Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Miles (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Forced Proximity, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, There Was Only One Bed, first date (sort of), Semi-Public Sex, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Feelings, Longing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Italy, Angst

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-30 Completed: 2026-01-30 Words: 36,678 Chapters: 7/7

One Night

Summary

Stick to your guns, Ilya thinks. Sex. With Hollander. That’s simple. Straightforward.

Except nothing about this night has been straightforward. The more time he spends with Hollander, the more he wants him - and not just the sex. He wants it all: the reading glasses, earnest ramblings, moral compulsions. The sweetness Hollander tries to hide. The way he holds back from almost everyone, even from himself, but never from Ilya.

***
or: After Vegas, Ilya knows he should end it with Hollander. He likes trouble, yes. Doesn’t mean he likes feeling scraped raw by wanting impossible things. Then they are marooned together for a very long, very strange night during which Ilya begins to suspect – shakily, reluctantly – that they might be… something.

NOW COMPLETE!

Notes

HAPPY NEW YEAR, Kosegruppie - friend & multi-fandom hero extraordinaire!

Hello HR fandom! :)

This story is complete and will update every 3-4 days.

Chapter 1

23 December 2014, Hong Kong International Airport

Shane

Moving forward in Russian without butchering the grammar makes a Michigan goal look easy. That’s precisely why Shane clicked on this lesson when he scrolled through the familiar episode list of Slow Russian: Grammar in Focus. The patient voice in his earbuds explains that Russian motion verbs encode directionality relative to a goal, repetition, or habitual motion. идти – walking in one direction – is not the same as ходить, which means walking back and forth. Or was it the other way around? Shit. Shane, currently ходить (probably?) between a frightfully symmetric 20-foot Christmas tree and the far end of Hong Kong Airport’s luxury gift lane, stops the podcast.

The departure board still shows yellow “DELAYED” notices for most of the North American and Europe flights. A sharp winter monsoon surge has slowed landings to a cautious drip. The throng of tired passengers has swelled for hours and now every seating area in the concourse is occupied. Plenty of people are sitting on the floor. Phone chargers are spiderwebbed across the few available outlets.

Shane should probably get back to The Pier, the ludicrously swanky first-class lounge, where the other seven stranded recruits of the MLH’s glitzy mid-season Asian Showcase have almost certainly reached the bottom of the cocktail menu and are working their way back up.

He doesn’t want to join them. He can’t.

Shane knows shit about thermodynamics, but he knows that whenever he’s forced to enter a closed space that also holds Ilya Rozanov, his chest tightens and his nerves snap to painful attention. He’s okay on the ice and he can also deal with Rozanov in most other big, open spaces. After all, he’s managed to survive the batshit circus of this showcase that’s included visits to training camps, chaotic fan meetings, and too many events with multinational sponsors in Seoul, Tokyo and now Hong Kong than he wants to remember.

But whenever he’s forced to enter Rozanov’s radius, everything, every little thing becomes an ordeal. Smiling. Keeping up with conversations. Moving like the athlete he is, while somehow holding back self-consciousness and the deep, gnawing sense of wrongness and hurt that makes him feel alien in his own body.

It’s been like this ever since he slinked out of Rozanov’s suite in Vegas. He remembers staring at his bewildered, pale face in the mirror of the hotel elevator, thinking with nonsensical circularity Who are you, Who are you, Who are you, not knowing whether he meant Rozanov or himself. Not that it made any difference because one implied the other.

There is always a Shane before and a Shane after Rozanov – and, well, there is the fleeting, intense ecstasy of being with him, which makes Shane feel like a wild thing, half-incoherent with need and lust and desperate longing for something he can’t even name. Before Vegas, each of their encounters had left him feeling more like himself - more at peace, more at home in this body he pushes relentlessly yet seldom allows himself to take pleasure in.

Stepping into the hotel elevator that night in Vegas, there’d been none of the elation he’d experienced after some of their former encounters. Instead, he’d felt humiliated by his own eagerness to make himself available to Rozanov, to give himself away – heedlessly and utterly – when Rozanov seemed to like the danger and convenience but little else about Shane. This is the come down, he’d thought, limbs stiffening, coldness settling low in his belly. He is still coming down, six months later.

So why listen to Russian Grammar podcast whenever you’re anxious?  a smug, accented voice whispers in his mind.

Fuck you, Shane answers silently. He likes grammar. Always has. Grammar has structure. It consists of logically built subsystems. It makes sense. When his mind swarms like a nest of beetles, memorizing grammar rules helps him to settle.

“Hollander.” This time, the deep purr is not in his head, but it takes Shane a breathless, hot-cold second to process this. “I”, the voice behind him continues, “brought you –”

Shane turns and steps away at the same time but maybe wearing the earbuds has thrown off his sense of hearing - or maybe Rozanov moved the exact same moment. Instead of putting distance between them, Shane barrels straight into him. Something hot and wet splashes over him, dripping down the front of the bland, expensive sweater his mom bought him, leaving dark, steaming stains that hurt his skin and smell sharply of coffee.

“Fuck!” Rozanov switches to Russian to keep cursing. Shane peels the drenched fabric away from his skin and stares at him - just stares.

Over the past week, he’s perfected the art of directing his gaze over Rozanov’s shoulder whenever looking his way becomes unavoidable. He seems to have lost the trick.

Rozanov is glowering at the now empty coffee cup like it betrayed him. His honey-brown curls are peeking out from underneath his beanie. He’s still in the sleek black team zip hoodie he wore to the meet-and-greet in Kowloon earlier today.

“Ah…restroom,” is what he says when his gaze snaps back to Shane’s drenched sweater. “Right there.”

Before Shane can get a word out, Rozanov clamps a hand on his elbow. He hustles him around a pop-up kiosk selling mooncake gift sets and into the accessible restroom tucked behind. The steady drone of the terminal dies away the moment the door falls shut behind them. Rozanov flicks the bolt over and turns to face him. Shane’s pulse skitters.

Another swing of the pendulum. They’ve been here before. Shane remembers Rozanov bolting through the door of the Vegas restroom - the strain around his eyes that hadn’t disappeared all night. The sound of his laughter, joyless and not exactly kind, while Shane had been grasping and grasping for something that probably had never been there to begin with.

Here they are again. Ready to play out the same farce. He’s tired of getting knocked around by Rozanov’s momentum.

Rozanov looks at him with a slight frown, lips parted but silent like the English words he summoned didn’t present themselves in time. He snaps his fingers. “Take it off.”

Shane steps back and knocks his elbow into the side rail. It hurts. “What?”

Rozanov tilts his head to the side. “You want to keep bathing in coffee, yes?”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” Rozanov says slowly. Shane can’t figure out the tone of his voice.

Rozanov takes a step toward him. Another one. Shane can smell the cigarette he snuck in behind the windbreak outside arrivals. Suddenly, Rozanov’s warm knuckles brush against his belly. Shane feels Rozanov’s fingers curl around the hem of his sweater, tugging it upward over his head – gentle and firm, like you’d peel a sweater off a stubborn five-year old.

“What the… I don’t…” Shane’s protest is vehement, but not exactly eloquent. He watches Rozanov flip open the tab. Without another look at Shane, he starts rinsing the sweater in the sink.

“Um.” Shane crosses his arms in front of his naked chest. He tries to breathe past the tight, jittery lump in his throat. “How the fuck am I supposed to get back to the lounge now?”

“Easy. But this is first.” Rozanov is still running the sweater under water. “Or your boring pullover will be ruined.”

Shane scoffs, but he snatches little glances at Rozanov’s reflection in the mirror. The glare of the fluorescent headlights picks out little details that Shane missed earlier. Rozanov is hollow-eyed, probably from partying too hard. His features are sharper, cheekbones more pronounced. There’s a tense set to his mouth that is new.

Done with wringing out the sweater, Rozanov drapes it carefully over the rail. Then he rips off a couple of paper towels, wets them, and turns to Shane. He stops himself right before touching him.

“Okay?” he asks.

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Rozanov’s eyes when Shane doesn’t respond. He’s still clutching the towels in his hand, dripping water on the floor.

There’s only one possible answer and it’s No. Shane is going to say No. He should say No. He will say No. It’s not difficult. One syllable even he can do.

Shane presses his lips together, inclines his head. “Yeah.”

Rozanov is so close that Shane can see the soft fall of his chest as he exhales. He touches the towel to Shane’s skin and starts methodically wiping the remaining sticky film of coffee off Shane’s skin.

“Sorry this is cold”, he mutters. The tiny hitch in his voice before the final word tells Shane that Rozanov remembers it too. He’s done this for Shane before, cleaning him up after Shane blew him and Rozanov came all over his chin and chest. Shane remembers Rozanov’s hands wrapping around his wrists and pulling him up. How careful Rozanov had been with him then: wiping him down with a cloth, snatching kisses in between, gently biting at Shane’s swollen lip like he couldn’t help himself.

Rozanov is careful now, too, but he keeps his touch brisk, utilitarian. It’s no help: Shane can’t stop the small shiver that wends itself down his arms.

“I know you don’t like dirty”, Rozanov says, voice quiet. Shane’s gaze cuts to his face, sure that Rozanov is messing with him. But there’s none of the tell-tale glint, none of the minute pursing of his lips that usually telegraph Rozanov’s shit-talking on and off the ice. But I do like it, Shane thinks. That’s the whole problem. I like how dirty you are, and how tender. You could ask me to perform the most depraved filth for you, and I’d do it in a heartbeat because I know you’d kiss me afterwards, probably in the middle of it, too.  You used to, as least. Before Vegas.

When Rozanov presses another towel to Shane’s chest, a droplet escapes and traces a ticklish path down his stomach. Rozanov hums and stops it with the tip of his thumb. Rubbing away the wetness, he traces the tiniest shape on Shane’s skin. Shane sucks in a breath and Rozanov snatches back his hand.

“Sorry. I… sorry.” He steps back. Throws the towels into the bin.

“No... um...okay.” Shane lifts his shoulders, trying and failing to sound casual. “What happens now? I don’t exactly carry around spare clothes.”

“Good thing I do.” Rozanov nonchalantly pulls the team hoodie over his head. Beneath it, he’s wearing a tight black workout tank that shows off his bare toned shoulders. The familiar gold cross glints at this throat.

Shane looks away – just long enough that the hoodie Rozanov flings at him smacks him in the chest. He barely snatches it before it hits the floor. “Not in a million years!”

“Sure,” Rozanov shrugs. “See you back at the lounge.” He makes a show of twisting the latch before wrenching the door wide open.

Shane lets out a screech of terror and Rosanov hoots with laughter.

“Close the door, asshole!”

“It’s not like regular people recognize us,” Rozanov points out sensibly. “They do showcase for a reason, yes? MLH is no big deal here. They introduced you as Scott Hunter how many times? And fans confused me,” Rozanov shudders, “with Hayden. Strange place. I do not want to return.”

Shane swallows. Surely, this is a nightmare – he’ll wake up, any moment now. He keeps telling himself that this is in fact the worst of all nightmares, even worse than his recurring dream of having all his frontal teeth knocked out right before being sent down to the minors.

He’s still monologuing in his head about the nightmarish horror of it all when he pulls up the zipper of Rosanov’s hoodie and turns to the mirror.

To be fair, the design is discrete: like all the team gear they’ve been wearing for the showcase, the hoodie is black with a small event patch on the chest. The number 81 appears on the sleeve in a muted gray, Rozanov’s name in capital letters above it.

This is wrong on so many levels. Shane is the Metros’ captain and hockey is his religion: wearing another team captain’s gear feels nothing short of sacrilegious. Disorienting, too. Shane fights a sudden, childish longing for a scrap of fabric that has his number, his name stitched into it.

But that’s only half the story because Rozanov’s hoodie carries his scent – the fresh, piney body wash that he uses, a hint of cigarettes, and something else that always reminds Shane of the faint metallic chill you get from walking in the icy wind. Rozanov smells like winter, but his hands are always warm.

The hoodie is warm, too, and Shane, who’s been cold and miserable for hours is still miserable but well… he’s no longer cold. 

Shane shoves his damp sweater into his backpack and shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. It’s only when he moves toward the door that he notices the odd look on Rozanov’s face.

“What is it?” Shane snaps.

Rozanov’s thumb grazes a small cut above his lip, but he doesn’t answer.

Ilya

This has been a terrible idea from start to finish - but, as with all of his bad ideas, Ilya has homed in on the worst part and cranked it up just a notch. There’s really no other explanation for why Hollander is currently wearing Ilya’s team hoodie, eyes stormy and cheeks pink with the telltale flush he gets whenever he’s provoked – or turned on – two states that, on this and plenty other occasions, seem to arrive hand in hand.

