person, just one brush of their gaze across your face for you to unfurl like a blossoming flower, all of your best parts immediately rising to the surface clamoring to be seen, to be known, to be understood, to be held?

All the best parts of himself, lying in waiting just for the electric shock of Ilya’s eyes on him, waiting for Ilya to look at Shane and know him, for Shane to sit there and let himself be looked at as he willingly gave more and more of himself to Ilya. 

Was it normal, to feel like a person was your safe space? 

To let yourself be looked at, like you were not fucking terrified of what they might find, to let someone know you, and see the truth in that knowledge, the absolute certainty that yes, all those parts that were rising to the surface—they were enough. That, for once, you were enough as you were.

It scared him, how not scared he was at the thought of Ilya looking at him. 

For sure there would be something that Ilya wouldn’t like looking at, because it was statistically impossible for Ilya to love every single part of Shane, even and especially the ugly ones, but still… it made him feel safe, to know that Ilya had looked, was looking, would continue looking at him, watching as more and more of Shane emerged from the darkness, unafraid to be seen. 

It made him feel known. 

And wasn’t that the whole point? 

—

“Why do I have three-and-a-half hour long call with you from this morning? At four?” Ilya greets him once Shane picks up the call.

He arranges the vase of roses on the edge of the bathtub, then changes his mind and moves it to the windowsill instead; “I called you, remember?”

Ilya makes a confused noise, “I remember you woke me up to talk about… wait, someone died?” 

Shane snorts, “No one died, just Pablo.”

“Florida goalie?”

“Ilya,” he says laughing. 

“What? I don't know other Pablos!”

Shane fiddles with his skincare products, arranging them in a neat row around the sink, “How much did you drink at St. Simon's birthday party?”

There's a moment of silence, then Ilya says, “Okay now you are freaking me out, how do you know I was at Vicky's birthday?”

“Ilya,” he says again with a fondness in his chest that feels way too disproportionate considering the circumstances, “You told me. I called you because I got a bit… uh… invested in The Ruins, and you spoiled the book for me and told me to go back to sleep.”

“Invested means scared, yes?”

“Invested means that when poor Pablo died a horrible, gruesome death I felt I needed emotional support from my… my… Russian?” he finishes lamely. 

Way to go, moron, he thinks. 

“Ah yes. Emotional support Russian. That's me,” Ilya says with a smirk so plain Shane has no trouble hearing it over the phone. “And then what, we talk about Pablo for three hours? I don't remember any of this.”

Shane rips a few petals off the lavender rose and tucks them into the back end of his Oxford Russian dictionary, gently setting the flower in a bud vase that goes on his bedside table.

“No, you told me how the book ended and then fell asleep while I kept reading anyway. You snore, by the way,” he lies. 

Ilya makes an affronted noise, “I do not.”

“Yes you do. Like a chainsaw,” Shane bites his lip to try and stifle the fit of giggles he feels bubbling up in his throat, like he's a twelve year old schoolboy and not a professional athlete in his prime.

“We both know you are little liar, Hollander.”

Shane sniffs haughtily, “Guess you're just gonna have to sleep with me so I can prove it.”

“What has gotten into you today?” Ilya sounds delighted. 

“Probably the fact I haven't slept—since I was, you know, reading the book.”

Ilya laughs, “And you have game tonight!”

Shane's stupid smile is so stupidly big his stupid cheeks are hurting from it, “I do. Maybe I'll call in sick.”

“Shane,” Ilya huffs in between laughter, “Stop, you are killing me. Next you are gonna tell me you forgot team meeting.”

He hums and stage-whispers, “The horror.”

Ilya's laughter follows him around the house like birdsong as Shane moves from one room to the next, leaving vases of red roses in each one.

—

Shane's love affair with mysteries had started when he was seven, and his dad had brought him to the public library on Rideau to get his very own card. 

The librarian had put together a selection of books for him to choose from, books she assured were popular with other kids Shane’s age, but none had seemed interesting enough—not until he'd gotten to The Secret of the Old Clock, a battered copy with the cover half peeled off, and a woman in a green dress on the front. He wasn’t sure if it had been the word ‘secret’ or the vivid green of the dress that had jumped to him, but he was sure of his choice once his dad had explained Nancy Drew was a detective. 

“If you’re careful while you read,” David had said, “You can collect all the clues, and guess who the culprit is before the big reveal at the end.” 

Shane had insisted on using the back of one of his school notebooks to write down information as he found it. Something suspicious someone said, a piece of furniture out of place, the description of an object that sounded a bit funny to him—a little trail of crumbs he could follow all the way home to the last page, where Nancy confirmed his suspicions; the Tophams had hidden Crowley’s original will in the clock. 

He'd been so excited he'd managed to piece all the clues together. 

On the page, everything had made perfect sense in a way subtext and social cues so often didn't, and it had been a revelation for Shane. He'd brought his notebook to the dinner table and spent the entire meal—plus a good part of family movie night—explaining how he'd reached the same conclusion as Nancy, pointing at each sentence in his notebook as proof. 

By Christmas of that same year, every occasion big enough to warrant a gift had included the two most quintessential markers of his life: hockey gear, and a Nancy Drew book. 

When both his coach and his parents started realizing Shane was not just good at hockey, but was the best they’d seen in a long time, his mom had started driving him to Mont-Tremblant—two hours north and then two hours back south every other day for four years—where a renowned figure skating coach had agreed to take Shane in for cross-training.

Nancy had come along then too, and stayed with him through every summer camp in Toronto, every skill clinic in Montreal, every trip to Kingston and Brockville for special sessions and conditioning, a slew of awestruck coaches everywhere telling him that he was the best center they’d seen in a long time, possibly ever—just like Nancy was the best detective there was.  

Shane kept each finished notebook on a shelf, each one a reminder that he was good, so good at understanding how each piece of the puzzle fit together, so good at zooming out and seeing the forest first, and then each individual tree, recognizing them for what they were as if they were old friends. 

Ilya’s guide is both a mystery, a fantasy, a romance, and a non-fiction piece all at once. He treats it with the same reverence he reserves for his first edition of The Secret of the Old Clock. 

As he flips through the pages marked with the red tabs, Shane writes a few ideas down in his new notebook, arranging each of Ilya's wishes into Can Do, Maybe Next Time, and Not For Now. 

His heart had taken to giving a sad, melancholy twinge each time a location had to be filed under the Not For Now category, but there were some things they were likely never going to be able to do in public while being active NHL players, especially not while Ilya was closeted and they were still supposed to hate each other.

Even so, there was still plenty they could do once Ilya visited him the following week—maybe he was getting ahead of himself, maybe in the end they wouldn't really be able to do things like “get an E.M.D.S punchcard at Spring Lounge,” “race the 1.6 miles around the Jackie O Reservoir,” or “canoe along the Gowanus Canal,” because even in a city of 8.5 million people someone was always watching, and they had never really been publicly friends before, so it would be weird for them to be spotted alone in public checking out the Chelsea Market, but still. 

There were eight-point-five million people in New York, 1.64 million in Manhattan alone. 

Wasn't that one of the things people always stereotyped about New York? How you could be surrounded by so many people, and no one gave you a second glance, sometimes indifferent to the point of cruelty? 

I mean, in a city of so many people surely they could stand to wear sunglasses and a ball cap and get a gianduia cone at l’Arte del Gelato to satisfy Ilya’s sweet tooth—and if someone noticed them… well, it wasn't like Shane was gonna blow Ilya in the middle of Times Square, no? It was just gelato. 

Surely not everyone was out there with binoculars, trying to catch Shane Hollander in a compromising position, right? 

No, that was a job reserved solely for teddy bear nanny cams and his former teammates. 

And yeah, if someone spotted them it would probably be weird to see Hollander and Rozanov together off the ice watching the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry, but also who the fuck cared? He was a Stanley Cup champion, he was pretty sure he was allowed to exist outside of a rink, and even have a friend or two.

As he flips through the pages, his eyes land on a folded map of New York and the surrounding states, red pins on the map corresponding to day trips one could take to do something fun albeit a bit more involved. 

Shane's finger taps on New York, then traces a line all the way across Connecticut until he gets to Boston, following the names of each major city littered between him and Ilya. 

Uh, he thinks.

—

March 2016 
Saturday, 9:20 a.m.
56 Leonard
New York 

“Good morning, Isaac.” 