Ilya stamps out the urge to provoke him just a little more - nudge up Hollander’s chin or whisper in his ear. This is not what he’s here for.

Ilya loathes airports. Searching for Hollander, he’s just spent an hour wandering this spotless, sterile wasteland, built to funnel money and bodies with the same smooth, indifferent precision. Once he’d found Hollander, he’d stopped at one of the fancy-schmancy pop-up kiosks and bought coffee that came in elegantly understated, serious cups – a world removed from Ilya’s personal taste and style and therefore exactly right for the understated and serious (aiming for elegance was clearly out of the question) conversation he meant to have with Hollander.

The thing is, he fucking hates this – he’s never had to cough up polite words in Russian let alone in English to end a fling with someone. Perks of being always in transit, crisscrossing the MLH landscape, and feeling at home nowhere, neither in Russia nor the States. What’s been happening with Hollander is not even a fling - just a string of hook-ups, happening at maddeningly irregular intervals, like the world’s most painfully slow train crash.

Ilya likes trouble, yes. Doesn’t mean he likes to be distracted by stupid stuff – like spending far too much time thinking about why Hollander hasn’t replied to a single text he’s sent him since Vegas. Ilya’s texts weren’t exactly epistolary art, rather a carefully staggered chain of escalating filth. Because what else is Ilya going to send him?

Hollander can’t know – doesn’t want to know – the other things. Exhibit 1: Hollander’s fucking freckles haunt him. They are everywhere.  Ilya sees them in the dark peppering on the pucks when he gathers them after a brutal practice. In the constellation of raindrops scattered across whatever plane window he happens to be staring through. It’s ridiculous.

Exhibit 2: The fact that literally nowhere is safe. Ilya can’t even walk into a KFC branch these days without thinking of Shane, staring at him with such hunger and trepidation on the night of their first hookup before announcing in this trembly, determined voice of his: “I’m not a chicken!” It should be funny, but it’s not. It’s mostly annoying, though not as annoying as the painful lurch in his stomach whenever he catches sight of Hollander smiling at someone. Never at Ilya, of course. No, Hollander has spent the past week ignoring him with fastidious care. Look at me, Ilya has wanted to shout every minute, every day of this damned showcase. Smile at me.

Now, Hollander is looking at him and it’s terrifying. Hollander’s arms are crossed, a slight crease between his eyebrows. His head is tipped with the same courteous patience he uses when fielding onerous interview questions. He puts on a convincing façade, but there are little cracks: Ilya isn’t blind to the way Hollander’s gaze keeps drifting back to his bare shoulders, his throat, as if he can’t help himself. His breathing is shallow, and he’s in Ilya’s hoodie, wearing Ilya’s number like a brand. It shouldn’t be such a fucking turn on. But. It. Is.

Ilya takes an unsteady breath. Arousal settles warm and tingling into his lower stomach. He wants to crowd Hollander against the bathroom wall. He wants to kiss him, lick him, bite him, spin him around so that Hollander can see himself in the mirror while Ilya takes him apart. He wants to – But no. No.

Ilya rubs a hand over his face. Calls himself to order. This is precisely what can’t happen again. He had a plan, didn’t he? Find Hollander. Apologize for being a dick in Vegas. End whatever this is and walk away a free man. It’s a great plan. Fucking fantastic.

The only problem is that while Ilya knows exactly how he can make Hollander come in three minutes flat, he doesn’t know how to talk to him. It’s not something they do. They compete on the ice; they see each other at functions; once in a blue moon when the stars and logistics align, they fuck. That’s it. Maybe he should leave it at that. Just walk away.

But just then Hollander, holding himself so carefully, makes a nervous little sound – a shaky, quick inhale – that Ilya has heard before, in very different circumstances. He remembers Shane’s upturned face, his warm, taut body underneath Ilya’s. Shane had made that same sound right before he’d rocked back against Ilya for the first time. Ilya remembers the look of awe on this face. The way Shane had tilted up his chin then, wordlessly asking to be kissed.

Ilya presses his hands against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall and takes a deep breath. He’s got to make this right somehow. He will.

Hollander fiddles with one of his sleeves. “What now?” he asks.

Ilya flashes him his best smile, bright and flawless, as real as the perfectly even teeth behind it. “Now is time for airport shopping.”

“What?”

“Or you just keep wearing my hoodie,” Ilya explains patiently. “You prefer?”

“No! Of course not! No!”

Ilya grabs the door handle, and of course Hollander has to be the first to exit the bathroom, shoulder colliding with Ilya’s as they jostle out of the restroom and step back into the surge of tired holiday travelers.

Ilya shakes his head at Hollander. He tells himself that spending an hour with him – not battling on the ice, not tangled in the sheets – might be curative. It might make this whole thing a whole lot easier by giving Ilya proof that really, Hollander’s just an awful guy. After all, he’s best friends with Hayden, so there.

“Look.” Hollander points to a tiny boutique with a dark-wood façade, tucked between a brightly lit electronics store and a Kee Wah Bakery branch.

Hollander’s shop is called “Knit Knacks” and it must have gone out of fashion two centuries ago. The windows have been painted to look frosted with snow. In the display, two cheerful wooden sheep wear cozy knitted sweaters and tiny knitted hats. It looks like the kind of shop where grandfathers debate the pros and cons of their preferred techniques for folding sweaters.

“Can we go there?” Ilya can tell from the tone of his voice how carefully Hollander is trying to hide his excitement.

“It’s not like it could make your personal style any worse.”

Hollander is already on his way, but he glances briefly over his shoulder, a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward.

God, Ilya’s fucked.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Hello again! It's been so nice to see some familiar usernames among the readers - and to meet new readers. Welcome everyone! ❤️

This chapter is brought to you, in part, by a certain vest Hudson Williams inexplicably appears to be rather fond of... I hope you'll like it! :)

Shane

The shop is a tiny, warm nook. Neat stacks of hand-knit woollen sweaters sit on the old wooden shelves. A birdlike, elderly woman perches on a stool behind the counter and fiddles with a spool of yarn. Her long nails are painted with meticulous care. She barely looks up when they enter, and her skill at pretending that Shane isn’t there as he tries on sweater after sweater makes him like the shop even more.

“How’s this?” Shane pulls back the changing room curtain.

“Sorry,” Rozanov says, not sounding even a little sorry. “Busy.” He’s sitting cross-legged on the antique Persian rug, and the words are muffled by two dogs squabbling for prime real estate on his lap, each demanding an ear scratch before the other gets in. Rozanov laughs before indulging them both, murmuring something in Russian.

Shane swallows. Tries to ignore the spill of warmth in his chest. Rozanov has lost his beanie. In the shop’s muted golden light, his curls gleam like gilded bronze. His face is lit up, too – by the lights, but also by a kind of calm, quiet contentment that Shane has never seen on him.

Buoyed by adrenaline and the rush of victory, Rozanov’s joy at winning on the ice is a supernova, dazzling and unstoppable – the other players can cheer all they like; next to him, they look washed-out and gray. His elation at winning has been captured in endless photographs, memes, gifs. This – here – is different. There’s nothing performative about his happiness. Rozanov looks… for the lack of a better word, Shane settles on private. He’s stunned by how much he likes seeing Rozanov like this.

“So… you like dogs, then?” he asks.

Rozanov looks up, smiles. “I like dogs.”

“What breed are they?”

“This one,” Rozanov says, petting the bigger of the dogs, currently sprawled on its back with legs in the air, utterly blissed out, “is Beagle. The other one, I don’t know. Maybe Spaniel mix.”

Shane crouches next to Rozanov and strokes the fur of the Beagle. The dog tolerates Shane’s ministrations with polite patience, adoring eyes never letting Rozanov out of sight. It’s fine – given the choice, Shane wouldn’t look anywhere else either. Rozanov’s confident, gentle hands instinctively find all the spots that make the dogs writhe with pleasure. If I were a dog, Shane thinks a little forlornly, I’d let him touch me anywhere. Not that, being a human, he’s shown any more restraint.

“Hollander?” Rozanov nudges Shane’s sneaker with his boot.

“Hm?”

“Show me sweater.”

“Right.” Shane gets up and spreads his arms, feeling self-conscious. “Okay?”

“What is this colour? It makes you look like you’re thinking of throwing up.”

Shane huffs. “You didn’t like the last four sweaters either!”

“Must be your face. Maybe doesn’t go with bright colours.”

Shane is pretty sure that Rozanov is fucking with him. But just in case he’s got a point about the colours, he next pulls a long-sleeved white shirt from one of the shelves. It goes with a gray knit vest so soft it makes Shane feel like he’s wearing a cloud.

When he emerges from the cabin, Rozanov’s mouth drops open. “Why?” he asks, compressing maximum offense into three letters.

Shane looks at his reflection in the mirror. He’s wanted to try out a bolder style for a while. Maybe now is the time. Plus, he can’t imagine ever being cold in this vest. “It’s very comfy.”

“No shit. You look like… like human cushion. No… like… what’s his name…?” Rozanov cocks his head to the side and stares into the red-rimmed eyes of the Beagle like he’s hoping for support from that corner. The Beagle makes a huffing sound and Rozanov’s gaze cuts back to Shane. “That’s right - Fozzie Bear! Muppet bear with terrible jokes, yes?”

“You know the Muppets? Did that run in Russia when you were a kid?”

“Yes, Hollander. On cable.” Rozanov snorts. “No, my brother and I got VHS cassette for Christmas, bought off a stall. It was taped from TV.  Same man dubbing everyone.”

“Really?”

Rozanov nods. “Yes, was normal. Kermit sounded like Miss Piggy. Very disorienting seeing the original years later.”

Shane laughs. “I watched the Muppets too. CBC ran it all the time. I’d sit on the floor in my hockey socks and jersey after practice and thaw out in front of the TV. I loved it.”

Rozanov’s mouth softens. “Wasn’t bad. Still,” his tone turns arch, “is very bad to look like muppet.”

Shane gives him the finger, but he’s still smiling when he’s back in the cabin, trying to smooth down his hair after pulling the vest over his head has made it all static.

They eventually agree on a nice, marine sweater with a high, slightly rolled collar and faint chevron pattern along the shoulders. But it turns out it can’t leave the shop yet – the shopkeeper says they can return in an hour so because she needs to stich in the label first.

“Good,” Rozanov says as they step back outside, “you look better wearing my number anyway.” He makes it sound like a joke, but Shane caught the pleased glint in Rozanov’s eyes when he stepped out of the fitting room, hoodie back in place.

“You are covered in dog fur.”

Rozanov laughs. “No regrets. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Maybe.”

There’s first-rate, free food served at the lounge at all hours, but by silent agreement, neither of them mentions this as they drift through the concourse. Some flights must have resumed because the terminal is less crowded now. Soft gold and cool blue lights glide over the cavernous ceiling. On the polished floor, they cast reflections that waver and make the marble’s swirls shiver. The effect is beautiful and disorienting, matching the feeling of meandering through the airport with Rozanov.

Once in a while, Shane’s thoughts  tumble down a rabbit hole of worries: Someone will recognize us – This is dangerous – What if someone snaps a pic.  Every time, Rozanov, without so much as turning his head, makes a low, rumbly sound in his throat that would probably do wonders calming skittish horses but, as it turns out, has the same effect on Shane.

“Is fine,” Rozanov says. “We’re just walking. People would have to get real close to read the number and name on the hoodie. You can relax.”

Normally, people telling Shane to relax has the opposite effect. They don’t know is what the panicky voice in his head usually supplies in response – so they must be wrong. And it’s true that most people queuing up to give him sage advice have no clue what it’s like – the pressure he feels on the ice, the pressure that hangs over him off it.

It’s different with Rozanov, who matches him on the rink in every sprint, every hit, and who’s more than his equal whenever they step off the ice – more experienced, more confident, likely a whole lot smarter than Shane. It’s probably dead stupid to let himself feel safe with a man who’s his number one rival and who’s made it clear that he sees Shane as a casual hook-up, nothing more.

But the thing is, Shane has felt safe with Rozanov from the start, right from the moment Rozanov pressed him against the wall of his hotel room and caught Shane’s face in a sure, gentle hold, fingers cradling the curve of Shane’s cheek, thumb curling around his chin and coaxing it upward for their first kiss.

When Rozanov tells him to relax, it’s like the words slip past the commotion in Shane’s brain and sink straight into his body, steadying him, loosening the tightness coiled in his chest.

It’s scary to admit that someone – not someone, Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders – holds this much power, can undo and remake Shane’s sense of his own body with a handful of words. And you idiot, Shane thinks, came close to giving him your heart, too.

He can see now that Rozanov’s coldness in Sochi, his carefully maintained distance in Vegas, must have been rooted in the same realization: they’re already playing with fire. What they’re doing is shockingly dangerous and if there were feelings involved, real feelings, they’d be risking far more than either of them can afford.

“Hollander?” Shane can tell from Rozanov's worried tone that he’s maybe tried to get his attention before. When did they stop walking?

“Hm?”

“What is it? You do this… clicking thing in your throat. Like anxious squirrel in tree.”

“Bullshit.”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. He looks smug but his voice is gentle: “You do it in bed. When you’re nervous.”

“We’re not in bed now! And I’m not… I’m totally not nervous when we… Why would I…”

Rozanov’s gaze, meeting Shane’s, is warm. “Is okay. I’m nervous sometimes - ” He stops himself, and Shane can tell from the sudden stillness of his features that Rozanov just surprised himself by admitting that.

“You are? But you’re so… Like, you’re so…”

“Mmmh, I know – a fucking sex god. Best you ever had.” Rozanov – pulling them back to safer ground – flashes him his usual cocky grin, the one he gives reporters and anyone foolish enough to think they’ve got him figured out. He points to the blue Sky Deck sign hanging above their heads. “Want to look at the rain?”

Shane takes him in. He’ll never get used to Rozanov’s face, never not be stopped in his tracks by his beauty.

It hurts, and it hurts even more now because he can sense that they’re heading toward an ending. This thing between them – raw and fragile and impossible from the start – cannot continue, it may not even outlast this night.

He nods. “Let’s look at the rain.”

Ilya

The Sky Deck, perched high above the terminal, is deserted, everyone chased inside by the downpour and aggressive gusts of wind. The only sound is the relentless patter of heavy rain on the metal overhangs and the low roar of jet engines. The glass barriers around the platform are blurred with rivulets of rain that turn the distant lights of the airport into long red-green-gold smears.

A narrow band of roof juts over the observation area, just enough shelter that they can stand shoulder to shoulder without getting soaked. Beyond that line of safety, the deck stretches outward into the storm.

Next to Ilya, Hollander shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Ilya is stupidly jealous of the wind that gets to ruffle Hollander’s hair. He loves running his fingers through Hollander’s short hair, loves the way the soft tufts stand up in every direction, as if Ilya were smoothing the back of a slightly reserved, impossible endearing hedgehog. But they don’t touch unless they’re fucking – it’s one of their many unwritten rules – so he can’t reach for him now.

Hollander clears his throat. “Aren’t you cold in that thing?”

Ilya glances down his tank, realizes with a pang that it’s the same he wore the night they first hooked up. “I’m Russian.”

Hollander huffs. “That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

“I guess there must have been lots of snowstorms in Moscow when you grew up?”

“Mmmh.”

“When I was a kid,” Hollander offers, “I used to lie awake in the loft of my parents’ summer cottage while thunderstorms rolled across the lake. You know, those wild Ontario storms that make the whole house shudder? It felt like… I don’t know. Like the cottage was afloat or something.”

Ilya looks at Hollander’s profile. Sternly forbids himself to count his freckles. “Were you afraid?”

“Yeah. But not as much as I loved it. I made up all these stories. Pretended that the cottage was a boat sailing down the Amazonas or making its way through the frozen deep in the Arctic. I…” Hollander trails off and gives a stiff, one-sided shrug – like he’s just realized that they’re on strange, unchartered waters.

They know each other intimately, but they don’t normally talk about personal stuff. It feels illicit and… thrilling. Ilya knows, he knows, that he’s got to end this thing between them. But the idea of losing Hollander makes him desperate to gather up every moment, every one of Hollander’s words. He wants to tuck them someplace safe. For later.

“Travel,” Ilya prompts. “Is that something you liked as a kid?”

“We didn’t really travel outside of hockey stuff - apart from going to London once when I was eleven. Everything went to hockey, you know? But I… yeah. I wanted to see these places so bad.”

“What places?”

“So many. The Westfjords of Iceland. The Atacama Desert. The Orkney Islands. Italy.”

I’ll take you there, Ilya swallows the words on his tongue before they can tumble out. He can picture it, vividly: Hollander would probably insist on carrying a dogeared guidebook around so that they don’t miss out on very important information about boring stone slabs or crumbling churches. He’d take pictures of all the sights even though you can find far better ones online. He’d make long speeches about his macrobiotic diet, but by the second day, he’d let Ilya feed him local delicacies with his fingers.

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, hard. It’s stupid, getting carried away by impossible fantasies.

“What about you?” Hollander asks. “Did you… um… travel as a kid?”

Ilya shakes his head. “Not really. To training camps, like you.”

Hollander’s arm brushes against his. When had they begun inching toward one another? “Would you like to? If your life wasn’t a 24/7 hockey circus?”

“But it is that.”

“And…” The tone of Hollander’s voice is different now. “If things were different? If you could do whatever you wanted?”

Ilya turns his head to get a better look at him. It’s a mistake. There’s the calm, coolly professional face that Hollander shows to the world, always polite, always a little distant. And there’s Shane’s real face, the one he let Ilya see in that restroom in Vegas, the one Ilya glimpses when they sleep together, the one he’s showing him now:  open, a little unsure, radiant with affection.

Ilya swallows. The words still come out gravelly. “I’d want to. Yes.”

Shane nods, like he knew and still needed to hear it. He smiles, and it’s the saddest thing Ilya has ever seen. “We’re not going to do this anymore, are we?”

“No.”

There’s the slightest quiver to Shane’s lip, but he breathes quietly, once, twice, and it stills. “Tonight is… a kind of goodbye then?”

Ilya blinks against the biting wind. “Yes.”

Shane moves so quickly that Ilya stumbles back against the railing. He can feel the frantic thud of Shane’s heartbeat where he’s pressed up against him. Shane’s got one hand curved around his neck, and he’s not kissing Ilya, just hiding his head in the crook of Ilya’s neck, the way he does when he gets overwhelmed when they’re fucking and he needs a moment to settle.

Ilya’s arms instinctively lock around Shane. It’s only now that he realizes that with this change in their position, the roof no longer shields them fully: rain drums steadily and cold on his naked forearms and hands, soaking Shane’s shoulders. Ilya spins them around, reversing their position, letting the rain lash his own back.

Shane blinks at him. “But... Come here…” He draws Ilya even closer, nuzzles along the line of his jaw, rubs his cheek against Ilya’s like he wants to crawl inside his skin. It’s clumsy, a little awkward, and it does odd things to Ilya’s heart.

Shane’s lips ghost over the corner of his mouth. Ilya feels his breath, warm and stuttering on his cheek. He cradles Shane’s jaw in his hand and kisses him like he’s never allowed himself before: slow and tender, like they have all the time in the world, like this is the beginning, not the end. He licks into Shane’s mouth and feels the tremor that runs through Shane’s body, pressed tightly and pliantly against Ilya’s.

“Can we… will you,…” Shane murmurs when they break from each other, foreheads still touching.

Ilya mouths along Shane’s neck and breathes the word against his skin. “Yes.” Shane bites off a moan and pushes impossibly closer still.

Ilya isn’t even sure what he’s said Yes to. Presumably to fuck him one last time. He intends to. God, he wants him so much. Always. But the thing is, Shane could have asked Ilya to do a jigsaw puzzle with him or read him The Hockey News, his answer would have been the same.

He hopes this monsoon is only getting started, hopes that their flight will be delayed until kingdom come, because he wants more of Shane, always more.

“Come out of the rain,” Shane murmurs. He doesn’t move right away though. Instead, he slants his mouth against Ilya’s for another kiss, like he, too, can’t get enough.

A sharp gust of wind hits them and Ilya instinctively pulls up his shoulders, tries to suppress his shiver.

Shane kisses the corner of his mouth. “I know that Russians don’t feel the cold, but Canadians kinda do.”

His smile is soft, small.

He takes Ilya’s hand to draw him to the exit that leads back to the terminal. Let’s go just before they step back into the staircase.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Hello lovelies, here's another chapter for you - a long one! :)

Shane

Rozanov’s hair is damp from the rain, curling tightly against his temple, against the nape of his neck, the way it does when he gets out from the shower. Raindrops are glistening on his gorgeous, bare shoulders. Shane wants to lick the water from his skin, wants to lick him everywhere.

But that’s for later, because right now Rozanov stops them before a familiar temple of saturated fats and ultra-processed junk food. His gaze cuts to Shane.

“Still hungry?”

Shane is about to open his mouth in scandalized protest, but Rozanov smiles. “Joking. I was joking. We’ll find you rabbit food and –“

“You know, actually…” Shane interrupts him, staring at the golden M.

He feels strangely… untethered. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s wearing Rozanov’s hoodie in this weird nowhere-place of the terminal. Or the fact that the monsoon surge has allowed them to slip into this unexpected wormhole of time, escaping for a brief span the reality of their lives.

He’s feeling too many different things at once, and he doesn’t even have a name for most of them. There’s the ache of knowing that he'll lose Rozanov, that this is the final time he gets to have any of this – shot through incongruously with this helpless, quicksilver warmth unfurling in his chest because he’s finally – finally – allowed what he’s always wanted: unhurried time alone with Rozanov.

And Shane loves it, loves talking to him, loves how easily they fall into a rhythm, loves the thrill of finding Rozanov’s gaze on him whenever Shane glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

It’s so good, Shane is almost drunk with it - and at the same time sick to his stomach with sadness. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense, least of all Shane.

“Let’s do it,” he says. “Fries it is.”

Shane snags a corner table for them. It’s a little sticky, but it has the unbeatable advantage of being half hidden behind a pillar and a potted fern. He is just finishing scrubbing the tabletop with sanitizer towels when Rozanov sets down a heavily laden tray.

“You’re a freak, Hollander,” he says, eying the stack of discarded towels. Shane may have folded them. It’s habit.

“What else are you carrying in that backpack?” Rosanov asks. “Safety pins and band aids?”

“These are useful, actually!” Shane says, a touch defensive. “And I’ve got… other… useful things, too.”

That’s a mistake, because Rozanov – always quick on the uptake – whistles through his teeth, which sends more heat flooding into Shane’s already warm cheeks.

“So you had plan!” The last time Shane saw Rozanov look this triumphant was when he made a perfect mid-air steal at the blue line. “This!” Rozanov flaps a hand between Shane and himself. “You were waiting for this. All trip.” He stretches the “all” like it’s three syllables instead of one.

“Mmmh.” Shane returns his bright gaze, his own face studiously neutral. “How do you know it was for you?”

“Because of course it was me!” Rozanov thumps his chest, all breezy, wolfish confidence.

“Of course.” Shane nods with exaggerated patience. He sits down, letting the silence stretch.  

Rozanov stares at him. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His grin falters ever so slightly.

Shane should let his obnoxious ass stew longer, but the truth is he hates to see the sparkle in Rozanov’s eyes fade.

“Fine,” he admits after a beat. “I wasn’t… planning on doing stuff with someone else.”

Rozanov sinks into the seat opposite. He rests his elbows on the table and stills.  “No?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

Shane breathes, slow and even. It shouldn’t matter, right? He knows better than to pretend that Rozanov hasn’t slept with a dozen women since Vegas. It’s got no right to hurt, but it does.

Still, he finds that he has no desire to hurt him in return. “No.”

Rozanov sniffs in that half-gruff, half-blustering way he gets when he’s flustered but would never admit to it. “Okay.”

There’s an awkward silence. Shane stares at the tray. One half is heaped with fries spilling from the carton, two Big Macs wrapped in foil, honey BBQ crispy thighs, and a sweating large Coke. The other holds a Ceasar Salad, hash browns, a plastic cup with fresh corn, apple slices, and a bottle of sparkling water.

“I brought selection,” Rozanov explains, sounding a little sheepish. “So that you can change your mind.”

“That’s nice.” It is nice. Rozanov is a lot more considerate, a lot more thoughtful, than he likes to let on. “Thank you. How about… we share?”

Rozanov meets his eyes. “I’ll eat rabbit food for you.” After a second, he adds: “But I will complain a lot.”

“I expect no less.” Shane smiles at him, and Rozanov catches it like the sun, lighting up in return.

*

The food is gross, and Shane’s greasy fingers are also gross, and this high-caloric indulgence will likely mess with his performance during the next practice. Right now, Shane couldn’t care less.

“This is a nutritional and ecological nightmare.” He’s surveying the wreckage on their tray – grease-stained fry sleeves, flattened cartons, a lone, forgotten pickle - with a strange, giddy feeling in his stomach. Could be MSG, refined sugar, chemical pleasure. Could be Rozanov. He’s not going to inquire too closely.

“Oh yes.” Rozanov nods with fake seriousness. “Does it feel good to be bad?”

Shane picks up lukewarm potato fry and takes a delicate bite, making sure to look up at Rozanov from underneath his lashes.  “What do you think?”