“Good morning, mister Hollander,” the doorman says with a slight nod of his head once Shane exits the building. 

“Shane, please,” he tries with a smile, already exhausted from being called Mister Hollander by every single person that works in the building. 

Isaac blinks at him in surprise, “I… will try. Mister Hollander,” he finishes, but his tone is teasing rather than uncomfortable. “Waiting for Miss Francesca again?”

“Ah, no,” he says dejectedly, “Another teammate today. They don't seem to want me to drive myself to practice.” 

The other hums, “Probably wise. New York traffic can be a lot, when one is not used to it.” 

“People keep saying that, but I drove myself all the time in Montreal,” Shane says, sounding for all intents and purposes like a petulant teenager. 

Isaac chuckles, “Yes, but… well. I'm sure Montreal drivers are very nice,” he concludes diplomatically.

Shane had learned to drive from a former colleague of his mom, a Maltese transplant who routinely spent fifty of their allotted sixty-minute lessons cursing at other drivers and pedestrians in a cross between Arabic, Italian, and English—as well as the weirdest Québécois accent he'd ever heard. 

As a result, he’s a bit skeptical. 

Surely even the worst New Yorker with a bad case of road rage can’t be worse than Brad Spiteri screaming, ‘Ma tmurx tieħdu f'għoxx ommok ħabib?’ at a nonagenarian with a walker and two shopping bags who’s taking too long at the zebra crossing next to Place des Arts.

He opens his mouth to explain that he’s not, in fact, a total stranger to people driving like they’re in a getaway car—he did get to practice with Francesca the day before, after all—when an aggressively loud voice reaches him from the curb, “Oi, handsome! Come over, I have candy in the glovebox!” 

Shane and Isaac look at each other for a second. 

“Your ride?” asks Isaac. 

“My ride,” he confirms. 

Once he turns around, Shane is… surprised. 

He’d imagined Drake drove some sort of muscle car, or maybe a sedan, an SUV, not a—a tin can. 

What the fuck is a Seat Marbella? he thinks, glancing at the rear of the car with a frown. “Um,” he says, approaching the open window. “Hello.” 

“Hello, if you want to put your bag in the trunk you need to kick it a couple of times first. Gets stuck all the time. Or you can put it in the back,” Drake motions at the backseat with his thumb, where his own practice duffel sits alongside an assortment of crinkled blue IKEA bags full of empty glass bottles and pampas grass.

Shane nods, “Sure thing,” and then spends a full minute pleading with the front seat to fold forward before finally managing to wedge his practice bag on the floor, which is littered  with old parking tickets and twelve identical takeaway menus for a place in Brooklyn called Jones Barbecue & Foot Massage. 

“Sorry about the car,” Drake says with a self-conscious smile as Shane does his best to make himself small enough to fit all of his 6’1’’, 200 lbs self into the front seat, “Elena took the Lexus to New Orleans, so I’m stuck with the coffeemaker until she gets back.”

“It’s no problem,” he waves Isaac goodbye before the car lurches forward with a whine. “Uh, are we gonna make it?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Of course we are,” Drake says; “This car is a beast, trust me bro,” he winks.

As Drake gives a loving pat to the dashboard, four icons start blinking red. Drake frowns, then slams his hand on the dashboard until the icons switch off.

“Here we go,” he says, flooring the gas and causing the Marbella to neigh like a horse. Drake woops, and then they’re off. 

—

Maybe—maybe he really had been ashamed of himself at some point. 

Probably. 

Almost surely. 

Shane had been raised somewhat Protestant, but maybe "Catholic guilt" as a concept had been falsely advertised, given that shame seemed to get passed around regardless of denomination.

And it wasn't as if growing up in Ontario had magically erased the ugliness. People still said things. People still looked at you differently. Some lessons got under your skin whether you wanted them to or not.

It had taken Shane a long while to come to terms with that part of him, and having it revealed to the world so brutally, against his will… yeah, that hadn’t been great by any stretch of imagination. 

But the thing he hated the most, about getting outed like that, what had made his stomach twist up in knots and his eyes burn hot with shameful tears—was how vulnerable he’d been. 

He’d spent a lifetime struggling to come to term with the disconnect between what he felt and what he was able to show, and he’d been made fun of so many times throughout his life, called a robot, unsociable, tin man, talked down by people who took one look at him and thought they had him all figured out, instructed by his parents to conform and smile, wear a polite expression at all times, so that it would be harder to point at him and wonder. 

By now, Shane was able to fully relax and be himself only around a scant handful of people who he knew were safe and wouldn’t judge him, or find him weird and off-putting.

It made him sick to his stomach to know that now the entire world had access to that version of him, to the Shane who panicked and cried and hugged his best friend like a lifeline. It wasn’t—he didn’t think it was because of some misplaced sense of masculine pride, not really, it was more like—that Shane, the one crying in Hayden's arms, wasn't supposed to belong to anyone but Hayden. 

And someone had taken that away from him—Comeau had taken that away from him, packaging it into a conveniently bite-sized video ready for public consumption, turning one of the most private and load-bearing parts of Shane into content, and he hated Comeau for it. 

For the violation, and for the fact that once again being perceived had resulted in being misunderstood and made fun of. 

He knew what people were saying online—a day after the leak he’d checked Twitter for about two minutes, even after Tiên and Farah told him not to, had seen a bunch of slurs and a disgusting hashtag that was trending in North America and had tapped out, deleting Twitter off this phone. 

It was mortifying to have people look at you, at the real you, and understand absolutely nothing. 

—

“... and it kinda makes you wonder, what’s the vibe in the Admirals’ locker room, right now? Mike, you played hockey—would you feel comfortable in the same showers as Hollander? As gay Hollander?”

“Well, Ted, one thing I know for sure; I’d be very careful not to drop the soap.” 

Drake cuts the radio off as the Man in the Crease podcaster duo laughs hysterically, as if they’re not the fiftieth people to make that joke that week alone. Shane has heard it so many times throughout the years, it doesn’t even faze him anymore.  

“That’s some bullshit,” Drake says, “Pretty sure you were queer all along, and I ain’t heard of you—assaulting anyone in the showers or anything.” 

“Yes, Nate, that would be a bad thing to do,” Shane deadpans.

Drake snorts, “Fuck off, man, I’m just saying. They're just dumb fucks.”

He shifts in his seat, angling his body so he’s looking out the window at 8.5 million people going about their business, each with their own lives, their own problems, only a small subsection of them wondering whether locker rooms are safe in the wake of Shane Hollander being revealed as gay.

He hadn’t yet decided if the thought was comforting or absolutely terrifying.  

“Shane?” Drake asks, tentative. 

“Nate?”

“Is ‘queer’ homophobic? ‘Cos like, we used to say it all the time in Toronto. I don’t want to, like, offend you or anyone else.” 

Shane is many things, but finely attuned to the preferred vocabulary of the LGBTQ+ community is not one of them. He blinks, “Uh, I—I don’t know?”

“Oh. Thought you might. Maybe I’ll ask my wife?” he says with a shrug. “Hey Siri, text Elena—babe, is it queer to say homophobic? I mean, shit—Siri, don't send that.”

Shane snickers, “Oh my god, Drake. Give me that,” he says, grabbing the other’s phone off the dashboard and waiting for Drake to unlock it with his thumb. 

He navigates through Drake’s message threads until he finds the one for ‘Elena 🥵🍆💦,’ resolutely ignores the last sent message—a picture that looks suspiciously dick-shaped even from the thumbnail—and types out ‘Babe, is it homophobic to say: “queer”?’ 

The response takes less than ten seconds to arrive, ‘I don’t know, but whatever you do DO NOT ask Hollander that. He is not your gay guru, no matter how much you want him to be.’

He bites his lip, trying not to laugh about the idea of being anyone’s gay guru, whatever that is supposed to be; “She says she doesn’t know.” 

“Damn,” Drake says, and takes exit 9 towards Tarrytown, fiddling with the radio frequencies until he lands on a tune he likes, “Uuuuuuh, gotta love Blake Shelton,” he says as he starts tip-tap-tapping on the steering wheel along with the melody.   

Shane looks at him, thinks about how Drake had offered to carpool since he was also living in Manhattan, and feels a sudden dull ache beneath his ribs. He fishes his own phone out of his pocket, and opens iMessage. 