Rozanov blinks at him. Then he groans and covers his eyes like one of these see-no-evil monkeys. “I think I have new kink,” he announces.

“Serves you right.”

Rozanov laughs. He looks happy, entirely at ease. The urge to touch him is so strong, Shane clasps his hands together underneath the table to keep himself from reaching for him.

Rozanov bites his lip. Then he stands up and for the duration of a frantic adrenaline spike, Shane thinks he might do something irrevocable, something that can never be undone, like kiss him in public.

“Don’t look so scared, Hollander.”

Rozanov turns to the empty table next to theirs and plucks up a Junior Meal package abandoned beside a cold pile of chicken nuggets. The toy is still sealed. Rozanov rips it open with his teeth – why is this so hot? how can this be hot?! Shane is appalled - and shakes out a handful of brightly colored pieces.

Rozanov frowns at the instructions in tiny print before casting them aside. Then he starts assembling two small figurines with deft, sure movements.

“Having fun?” Shane asks.

“Mmmh.” Rozanov snaps the final piece into place. He pushes their empty tray away and places the two critters on the table. Each is about the size of a walnut, bodies squat and top-heavy and set on three smooth little wheels. One is covered in leopard spots. The other one is pastel blue with a goofy smile stamped on the front. Rozanov picks up the leopard and winds it up, then watches with a smile as it scoots forward and back across the tabletop before colliding with Shane’s water bottle.

“Holy grail of my childhood,” Rozanov mutters.

“You liked Junior Meals as a kid?”

Rozanov nudges the blue figurine toward Shane. “Didn’t really happen. There was a big McDonald’s at Pushkin Square in Moscow. I was obsessed with it. All the kids were.” He pauses and Shane can tell that he’s unsure if he wants to say more. To give him time, Shane picks up the blue critter and inspects the little magnet plate glued to its underside.

Eventually, Rozanov says “My father is very traditional. Very strict. McDonald’s was all things he hates, you know – like Big Mac will poison you with Western capitalism and weakness.”

“Right.”

“So you never went?”

“No, my mother took me there. Once. For my twelfth birthday.” Shane catches the change in Rozanov’s tone, but his face is expressionless. It makes Shane think of smoothly running river water, hiding the rough stones in the deep.

“I was too old then for Junior Meal,” Rozanov continues, “but we got one anyway, because I’d talked her ear off about it all those years.” There’s the smallest smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “It was… it was a good day.”

“She sounds awesome,” Shane says. “I wish I… I mean it would have been great to meet her in Sochi. Just, you know, bumping into you two, or something.”

“Yes, this would not have happened.”

“Right.” Shane can feel that he’s misstepped, but he doesn’t know why or how. “Um…”

Rozanov winds up his tiny leopard critter and lets it zip towards Shane’s. “Game on, Hollander.”

It’s a challenge because polarity makes the critters dart and spin in unexpected directions. When they are rolled toward each other face first, their magnets repel. They bump, hesitate, and then shoot away in opposite directions with surprising speed, their wheels humming on the tabletop. Turn one around, though, and the magnets reverse polarity: suddenly the figures zip into each other, clicking together with a tiny clap as their plastic bodies align. The movement is unpredictable – sometimes they overshoot, sometimes they spin slightly, as if dizzy from the force.

Rozanov keeps inventing new rules – best of three, closest hit wins, no hands after launch – and battles Shane with the same ferocity and glee that propels him on the ice.

“I think,” he says, leaning back and grinning widely after scoring another win, “my leopard’s tired now. Needs a nap.”

“Your leopard is a cheater,” Shane points out, but he nestles his own critter next to where Rozanov’s leopard is resting on a bunched up napkin.

Rozanov takes a sip from his coke. “I have question.”

“Yes?”

“When we did events in Tokyo they introduced you as Shane Akira Hollander. Never heard that name before. Press team getting inventive or true?”

“Oh… right.” Shane shifts a little in his chair. “It’s my second name. I don’t use it – well, obviously I don’t. As you noticed.”

Rozanov doesn’t press him, but he looks at him curiously.

“It’s… I don’t know.” Shane pushes a crumb across the tabletop with his fingertip. “I never used the name as a kid unless someone made me. I was… embarrassed when teachers read it out in class.”

Rozanov hums. It’s a small, kind sound that doesn’t demand anything from Shane, doesn’t pry.

“I guess,” Shane continues, “I had this very smart thought that people would be less likely to notice that I’m half-Asian. I wasn’t super social as a kid anyway, a bit awkward actually.”

“Oh really?” Rozanov gives an exaggerated gasp of surprise.

Shane kicks him underneath the table. Rozanov retaliates by kicking back, gently. Then he rests his boot against Shane’s sneaker. A zip of warmth runs through Shane.

“Later, when the scouting craziness began, my mom sat me down and we had a whole conversation about why I wouldn’t use my second name in the hockey context. She’s not… You know, I love my mom. She’s brilliant, but I don’t think she’s got this worked out for herself. She likes this idea that I can be a role model for other minority kids, a success story. But it’s almost like she operates on the assumption that for me to be in this position, we must tamp down the Asian bits as much as possible.”

Rozanov nods. “So… it was commercial decision to use it in Japan? Because people would like it there?”

“No. I wouldn’t ever… Like…” Shane breathes slowly. For days now, there’s been a snarl of thoughts about his at the back of his mind, but there’s been no time to try to untangle it all. Not until now. “I don’t want to make decisions based on the commercial stuff. I know I sound like the world’s biggest hypocrite because of all the brand ambassadorships.”

Rozanov grins, delighted. “You’re so bad at it! Like how many times you misplaced your Rolex on this trip alone? Or the interview you did where they ask you what is your favorite Reebok sneaker and you start mumbling  and mumbling because you have no idea –“

“You were watching that?!”

“Course not. Marleau was. To make fun of you.”

“Right.”

Rozanov nudges Shane’s shoe. “But you were saying about commercial stuff?”

Shane blows out a breath. “I don’t like it, okay? I really don’t. I get that it’s important to seize opportunities, be financially savvy, all of that. But I don’t want to be a fucking walking billboard.”

Rozanov nods. “I mean, you know me. I’m more than happy to take my clothes off and shill whatever people want me to shill”

Shane frowns. “You like taking your clothes off, but the rest isn’t true. You’re careful about what brands you endorse. And sparing.”

Rozanov blinks, like Shane has somehow surprised him. But then he flaps an impatient hand around: “Whatever, we’re not talking about me. I get that you don’t like it. You shouldn’t do it if you don’t want to. It’s not like you’re poor.”

“Mmmh.” Shane inclines his head. It sounds simple. Hearing it from Rozanov makes him think that maybe… well, even if it’s not exactly simple, it doesn’t have to be terribly difficult either. He can make decisions for himself.

“Anyway, I’ve so far drawn the line at using my heritage to sell stuff. Like… that feels… complicated, but also just… wrong, you know? The reason I asked people to introduce me using my full name in Tokyo was because I knew my grandfather would be there, and it matters to him.”

“Oh. Of course. You have family in Japan.”

“Just my grandfather.”

“You said you didn’t travel as a kid. So did you ever see him?”

“He used to come and stay with us for a few weeks during the summer. Now, traveling is difficult for him, but we speak on the phone. He’s learned to use Skype, too. His Wifi is terrible though, so I only ever see this massively pixelated version of him.”

Rozanov whistles through his teeth. “He probably has gallery of your face frozen in awkward states.”

Shane laughs. “He does, actually! He showed me when I saw him in Tokyo last week. He’s terrible at telling jokes, but he’s very funny. He’s been suffering from restless leg syndrome for the past couple of years. It’s quite bad, and I know that it gives him a lot of discomfort, but he’ll turn it into a skit. Like he’s an octogenarian Japanese Charlie Chaplin.”

“Doesn’t sound nearly boring enough for you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shane returns Rozanov’s smile. “My grandfather doesn’t get hockey, you know, but he gets me. If you ask my mom, that’s impossible. But he… I guess, he reminds me that it is.”

Rozanov rubs the shell of his ear. He looks thoughtful. “If he ever changes his mind, tell him is not difficult. Not much to get… Shane Hollander is hockey player of modest ambition. Sometimes, he remembers which way to skate.” Underneath the table, Rozanov presses the side of his leg lightly against Shane’s.

Shane presses back. “Fuck you.”

“Later. Who’s Shane Hollander without hockey?”

“Like you’d care.”

“I might –“

Rozanov is interrupted by the airport PA system: “Passenger announcement: Mr. Shane Hollander and Mr. Ilya Rozanov, please make your way to the Pier Lounge now for urgent information regarding your upcoming departure. Thank you.”

“Fuck.” Shane jumps out of his chair, grabs his backpack.

Rozanov follows more slowly. Shane stares at him with a heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face.

Rozanov reaches out a casual hand and brushes something – dust? crumbs? – from Shane’s cheek. His touch is there and gone in an instant. “Let’s go.”

Ilya

The bar of the Pier Lounge looks like an unholy cross between a botanical apothecary bar and a very fancy slaughterhouse. The counter is a slab of deep green marble veined with gold. Behind it rises a wall of floor-to-ceiling brushed brass shelving, each narrow shelf lined with small square jars and apothecary drawers labelled in neat serif type. The walls are all covered in green tiles.

Scott Hunter, mildly disheveled and clutching a flipboard, resembles the tipsy prefect of a boarding school. He appears to be the last man standing – the lone survivor of whatever drinking game this turned into. The other players are slouched and sagging like spent toddlers around a big table. JJ’s head is cushioned on Pike’s shoulder. He’s snoring with a deep nasal buzz. Marleau, squinting with perplexed concentration at his own finger, is making sloppy trails through a slick of spilled water.

Ilya tips his hat to the professionalism of the Cathay Pacific lounge manager standing next to Hunter: she pretends not to notice the tableau of debauchery around her, yet props up Connors one-handed when he pitches sideways, all without breaking eye contact with Ilya.

Hollander could have the number 81 tattooed on his forehead and none of these guys would notice. He’s clearly realized as much since he’s no longer clutching his arm like a wounded soldier in a futile attempt to hide Ilya’s number on his sleeve.

Hunter clears his throat. He frowns at Ilya and Hollander. “Where were you? We need to stick together. Is… important.”

“How many headcounts did you do?” Ilya asks innocently. “Difficult making it to eight?”

“Rozanov, I swear…” Hunter rubs a hand over the rough stubble along his jaw. “Anyway, change… of plans. Again. It seems.” He casts a weary quick glance at the lounge manager.

“I’m afraid so.” The lounge manager gives them a practiced, apologetic smile. “When we called you, it looked like your departure window might open sooner. Air Traffic Control has just revised that, and we’ve now been advised that the earliest possible takeoff is in seven hours. I know that’s disappointing, and I’m very sorry.”

“Sucks,” Rozanov says blithely.

“Yeah,” Shane echoes. “That’s um… truly awful.”

Hunter stares at them, gaze slightly unfocused, like he’s trying to work something out but can’t quite recall what it was. A phone starts ringing – and keeps ringing because Hayden is slow to wake, then paws at the screen forever and a day, before dropping the phone into a bowl of pretzels.

Hollander reaches out to retrieve the phone, but Pike intercepts him by throwing his arms around him and pulling him towards him.

Ilya, feeling magnanimous, fishes out the phone. The picture on the screen shows a woman with bright eyes and a tired smile. Her messy ponytail spills over one shoulder. There’s a peeved looking toddler on her lap and a baby cradled against her shoulder. She looks young to be a mom.

Ilya takes the call. “Hayden’s phone.”

The first thing he hears is a baby wailing in full protest. “Sshhh… shh… Ruby, please put that down! It’s not a toy. You’ve got to –“

Ilya holds the phone to Pike’s ear. “Wake up, Pike. You’re needed.”

Pike blinks, then plants an elbow on the table to haul himself upright. “Hi honey.” He makes a valiant attempt to keep the slurring down to a minimum. Fails.  “How… is it going?”

Badly, apparently. Ilya can’t make out a word of what Pike’s wife is saying, only the worn, exhausted tone of her voice. She sounds like a person who’s been repeating herself to a toddler for hours.

“Uh-hu…” Pike mumbles. “Yep. I can do… can do that. Sure. Just give me… give me a sec.” He flips open the notes app and hovers his thumb over the screen like he’s hoping the note will type itself. “So… any car will do as long as it’s… not blue or green?”

The patience in her voice frays a bit.

“Sorry! Sorry… no, you said that already - yeah.” Pike swipes left on his phone. Opens a fresh note, and stares blankly at the screen. “Tom… Tombokka?” His thumbs stumble across the screen. “Oh, not Tombokka then? Right…” He starts deleting furiously. “Do you… maybe want to spell it?”

Ilya swipes the phone from his hand and takes pity on this poor soul unlucky enough to have married Pike. “Pike has very bad headache. What do you need?”

While Ilya talks to her, Hollander stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Ilya enjoys it.

“No problem,” he says to Pike’s wife before he ends the call. She sounds almost reasonable for someone who chained herself to Pike. “Your daughter has excellent taste in cars. Yes, I’ll kick Pike for you. I’ll send you picture – of car, I mean. Pike doesn’t photograph well.”

Hollander’s mouth is slightly open. He looks like a very hot carp. “What… what was that about?”

“Christmas present for Pike’s daughter. I’ll go and get it. You need to collect new sweater, no?”

Hollander nods slowly.

“Come along then.”

Ilya tells himself he’s being a martyr, helping Pike of all people. In truth, wandering through the terminal with Hollander by his side, trying to track down a very specific, airport edition cast-die toy car is … fun. More than that. If Ilya got to do this more often – watch Hollander, normally a master of spatial awareness, stranded in a glittering labyrinth of cartoon mascots; turning in slow, bewildered circles amidst flashing sale tags and towering shelves of plastic wonders – he might come to love airports.

And that’s before Hollander whips out his reading glasses – reading glasses! – to study the small print on a box holding a meticulously crafted 3-inch F50 Takara Tomy Tomica race car.

“I think Ruby is too old to try and put this into her mouth,” Hollander mutters, “but I just want to make sure that the paint isn’t lead-based.”

“Very important.” The glasses are mesmerizing. Sexy librarians never did it for Ilya in the past, but apparently that’s an entirely different matter when it’s Hollander. The glasses make Hollander’s lashes look extra-long, and when he raises his eyebrows behind them, he looks self-conscious bordering on petulant which is… a very good thing it turns out.

“Don’t forget other stuff,” Ilya says. “Check for micro plastics. Softening chemicals in rubber tires. Uh… weird solvents? FPC 3 heavy metals?”

Hollander’s gaze flicks from the box to Ilya. “FPC what? You’re making this up.”

“I never joke about cars. Keep reading.”

But maybe he isn’t the only one finding this little excursion… a bit more charged than expected. When they return to “Knit Knacks”, Hollander ducks into one of the cabins to change into the new sweater. A moment later, he sticks out his tousled head, takes a good long look at the shop owner, deep in conversation with another customer, before he grabs Ilya by the sleeve and pulls him inside. The heavy curtain closes behind him with a woosh.

Ilya has about a nanosecond to mourn the fact that Hollander is no longer wearing his number – then Hollander surges forward, frantic fingers threading through Ilya’s curls, mouth crushed against Ilya’s, kissing him, messily and desperate.

Ilya is so surprised he drops the bag with the toy car. But he kisses Hollander back, with abandon.

“Hollander, you have car fetish?” he eventually whisper-giggles against Hollander’s lips. He could definitely work with that.

“No,” Hollander whispers back. “I think I might have a… a you fetish.”

“1 out of 10 for dirty talking.” Ilya nuzzles Hollander’s cheek. Presses his smile into his skin before taking Hollander’s mouth again.

Hollander wears his poise like armor, on and off the rink. He lives by restraint and discipline and there’s nothing hotter than the moment he lets Ilya take all that away.

Like now, when Ilya brushes open-mouthed kisses against Hollander’s throat, lets him feel the edge of his teeth, and Hollander comes undone like fabric torn along a hidden seam. A needy groan breaks out of him. His hands roam Ilya’s back and naked shoulders, restless, like he’s jealous of every centimeter he isn’t touching. He pushes closer and closer still. Ilya slides his thigh between Hollander’s legs - absurdly, deliriously happy to hear his familiar gasp, to feel the helpless little jerk of Hollander’s hips.

Hollander’s so hard it must be painful. Ilya kisses him deeply and angles his own body just so, denying the friction and pressure that Hollander – body curving forward, cheeks flushed – is desperately seeking.

“Ssshh...” Ilya breaks the kiss, but he keeps Hollander close, resting his forehead against his. He can feel the rapid rise and fall of Hollander’s chest against his own.

“Control yourself,” he says thickly, trying to sound detached while his pulse runs away from him.

He brushes his thumb over Hollander’s lips but doesn’t dip inside, even when Hollander tries to coax him into his mouth, little flicks of his tongue and eyes hazy with desire.

“Not here,” Ilya murmurs, but he can’t resist tracing a single finger lightly along the center back seam of Hollander’s chinos. Hollander’s lips tremble against Ilya’s thumb as he pushes back, chasing the ghost of Ilya’s feather-light touch.

“Please.” Hollander’s voice has gone low, uneven. “Please I need…”

“Shhh.” Ilya cradles his cheek in his palm. “I know, милый.” The endearment, softly spoken, slips out before Ilya can stop himself. God, this is wrong. He’s not sure he wants to take it back though, not when it makes Hollander turn his face so that he can press a kiss against Ilya’s palm.

Ilya feels his heartbeat in his throat.

No.

This is supposed to be about sex, one last glorious hookup to spin Hollander out of Ilya’s orbit once and for all. After all, that’s what Hollander wants.

We’re not going to do this anymore.

So tonight is a kind of goodbye then.

Ilya swallows once, twice, until he’s got his voice under perfect control. “I know exactly what you need, Hollander.” He nips at the sensitive skin underneath Hollander’s ear. Makes sure that Hollander can feel the low words, spoken against his skin, as much as hear them. “You can have it, one last time. But it won’t be quick. It’ll be hard, and thorough, and it’ll sure as hell happen somewhere you don’t have to be quiet.”

Hollander makes a low, desperate sound that Ilya catches in his palm, covering Hollander’s mouth. “Point proven,” he murmurs.

He can tell from the light in Hollander’s eyes, from their narrowed form, that he is smiling underneath his palm.

“You’ll be good now, yes?” Ilya asks.

Hollander lowers his lashes, all sweetness and innocence – right before nipping Ilya’s palm. It’s like an erupting geyser, this feeling in Ilya's chest – hot and dangerous and entirely unwelcome. He’s so in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself - all he can do is whip away his hand so that he can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Hello lovelies! Aaaaand we're back. Long chapter - I hope you'll enjoy it! :)

Shane

Nothing kills a raging hard-on like running into Scott Hunter, drunk and ugly-crying in one of the Pier Lounge’s luxuriously appointed restrooms. Big, wet gulps of air, shoulders heaving. He’s got his back turned to Shane and Rozanov, hands wrapped tightly around the marble counter, as if it’s the only thing holding him upright.

Now and then, Hunter’s eyes meet Shane’s in the mirror, only to dart away quickly. Shane can’t follow his broken stop-start explanation.

Rozanov can’t either. “I don’t understand,” he says. “He’s lost… sock?” He turns to Shane for clarification, clearly assessing whether this is a language issue or just Hunter being nonsensical.  

“I think he’s lost his carry-on,” Shane explains. “Right, Hunter?” He reaches out a hand and stiffly pats Hunter’s back. “It’s not so bad. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

But Hunter is still crying, hiccupping sobs rattling his chest as he mumbles something about socks and bananas and someone called… Kipper? Kitten? Hunter sniffs, a hand wiping at eyes that don’t stop streaming.

Hunter’s phone is lying face down at the bottom of the porcelain sink. Shane picks it up and dries it on the sleeve of his new sweater before setting it on the counter.

It’s disorienting, seeing Hunter lose control like this. Shane casts a helpless glance at Rozanov. Surely, they can’t… leave Hunter like this? Whatever this is, it’s not about a suitcase, not really.  But they can hardly ask Hunter what’s really the matter.

Rozanov huffs. Shane feels his gaze, sliding down his body, like a touch. He shivers, instinctively, and Rozanov’s answering smirk is as triumphant as it is fond. Shane feels warm all over, but he looks pointedly to Hunter.

Rozanov makes no effort to conceal the eye roll he directs at Hunter. He throws up his hand, palm up, in what Shane has already learned is Russian for WTF. But there’s no real bite in his voice when he asks: “What does stupid carry-on look like?”

When Lost & Found has nothing for them, they begin their search at the seating bays nearest the bar. If Hunter’s decidedly fuzzy memory can be trusted, that’s where he last saw the small, black rolling suitcase with a “Port Authority Survivor” sticker. Shane doubts that Hunter has used the bus terminal this side of the millennium, but maybe nostalgia hits different when you can afford it.

This area of the lounge has sunk into a late-night hush. Not quiet, exactly, but all the sounds you hear – people chatting quietly, the rustles of newspapers – are softened. There are no overhead lights and the torchieres and arc lamps throw warm, oval pools of light that stop short of the corners.

Shane checks behind the armchairs and side tables before moving deeper into the lounge, past a low divider into one of the semi-enclosed alcoves. A family has claimed this space: tired parents with dozing kids sprawled  over their laps. Their luggage is piled around them in a defensive semicircle. Shane scans the bags. All gray, no stickers.

When he rounds the next alcove, he finds Rozanov apologizing for disturbing an elderly couple huddled on two chairs drawn closely together. Shane can tell they’re Japanese. Rozanov hasn’t noticed him, and Shane hovers, quietly.

When Rozanov is tired, his voice goes hoarse and the accent he works so hard to root out reasserts itself with full force. Shane loves his voice, every version of it. Something in him shifts and eases open at this glimpse of Rozanov: courteous and gentle when he thinks no one is paying attention.

Maybe there’s a parallel universe where things are different, where neither of them has ever touched a hockey stick, where their names pass unnoticed. Shane allows himself to imagine, just for a second, what it would feel like to introduce Rozanov to his grandfather in this other universe. He’d probably meet them in his favourite kissaten in Bunkyo: Rozanov would appreciate the nicotine-stained walls. They’d drink coffee out of chipped Narumi cups, and Rozanov would --

“Hollander?” In this universe, Rozanov is standing in front of him, head cocked to the side. “What is it?”

“Nothing!”

“You’re blushing. Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not. No luck with the… um… carry-on?”

“No,” Rozanov says slowly, drawing the word out, eyebrows still raised.

“Fine. Great. Come on.”

“You're being weirder than usual, Hollander.”

At the dining area, the lounge opens up again. They weave between marble tables crowded with half-cleared plates. Chairs have been pulled and rearranged into loose, chaotic constellations.

Shane bends to check beneath a table and straightens too fast, knocking his knee. He swears quietly.

"Okay?" Rozanov’s hand lands briefly on his lower back. It’s only meant to steady Shane, but the warmth, the faint pressure of his thumb, feel impossibly close, as if he’s touching not the sweater but Shane’s skin beneath it.

Shane turns his head to look at him, and whatever flashes across his face makes Rozanov inhale sharply.

He brings his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “Proud of your saviour complex?”

“Huh,” Shane whispers back weakly. “Impressive vocab.”

“I know plenty of words for the things we could be doing right now. If you weren’t so eager to rescue fucking Scott Hunter.”

“I’m eager for these other things, too.” Shane bites his lip. And because Rozanov is staring at his mouth like he’s forgotten how to blink, Shane sooths the sting with his tongue. Rozanov makes a strangled sound.

“Take it out on me later?” It’s supposed to come out all husky and seductive but Shane ruins the effect because he can’t suppress his smile – his stupid, rapt elation at being like this with Rozanov: getting to talk to him, doing stupid mundane stuff together like hunting for a lost carry-on, all the while knowing that none of this is one-sided, that he can drive Rozanov out of his mind with a few words and a seemingly innocent gesture.

Rozanov rubs a hand over the lower half of his face, and Shane revels in the knowledge that underneath his palm, Rozanov is smiling too.

*

They search the bar and the relaxation area. In his desperation, Shane even pops his head into the kids’ corner – nothing.

They’re almost out of ideas when they loop back to the long corridor with the nap pods. Shane’s gaze runs over the colourful clusters of luggage. It’s not like they haven’t searched here before.

Rozanov yawns. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “I – Hollander, there!” He points and  Shane sees it: a black carry-on with a Port Authority sticker sits at the edge of a little knot of bags and suitcases. It looks like it got claimed by mere proximity: two kids’ jackets have been thrown over it, a paper bag leans against it.

Rozanov retrieves it, nodding politely all through the apologetic monologue of a frazzled father traveling alone with seven-year old twins. They’re traveling home to Marakesh and Shane can tell that the poor, tired guy has never in his life heard of the MLH. That’s why he doesn’t bother to correct the man when he smiles up at them and ends, still addressing Rozanov: “You and your partner have a good trip!”

Next to Shane, Rozanov stills. But the moment ticks over, and Rozanov doesn’t contradict him either.

Shane tells himself that Rozanov just can’t be bothered and wants to extract himself from small-talk with a stranger as soon as possible. But a traitorous part of him warms and curls possessively around another possibility – that Shane is not the only one who likes this – who likes to pretend, for a brief, impossible moment, that this is their life.