Shane
I’m cheating on you with Nathan Drake. 

Hayd
He wasn’t even in the poll????
I bet he doesn’t have a wife and 3 kids

Shane
He has a wife. 

Hayd
but no kids? See? I’m still winning 😎

Shane smiles, and listens to Drake completely butcher whatever country song is playing on the radio, the Marbella’s engine rattling along comfortably as cars keep speeding past them in a cacophony of honks.

—

On the way back from practice, Shane spots a lone McDonald’s with a huge parking lot, and forces Drake to take the next exit so they can drive back up the turnpike and make use of the drive thru. 

From his foray into Google the night before, Shane had learned that this week McDonald’s offered two colors of Furby Connect as Happy Meal toys; Ilya already had the rare black one, but not the orange one. 

Drake looks at him curiously when, instead of focusing on the food in his lap, Shane drops his nuggets and fries back in the carton Happy Meal box and hands it to Drake, clutching at the orange Furby instead.

“Uh,” Shane says, “A friend of mine collects them.” 

The other shrugs, “I share a room with Bobsy when we’re on the road. He’s obsessed with fish. His house is like fucking SeaWorld. Once when we were in Chicago he took me to PetCo to get some sort of snake eel thing they were keeping for him… he drove back to New York because he didn’t want the fish to be sick on the plane… nothing is weird anymore.”

Shane tries to sit the toy on his knee, but it keeps wobbling and falling over, so in the end he gives up and just holds it in his hand as he takes a picture for Ilya.

Shane
Thought your toy might get lonely, so I got him a friend.

Ilya 
HER name is anya
her little card says she is full of cute little sneezes

Shane
Sorry, I got HER a friend. 
Anya is a cute name, did you choose it? This one’s card doesn’t give them a name... 
But it does say they are always ready to show off super slick dance moves :’) 

Ilya
yes i chose. there is an app for them
his name is dima now
thank you for getting anya a friend 

Shane
Anytime 

When he puts his phone away, Shane notices Drake is three nuggets deep into his Happy Meal, and has already finished the fries; “Do you mind if we go again and get more? I love chicken nuggets,” Drake says. 

Shane smiles, “For sure.” 

“Do you want another Happy Meal? Different toy maybe?” 

“No, it’s okay—my friend already has the other one, and I don’t really like McDonald’s,” he concludes, knowing it’s a sentence that’s probably going to elicit some questions, or at the very least some good-natured chirping. 

“Ah, I see,” says Drake instead. He does it with complete conviction, as if he really does see, and what he sees is okay, and doesn’t require a single follow-up question on his part. 

And isn’t that a bit of a mindfuck?  

—

It’s crazy, right? 

A crazy idea? 

He can’t—well, technically he can, his financial advisor even said it was smart, that diversifying their portfolio was what smart rich people did, and Shane was rich and presumably smart, so—so it would be a good idea.  

But… what if he’s not smart? What if he’s just rich and therefore unaccustomed to the way normal people do things, so he’s not being smart, he’s just being absolutely unhinged? Normal people probably talked before—well. Before doing something like this. 

What had his parents done? Probably not this. Knowing his parents, they’d probably spent several months—if not years—discussing the topic before making a collective effort towards reaching their goal. 

But his parents weren’t… well, Shane wouldn’t say rich, not exactly, because growing up Shane had never wanted for anything, and both his mom and dad had cushy jobs even before Yuna transitioned to Sports Management and David started investing, but still… they didn't really have Shane Hollander “fuck you” money, like Jackie called it. 

Plus, the circumstances were completely different—comparing the two situations made absolutely no sense. So, no point in even thinking about what his parents had done. 

Shane's perspective on the whole thing was… well. It couldn't be such a stupid idea—it was actually very practical, if you thought about it. Like, what were they gonna do, spend the rest of their lives booking hotel rooms across the 350 km between New York and Boston?

That was crazy, not his idea. 

So maybe he could… yeah. Shane could set everything in motion and explain afterwards. Deal with the fallout later if Ilya thought he’d completely lost his mind. That seemed like the smart, practical thing to do. 

Shane sets down his copy of The Tommyknockers, and starts googling. 

—

March 2016
Saturday, 6:35 p.m.
Madison Square Garden
New York