Hunter is still teary, but visibly relieved to have his carry-on restored to him. They sit him down in a quiet corner of the breakfast room, currently deserted.

“Don’t let it wander off again,” Rozanov says breezily, turning on his heel. “See you at boarding.”

“He’s joking.” Shane tells Hunter, whose wet lashes blink dumbly at Rozanov’s back.

Rozanov pivots back and drops into the chair opposite Hunter. Shane steals himself some time by detouring to the hot water station, fetching herbal tea for Hunter like some rookie nurse. Comforting hockey legends is definitely out of his comfort zone.

Bizarrely though it appears to be on Rozanov’s skill set?

Shane stares at him, incredulous. He’s seen Rozanov – armed with nothing but a dirty wink and and a smattering of needling words – goad Hunter into punching him on the ice. Apparently there’s a benign reverse version of the same trick that makes Hunter feel steady enough to calm down.

In any case, here is Rozanov, sitting comfortably across Hunter, head tipped slightly as he listens. And here is Hunter, pulling something out of his carry-on that does indeed… look like a pair of socks. They’re blue and there are tiny bananas printed on them.

“It’s stupid,” Hunter says. “But I have this friend back in the city who’s never traveled even though it’s the thing…um… she wants most in the world. Like, for money reasons. That’s why… she hasn’t… hasn’t been able to do that.” The words come out thickly and uneven, ill-repressed emotions and residual alcohol tugging them loose one by one.

“If it was a money thing…” Hunter continues. “Well, it is a money thing. For hi… her, I mean. I could fix that, in theory. I have a lot of money, you know!” He looks up with eyes that are too bright. “Money is not the problem.”

“No,” Rozanov says. “But it’s not solution either.”

Hunter sucks air noisily through his blocked nose. “No. I go to all of these places and my friend… would like to join me. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But that’s not possible. So…” Hunter touches two careful fingers to the socks. “I take pictures, right? The socks were a present and… if I’m going somewhere fun… or also if it’s not fun, just, somewhere else, you know… I’ll snap a pic of the socks and me and some local stuff and send it to… her. But this time, I forgot all about it. I didn’t do it once during this entire trip because I was too busy… too busy trying to forget how hard it is…”

There’s a pause. Hunter’s gaze runs nervously from Rozanov to Shane and back.

“Right,” Shane says, trying to sound reassuring. Hunter sure has weird friends. And apparently he’s pretty weird himself? Who travels around the world and takes selfies with banana socks? Still, he wants to say something comforting and lands on: “Sometimes Hayden brings Jackie. Couldn’t you just bring your friend for one of the upcoming trips? I’m sure she’s great! – Ouch!”

Was that Rozanov kicking Shane underneath the table? And why is he looking at Shane like he’s demented? When it’s clearly Hunter who’s off his nut?

Rozanov scrapes back his chair. “Let’s take picture.”

“What?” Hunter looks at the emtpy room with a frown. Long rows of untouched plates and neatly folded napkins gleam under the recessed ceiling lights. “This doesn’t look like Hong Kong at all.”

“My guess is tourist stuff is not primary interest for your friend” Rozanov grabs a small, potted bamboo and plonks it down on the table. He puts two diminuitive, handle-less porcellain cups into one of Hunter’s big paws and stuffs the banana socks into the other. Then he motions to Shane: “Take some pics, Hollander. My camera is shit.”

In most of the photos, Hunter’s eyes are huge and unfocused, but in the last one he’s smiling faintly, his rumpled over-all apperance tipping from sad and drunk into something vulnerable and unexpectedly hot.

“Your friend will love it,” Rozanov says, as Shane sends it to Hunter.

“Thank you.” Hunter has put the porcelain cups and socks aside. He’s staring at Rozanov like he’s bracing for the punchline, waiting for Rozanov to snap back into his usual bratty self.

Shane wants to tell him that underneath all the noise and bravado, Rozanov is kind. Considerate. Would Hunter believe him?

“You won’t… you won’t tell people about this, right?” Hunter asks.

“Of course not.” Shane is not a gossip, plus he’s not even sure what the story is.

“Good, yes.” Hunter rubs his wrist, nods one too many times. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, then stops himself. He looks… unsure. No, scared.  

“Look.” Rozanov sits back down. He directs his gaze at the socks rather than at Hunter. “Is fine that you like bananas. We won’t tell anyone.”

Hunter. Liking bananas. Bananas that kinda look like…  oh! Shane suddenly has several belated epiphanies all at once. So maybe Hunter’s friend isn’t actually a woman.

Maybe…

Oh my god.

He sits down, hard, next to Rozanov. Swallows. His palms are sweating.

He doesn’t want to be an asshole, wants to offer Hunter whatever comfort he can. But this is not a conversation he’s ready to have.

Underneath the table, Rozanov nudges his boot against Shane’s vibrating sneaker.

“Hollander’s no threat,” he tells Hunter. “No imagination and too boringly decent to betray people’s secrets.”

“You two…” Hunter starts before stopping himself.

Shane’s heartbeat goes uneven.  Back off, he thinks. Don’t ask. Don’t.

“I’ve wondered for a while…” Hunter continues.

Breathing is difficult – it feels like each of Shane’s inhales catches halfway, never reaching his lungs.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

 “Yeah, I guess I’ve just always wondered whether the two of you are…”

“We’re not,” Shane blurts out before Hunter can fininsh his sentence. “We’re nothing. I mean – maybe we don’t hate each other quite as much as the fans believe. But…we both can’t wait… to be rid of each other after the showcase ends.”

The words come out wrong – they feel wrong even before they’ve tumbled out of Shane’s mouth. Too harsh, too final. Shane wishes immediately he hadn’t said them out loud, but he also knows – and that’s the greater sting – that he wouldn’t take them back if the alternative is coming out to Hunter. Everything, all of it, feels too impossible.

The creases that bracket Hunter’s mouth deepen.“’Course.” He nods, but he looks deflated, neck bent and shoulders hunching forward.

As if by instinct, Shane’s body mirrors Hunter’s, molds itself into the same posture of defeat. He tries to sit up straighter, pull himself together, but he can’t fight the weight of it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane glances at Rozanov. He’s gone still in a way that feels unnatural. A muscle jumps low in his jaw, then stills.

After a drawn out moment, Rozanov rests his hands on the table, palms down, as if he’s steadying himself.  “For the record,” he says in a calm, inflectionsless voice, “I like both.”

Shane throat tightens at the generosity of it – at how ready Rozanov is to make himself vulnerable to take away Hunter’s fear. There’s an instant change in Hunter: he’s raised his head, breathing more freely, and there’s a light in his tired, red-rimmed eyes that Shane hasn’t seen all night.

Shane’s own body is still alight with adrenaline. Through the roar of it, he dimly notices that Rozanov’s boot is no longer pressed up against his sneaker.

“I don’t want to announce to the world,” Rozanov continues, looking at Hunter. “And I don’t fuck old men - so don’t get your hopes up. But…” He picks up one of the banana socks, knocked off the table by Shane’s nervous elbow and puts it gently into Hunter’s hand. “You should know that you’re not alone.”

*

When Hunter feels well enough to call his friend, Rozanov walks straight to the service desk. He doesn’t even glance over his shoulder to check whether Shane is following. Maybe he knows instinctively that Shane is trailing after him, or maybe he doesn’t care.

Shane can sense that, over the past hour, they’ve slipped out of the effortless symmetry that held them all night, the easy balance of the push and pull between them.

He feels brittle with the loss.  

Rozanov leans his elbows on the desk. He’s still not looking at Shane. “I want to book private suite.”

The concierge is a silver-haired man with a polite, unreadable impression. “I’m afraid the last Pier Suite has just been taken.” His gaze flicks past Shane’s shoulder, toward a group of  three already peeling away from the desk. They’re mid-twenties and even someone as sartorially illiterate as Shane can tell that they’re gorgeously dressed, all clean lines and expensive fabrics. They have the effortless polish of actors or models jetting around the world.

Rozanov thumps the desk with his flat hand, twice, then pushes off and strides after the group. Shane arrives too late to hear the opening words of Rozanov’s exchange with the guy holding a sleek, all-black keycard. The stranger is seizing Rozanov up. He wears a no-frills buzz cut that Shane could never pull off, clearly chosen so that nothing distracts from the sharp perfection of his features.

At first, the man shakes his head, but then his eyes slide over Rozanov’s shoulder and land on Shane. The corner of his mouth curls up in a slow smile. When he turns his head back to Rozanov, the low light skims across the three studs in his ear, highlighting them just enough to draw the eye.

“How about a game then?” He draws something from his pocket and presents it with a flourish. Craning his neck, Shane catches sight of the Ace of Spades, nestled together with the King of Hearts in the stranger’s palm.

“You can win the suite from me,” the man says to Rozanov, all lazy confidence. “Or, if I’m lucky, I’ll convince your friend to stay after I’ve beaten you.”

“No,” Rozanov says tersely.

“Come on, think about it.” The stranger offers his hand to Shane. “I’m Miles, by the way.”

Shane shakes Miles’s hand, but his eyes are on the cards. If they could just step away from it all, win themselves some privacy – a moment away from the noise – he could apologize to Rozanov, explain this mess he made of things during the conversation with Hunter.

All he wants is to be alone with Rozanov. If that requires besting a couple of cocky strangers at Texas Hold’Em, Shane will do it.

He’s seen enough of Marleau’s IG stories to know that Rozanov plays poker – and that he’s damn good at it, too.  Shane in his turn has always found the theatrics of poker ridiculous, but he’s been playing forthnightly with JJ and the others for years – he can calculate outs and probabilties like the best of them. If Rozanov needs backing at the table, Shane can provide it.

He inches closer to Rozanov. Then he returns Miles’s smile with one of his own. “Let’s play.”

*

Shane is obssessed with Rozanov’s mouth. Well, he’s obsessed with Rozanov, period. But he if he was robbed of sight this very minute, he knows the one thing he’d remember until the end, long after all other shapes and colours have faded, is Rozanov’s maddening cupid’s bow. Made for pouting, for slinging filthy insults at his rivals, and for a number of things Shane can’t think about right now or he’ll lose focus. Rozanov’s mouth – all provocation, no discretion – is always a liability, but as Shane is coming to learn, it’s a glaring risk when playing poker.

The thing is, Rozanov is a wickedly skilled player. He seems to read patterns effortlessly. He folds hands most people would chase and wins pots with hands that look unremarkable until the river flips. Shane would have expected him to play recklessly, lose hands early, then win them back quickly. But Rozanov plays with cold restraint. He’s very, very good and  he doesn’t have tells – save the curve of his lips, which Shane notices because he notices everything about him.

Rozanov’s mouth – tensing when the pressure spikes – is the only thing that gives him away, and Miles has taken notice.

“How do you like my suite?” Miles asks, playing with one of the coasters they’re using in lieu of chips.

The suite looks like something out of an old-timey movie. Dark walnut panels line the walls, polished to a soft sheen that catches the amber light without reflecting it. One entire wall is glass, overlooking the pier and the dark, rain-lashed water below.

Rozanov doesn’t lift his eyes from his cards. “I’ll like it better without you in it.”

To no one’s surprise, Miles and one of his friends are indeed actors. The other friend – a foul-mouthed, pretty brunette with a nose stud – teaches baby-yoga classes for the ultra rich. Her Eastern European name rolls of Rozanov’s tongue, but Shane can’t for the life of him remember what it is. In any case he can tell that Rozanov likes her the most of the three.

It’s cool. Shane would prefer it if she stopped building cute little castles out of the coasters Rozanov has already won. But fine - at least that keeps her hands busy with something other than Rozanov’s curls. Which really… why do people think it’s fine to touch strangers they’ve just met?

She clips one of her tiny heartshaped hairpins to the corner of the top coaster. And just like that, her hand is buried again in Rozanov’s hair. “So what do you guys do?” she asks, smiling brightly.

“Guess,” Rozanov says.

“You’re like… really fit. So maybe you’re personal trainers?”

“Nope.”

“Special forces?” Miles’s actor friend asks hopefully.

“Definitely not.”

“Cam boys,” Miles proposes.

“No! Eeew!” Shane can’t fight his full-body shudder. For a brief, lovely moment, Rozanov meets his gaze, and something in his face gives way. His laughter, startled and immediately suppressed, is there and gone in an instant. Shane is hit by a surge of stupid, impossible yearning so strong he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Stunt performers?” the baby-yoga teacher asks.

Miles laughs. “Honey, stunt performers get their faces edited out for a reason. No one would want to miss this.” He brushes the back of two fingers along Shane’s cheek.

Rozanov takes a big gulp of vodka. His hand is a little unsteady. Shane hears the click of the rim against his teeth.

“I think I have another idea –“

Before Miles can continue, Shane interrupts him. “We’re hockey players,” he clarifies, too apprehensive about what they’ll come up next to let them keep guessing. “We normally play for different teams, but we’ve both been on the MLH’s Asian showcase for the past week and a half.”

“Right.” Miles’s friend nods sagely. “So you two are not together. This… tension in the room is just unchecked testosterone and some very aggressive locker-room bonding?”

“Mmmh.” Rozanov picks up his glass and downs his vodka. “Showcase is over. We both,” he says, quoting Shane with cold precision, “can’t wait to be rid of each other.”

It hurts. Shane opens his mouth, and finds nothing there – no words for what he wants to convey, not with strangers watching, not even in the privacy of his own head.

Miles laughs and slings a casual arm around Shane’s shoulder. Shane tries to pull away, but there’s barely enough room for five around the oval cocktail table around which they’re gathered. Even if you’re careful, it’s impossible to lean forward or shift without bumping knees or brushing someone’s elbow.

Miles, sitting next to Shane, has not been careful. Every time he wins, he glances at Shane like it’s a private joke.

When it happens again, Rozanov’s mouth tightens. He begins to play faster, harder. His bets land with more force, and his calls, increasingly, come a fraction too quick. Shane notices and adjusts, tightening his range, backing off marginal spots to keep from crowding him.

He tries to help. When Miles raises into a questionable board, Shane folds a hand he could profit from, leaving Rozanov clear to respond. When Rozanov hesitates, Shane checks behind instead of pushing, giving him room to breathe.

Miles leans in to whisper in Shane’s ear – something pointless about drinks –, smiling at Shane like the game is a private conversation between them.

When Shane’s gaze cuts to Rozanov’s, his eyes have gone dark and dangerous. Shane wants to reach out underneath the table, touch him somehow, soothe him, but the way they’re crowded around the table, he’s afraid to put his hand on the wrong knee and make matters worse.

Next, Rozanov overcalls a raise from one of Miles’s actor friends he should fold. He wins anyway - but barely, and he does not look satisfied. Then he raises too hard, too early, trying to muscle Miles out of a pot instead of letting him hang himself. Miles calls, so pleased he crows and wacks his own knee.

Miles’s friends have been giggling and chatting nonstop since they’re started, but they’re barely whispering now. Rozanov’s eyes flick back to Shane every time Miles laughs, and he laughs a lot.

Finally, they’re holding a big hand. Everyone knows it before the flop even lands.

Rozanov has position. Shane has folded early. Miles raises. His actor friend calls. Rozanov reraises, too aggressive. The flop comes dangerous, and Miles hesitates – just a beat – then calls.

Rozanov should slow down here. Shane stares at him, wills him to take a breath.

Rozanov doesn’t, and barrels the turn. Miles smiling faintly, glances at Shane, and calls again. By the river, Rozanov is committed. Shane forgets to breathe because there’s no clean exit.

Miles checks. Rozanov shoves.

The table goes quiet.

Miles doesn’t snap-call. He studies Rozanov calmly. Smiles. Then he calls – and turns over a hand that’s been ahead since the turn.

Shane swallows, too loud in the hushed room.

Rozanov stares at the cards, and Shane thinks that he’s stunned not because he lost, but because he knows why.

Miles leans back and takes a long sip of champagne. “Sorry to disappoint. But…” He puts his hand on Shane’s thigh. Shane brushes him off, eyes on Rozanov, who’s rising from the table, movements stiff and deliberate.

Rozanov shoves his curls back with one hand and crosses to the floor-to-ceiling window. His back is a clear, deliberate barrier.

Shane walks over and stands beside him. In the distance, the reflections of the city lights bleed into the ocean. Rozanov’s eyes, caught in the glass, are shadowed.

“Hey guys?” It’s the baby-yoga girl. Shane didn’t notice her walking over, but she’s here now, practically plastered against Rozanov. Her hand caresses his naked shoulder. Shane breathes through his nose and fights the urge to swat her hand away.

“Why don’t you both stay?” She glances back at the two others, already curled up together on the divan. “Sharing has always worked well for us.”

“God, no!” Shane snaps, a little too quickly. “Um…” he casts a worried glance at Rozanov. Is he… tempted? After all, isn't this kinda his scene?

Rozanov looks at him curiously. “No,” he says slowly.

With an easy shrug, the girl skips back to the others. Shane is so relieved, he beams at Rozanov like an idiot.

The tight set of Rozanov’s mouth softens. “This suite looks very comfortable.”

“I’d rather share a curb with you than stay in someone else’s suite.”

Rozanov blinks, startled.

“I thought… I thought you knew this,” Shane says.

“I don’t know anything.”

Shane stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Now you know. And I’m sorry. For earlier. I… what I said - it’s not true! Of course it’s not. Can we… um… can we talk somewhere private?”

“Remember. I just lost the suite.” Rozanov’s mouth curls into a small, crooked smile. Shane can’t breathe with how much he wants to touch him.

“Maybe I can find us curb,” Rozanov adds.

Shane casts one last look at Miles and his friends, fully preoccupied with each other at this point, and swipes the open vodka bottle from the side table.

There’s a glint in Rozanov’s eyes. “You’re a terrible influence, Hollander. Poker. Theft. What next?”

“Propositioning,” Shane mutters as they step out of the suite.

“I don’t know that word.”

“It’s this.” Shane presses the bottle into Rozanov’s hand, making sure his fingers brush Rozanov’s skin the way Rozanov touched him all those years ago in the gym. “Remember?”

Rozanov’s throat works as he swallows, and if Shane doesn’t get to taste his skin in the next five minutes, he’ll combust into a million tiny red-hot pieces.

Rozanov’s voice is deliciously rough. “I remember everything.”

“Show me,” Shane says and turns to him.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Hope you enjoy today's update! This is where the story starts to earn its rating. :)

Ilya

Stick to your guns, Ilya thinks. Sex. With Hollander. That’s simple. Straightforward.  

Maybe it’s time to end this experiment. They don’t normally talk and clearly that’s for the best. After all, this has been a very strange night.

Has it been helpful hanging out with Hollander? No.

Fun? Perhaps.

Admittedly, yes. Some parts, definitely.

But it’s also been… confusing as fuck. And frankly painful. Not at all conducive to Ilya’s plan to end things. The more time he spends with Hollander the more he wants him - and not just the sex. Ilya’s not gonna lie, that is always going to be a pretty big draw. But he wants the other stuff just as much: Hollander in his reading glasses, nattering on about the dangers of lead-painted toy cars. The brief, glorious moments when he allows himself to be silly. His irritating impulse to do the right thing. His sweetness. His insecurities. The way he holds himself back from nearly everyone, even from himself, but never from Ilya.

Ilya wants all of him, all the time, but that’s madness. Impossible. If Hollander freaking out with Hunter shows one thing it’s that they can’t continue. If Hollander gets this scared, this desperate, at the mere suggestion that another secretly gay hockey player might have his number, he’ll break under the pressure of having to hide this thing between him and Ilya for much longer.

To be fair, Ilya isn’t sure if he’d fare much better himself: keeping it all sealed inside, playing out the absurd theater of their supposed rivalry for the press, never being allowed to show his true feelings. It wears you to the bone.

And after all, it’s not as if Hollander has ever implied that he can see a future for them that extends beyond this night. Ilya has no doubt that Hollander’s feelings run deep – that there’s real affection there, not just lust – but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to throw his career, the sport he loves, under the bus. 

So, there. Tie a bow around this whole thing with sex. That’s how it started, after all. Fitting for it to end the same way.

Ilya swallows the bitterness in this throat as he steers them straight back to the service desk, vodka bottle in hand. He books one of the shower suites. The concierge, stoic like someone who’s seen it all and quietly judged it too, gives nothing away, although Ilya has no illusions the man doesn't remember them from earlier.

“Might I recommend our Sky Nooks?” The concierge slides a glossy leaflet across the counter. “They’re small, elegant sleeping rooms, designed to offer every comfort to our passengers.”

“Do they also offer doors that lock?” Ilya asks bluntly.

“Passengers appreciate”, the concierge replies with a saintly smile, “our heavy, sound-dampening curtains.”

“I appreciate locks that lock,” Ilya says. “The shower suite, please.”

The shower suite has a beautiful lock. Next to Ilya, Hollander stares at it in quiet desperation while they listen to the charming attendant who explains the single occupancy rule for them. Adjusting to Ilya’s monosyllabic accented English with professional verve, she goes extra slow, repeating herself often. Ilya very nearly screams.

Hollander takes a step to the side, clearly readying himself to move away. But Ilya is at the end of his tether. He swings the door to the shower suite open, pushes the keycard into Hollander’s hand, and sends him off with a brisk shove to his backpack. “I’ll call you.”

“We have another shower suite available at the end of the corridor,” the ever helpful attendant informs him.

“I don’t need it.”

He facetimes Hollander the moment the heavy curtain of the Sky Nook closes behind him. The Wifi isn’t perfect – Hollander’s frown looks a little grainy, but he’s wearing his reading glasses, which is ample compensation. He must be sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall clad in smoky black marble.

“Where are you?” Hollander asks.

“Sky Nook.”

Hollander scrunches up his nose which, impossibly, is even cuter when he’s wearing glasses. “What did the concierge say?”

“Was very smug.”

“He totally knows that we were looking for a place to… um…”

“Fuck. Yes. Finds it hilarious. When I walked away, he coughed. Was not a real cough, I think. More like…”

“He was laughing at you?”

“Probably yes. Stop it – no need for you to laugh at me, too.”

Actually, there’s every need for Hollander to laugh at him. Because this might be Ilya’s favorite sight in the world: Hollander in his glasses, freckles, eyes bright with laughter – the expression on his face tipping from shy to mischievous. He’s looking at Ilya like there’s no one in the world he’d rather see.

The idea of losing this, of losing him, makes Ilya feel cold, hollow like blown glass.

“So… show me yours, I’ll show you mine?” Hollander asks.

Ilya lets his voice drop half an octave. “Always so eager.”

“I meant the nook!” Hollander’s cheeks flush a lovely pink. “And the shower room. Do you… um, want to see it?”

“I want to see everything. Tell me, why are you wearing glasses?”

“Oh.” Hollander holds up some kind of booklet. He’s got his thumb hooked between two pages. “I was reading the shower manual when you called.”

“Of course you were.”

Hollander does a quick pan around the room, angling his phone to catch the polished black marble walls and the floor-length mirror. He pauses on the shower. Ilya can make out a wide ceiling-mounted rainfall head and body jets set flush into the stone, all pristine and waiting, before Hollander turns the phone back around.

“It’s insane the number of settings they’ve got for this shower! Like… you can modify flow rate, drop size and pressure for each of the body jets. There’s integrated mood lighting and something called aroma dosing. Not quite sure what that’s supposed to be... I can check though if you think that’s… um… interesting…”  Hollander briefly stops babbling to push his glasses back up with his thumb. “This is... um… um…”

“Fucking stupid, yes.”

“Yes,” Hollander repeats, some of the anxiety bleeding out of his voice at Ilya’s directness. “Stupid single occupancy rule.”

“You could probably sneak into my nook – it’s behind a bend in the corridor, no attendants. But there’s no door, only curtain.”

Ilya lets him see it on his phone: a cocooned sleeping nook with a low, upholstered daybed, soft amber lighting, and a thick, charcoal fabric curtain that slides shut in silent folds.

On the screen, Hollander’s eyes are big and unhappy.

“Enough of that.” The words come out more sharply than Ilya intends, but he doesn’t like to see the fear on Hollander’s face. He’s bitten down on his lower lip and is holding it there, long enough that Ilya sees the skin pale, then redden, like Hollander is trying to anchor himself with pain. “Is fine, okay? No point in doing something you don’t want.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Hollander’s voice is whisper quiet. He looks like a starving man. “I want to. So much. But the curtain… what if someone… like someone who recognizes us… and then… and what…”

“Hollander.” Ilya – idiotically, desperately – strokes the tip of his thumb over Hollander’s cheek on his phone screen. “It’s okay to be scared. You stay where you are. We’ll make it work, yes?”

He shoves down the raw, sinking feeling that’s turning his entire body into lead. This is the final time, and he doesn’t even get to touch, pleasure, mark, kiss him.

Ilya is so upset his teeth hurt, but he winks at Hollander and says breezily: “Can be another first for you. We’ll add it to the list.”

Hollander pouts. “How do you know I haven’t done that before?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, fine.” Hollander’s face moves on the screen. Ilya is pretty sure that he’s just crossed his arms. “Of course,” he mutters crossly, “you do it weekly with a dozen people on three different continents.”

“Do I do them at the same time? Think of time zone difference!”

Hollander rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“I don’t like it that much,” Ilya admits.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Hollander. That’s not what I meant. Just… not something I’d choose to do weekly with… whatever was your absurd number.”

“Why?”

Because it lacks all the things that Ilya likes most about sex. The freedom and jolt of connection. Warm, sweat-damp skin. Sounds that he can touch and taste, not just hear. Forgetting himself in learning where his partner’s pleasure lives and drawing out every ounce of it until they’re both mindless from the rush.

Shane’s heart beating wildly under his palm.

“Hard to say in English. Take off your clothes.”

“Um… yes. Okay.”

Ilya’s screen goes black, presumably because Hollander’s phone lands face down on the marble floor. Ilya groans – it’s a very Hollander-approach to the task at hand, but really not what Ilya had in mind. Hollander is so deft with his hands on the rink, Ilya loves seeing him get all clumsy – fighting buttons or getting tangled up in his sleeves – with urgency and nerves. And what’s worse, he’d been counting on getting one last chance of watching him fold his boring clothes with fastidious care. Now that moment’s gone, too, and Ilya will never get it back.

“You can leave your socks on!” he mutters to the dark screen, only half-joking.

Hollander’s hair is sticking up in the back when he picks up his phone. At least he’s still wearing his glasses. There’s a little frown between his brows. “What about you?”

The truth is Ilya was so caught up in cataloguing all the things he’ll miss about this, he simply forgot to take off his own clothes. But that’s not for Hollander to know. “Later.”

“Fine. But…” He looks uncertain, rubs the bridge of his nose. “You can’t go back on this, right? If you want to tease me that’s fine, but… I really want to see you before this is over.”

Over, Ilya thinks. Such a short word. Over. Who’d think four letters can do so much harm.

He pulls the tank over his head. God, this stupid Sky Nook is freezing. He should have taken a moment to adjust the AC, but barrelling in, he hadn’t even noticed the cold, thoughts whirling around Hollander like a carousel spinning out of control.

Ilya scoots back and rests his back against the headboard of the daybed to show off more of his chest and shoulders, hoping to God he’s looking hot and at ease on the screen, rather than tense and cold.

He smirks at the camera: “Better?”

Hollander smiles. “Yes. You look so good. Your shoulders… I… Well, actually, there’s something I wanted to ask.”

“Dumbbell lateral raises. Reverse peck decks. Forty reps each. Daily.”

“Right, um…” Hollander huffs out a quiet laugh. Why is that so adorable? Why? “I actually wanted to ask something about language stuff.”

“Okay?”

“What you said earlier, about things being hard to express in English. I was wondering… I guess I was wondering what that’s like for you. You know, being far away from home. Always having to rely on a foreign language.”

Ilya stares at the screen, blindsided. “That’s what you want to talk about while we’re naked? Is that… like linguistics gets you going?”

Hollander shakes his head, smiling. “I do really like grammar, but no. It’s nothing sexual.”

“But are you sure?”

“Well…” Hollander rubs his thumb over the generous expanse of his lower lip. It’s not calculated. Probably. “I do like it when you speak Russian. I like that a lot. But I was being serious. I mean, I really want to know.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Hollander says, drawing the word out slightly, patient but determined, “I want to know stuff about you. And when will I get another chance to ask?”

Ilya’s heartbeat speeds up. This is a rhetorical question, right? Right? Or is this Hollander feeling his way toward asking if there’s some kind of… future for this thing? But that can’t be right. That’s just Ilya being stupid.

We’re not going to do this anymore.

Over.

“See,” Hollander says. His voice is light, controlled, but his eyes are shining in a way they weren’t  a moment ago. “I can hardly ask you when we see each other on the ice later this season.”

Ilya inhales sharply. “We’ll talk when I’ll call you to offer condolences. On you being traded to the Buffalo Sabres.”

“Great. So… tell me what it’s like.”

Ilya shrugs, feeling self-conscious. “It sucks. It’s…um…” He catches himself fiddling with a belt loop and stills his hand, relieved that Hollander can’t see him fidget. “You know when you travel and you have to lug around travel adapter for your phone and for your iPad and even for your fucking shaver, but half the time you forget adapter, or you bring the wrong one and nothing works? English is like that for me. It’s never just… natural - talking to people, making myself understood.”

Hollander nods. “Must be exhausting.”

“Sometimes, yes. And the thing I hate is that I can never just… blend in. I say three words and people know I don’t belong.”

“Do you… do you feel like you belong in Russia?”

“No. Yes. It’s difficult.”

“How so?”

“Hollander, you understand there will be payback, yes? If you keep asking weird questions, I’ll ask weird questions back and you’ll have to answer. Maybe I’ll start with your ‘thing’. Does it have name? Does it start with R?”

Hollander pouts. “It doesn’t have a name.”

“Boring.”

“And I actually haven’t been using it in a while … cause… um… um…”

“No-THING compaaaares.” Ilya does a terrible impression of Sinead O’Connor’s singsong and Hollander nearly chokes on his laughter.

It seems he’s not done with the interview though because once he stops chuckling, he nods his head a few times, the way he does when he’s nervous and buying himself time.

 “I’ve always wondered, you know, about you going back every summer. Do you…” Shane’s eyes roam like he’s trying to meet Ilya’s gaze head-on even though the screens separating them makes this impossible. “Do you have someone in Russia you love?”

Ilya thinks about his answer before nodding. “Yes.”

“Oh. Right.” Hollander angles his face away from the camera, but Ilya catches the tension in his jaw.

“One of them is a friend, since childhood,” he says. “She knows me better than… anyone, I think.  But she splits her time between Russia and US, so I can see her in Boston or wherever. She’s like sister.”

“And the other person?”

Ilya looks up from the screen. He’s got all these rules for when he allows himself to think of his mother. Which isn’t often, and never in the presence of others. He is afraid, now as much as when he was twelve, that revisiting certain memories too often might sand down these glimpses of his mother, blunt their sharp, painful brightness.

Scampering toward her as she sat cross-legged on the floor and hummed, badly but enthusiastically, Alla Pugacheva’ Миллион алых роз while patiently taping cut-up cardboard boxes into a garage for his handful of precious toy cars. The day she raced him up the escalator of Kievskaya metro station, looking over her shoulder as she overtook him, brown curls a glorious mess, eyes alight with mischief and laughter.

Ilya is still afraid. He doesn’t want to explain, doesn’t want to give up details. But another impulse moves underneath that fear, softer and more persistent, like warm sand drifting over a line he’d meant to keep keen. He finds that he doesn’t mind the idea of allowing Shane to brush up against the memory of his mother. There’s something lovely, unexpectedly soothing about the idea that these two fractured parts of his life – one already lost, the other soon to be out of reach – could come together, if only for an instant.

Ilya’s gaze returns to the screen, to Shane’s face. “The other person died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ilya normally finds other people’s sympathy invasive, no matter whether it’s offered in good faith or as a mere platitude. It’s different with Shane.

“I think…” He has never really allowed himself to open this door, too afraid what might lie behind it. It hurts, it always will, but with Shane keeping him company, thinking about how his mother connects him to Moscow – how she does and does not belong to Russia, like Ilya himself – doesn’t feel impossible.

“I think I go back for her,” Ilya says eventually. “To be in places that she loved. Speak the language she taught me. She barely had any English. Apart from…”

“Hm?”

“Oh, you know - yes and no, Big Ben, the numbers one to ten… and a stupid nursery rhyme that she’d picked up as a child from a cousin returning from London. My brother and I wanted to hear it all the time when we were little. It goes like… One for sorrow –“ The words, not heard or spoken aloud in well over a decade, bring him to a halt.

Quietly, Shane offers: “Two for joy.”

Ilya clears his throat. “I’m gonna cut ahead to Six for gold.”

“’Course.” Shane’s smile is dry, wistful. Ilya imagines him cradling the phone in both hands.

Shane takes a breath. “Seven for a secret never to be told.”

Eight for a wish, Ilya thinks. Nine for a kiss.

They’re silent. After a while Shane, sounding like he’s pushing himself over some internal barrier, says: “Speaking of secrets. I wanted to apologize. I panicked – earlier, when we were talking to Hunter. You… didn’t. You were incredible. You were…”

“If you say brave I’ll reach through the camera and steal your glasses.”

“But you were! And I’m not. I’m a coward. I… I was so afraid I’d have to come out to Hunter and it made me… made me say things I don’t mean.”

“What things?”

“I’ll never be glad to be rid of you,” Shane says firmly, eyes locked on the screen. “Not ever. I wish we had more time. I wish we could… I wish… I just wish things were different. But they’re not and I… I…can’t… can’t … can’t…”

Ilya’s heartbeat is loud, intrusive. Nearly drowning out Shane’s voice. “What is it you can’t do?”

Shane blinks too often, then not at all. “I don’t know what to do and it scares me. So much.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to do either. But he can tell from looking at Shane – the way his shoulders keep inching upward, the tension in his body, the hectic manner in which he keeps swallowing, almost compulsively – that his anxiety is slipping beyond his control. If they were together, if Ilya could touch him, he’d pull him into his lap, anchor him in the here and now with his body.

But they’re separated by three dozen walls and a warren of corridors, every single meter of which Ilya hates with a passion.

“Hollander,” he says.

“Hm?” Shane’s voice is reedy. He looks like he’s far, far away.

“Get under the shower. Show me the settings display, then put the phone somewhere I can see you and turn up the volume.”

“But…”

“Just do it.” Ilya tosses back a gulp of vodka, straight from the bottle. Lets it scald his tongue.

He doesn’t give a fuck about aroma dosing and mood lighting, but he likes the fine-tuned control the settings give you over temperature and pressure: the way the water can be softened or turned uncompromisingly strong.

He doubts that words alone will bring Shane back into his body – back from this bleak, hopeless place he’s gone to in his mind. He can’t be with him physically, but he can touch him in other ways, make himself felt.

The first time he tells him to turn the dial to maximum force, Shane stares at the camera in silent defiance, lips parted, like he wants to protest, push back. Ilya stares back.

The moment Shane’s resistance tips into acquiescence feels like touching a hot wire: Ilya forgets to breathe as he watches the minute softening in Shane’s stance, his neck bending ever so slightly. Watches the way he flinches as the ceiling panel releases a solid sheet of water that hits his shoulders with waterfall-force, all at once. After a fraught moment, Shane steadies, planting his feet wider as the water drums over his shoulders and spine, flattening his black hair, driving his breath out of him in rough exhales.

Ilya bites down on his thumb. He’s glad Shane can’t see his white-knuckled grip on the phone. He shifts on the daybed: wearing tight-fitting jeans for this was a very bad idea. But he resists the instinct to let his free hand travel downward just yet and instead wags a stern finger at the screen. Shane is not getting out of the wall jets - and he knows it.

Brows pulling together, lips wet and slightly parted, he looks deliciously mutinous – and, more importantly, no longer distant, no longer afraid.

“I want to see what these wall jets can do,” Ilya tells him.

Instead of following orders, Shane lifts his chin in wordless challenge. After a moment, he traces two fingers down his throat, lets his palm glide down his chest, his stomach, the way Ilya would touch him if they were together.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, a quiet threat in his voice.

“Mmmh. Something you want?” Shane rests his back against the marble wall, the graceful lines of his body starkly outlined against black stone. Then he lets his fingers trail down, down his abs, down past his very interested cock to his tightly drawn-up balls. Stops there and – staring at Ilya with hooded eyes – starts exploring with gently curled fingers.

Ilya curses in Russian. That’s a low move for sure, because Shane knows exactly how much Ilya likes touching him there.

“Hands off. That’s mine.”

Shane’s lashes, closed in pleasure a moment ago, flutter open. “Oh, please.”

“No.”

Shane bites his lip. His chest lifts once, twice. Ilya, unblinking eyes fixed on the screen, is darkly pleased that whatever battle of conflicting desires is raging in Shane’s head clearly goes straight to his cock, making him harder still.

Shane moans, like he can’t help himself. Then his hand falls away.

Ilya tries to look impassive, but the truth is he would happily trade the Stanley Cup away if it meant he got to kiss his sweet, sulky mouth.

“Good. Wall jets.”

“I hate you.”

Ilya lets the vodka slide down his throat again, sharp and hot. “Yes. Now do it.”

Shane’s reluctant touch brings them to life – and that’s something else: hard streams strike his ribs and flanks, the backs of his thighs, pushing him half a step forward, skin dimpling under the pressure.

He’s gorgeous like this – he’s always gorgeous, but never more so than when he hands Ilya the reins. Ilya’s own breathing goes shallow as he watches Shane, muscles braced, fingers splayed against the black marble. His jaw is set as he leans back into the onslaught, letting the water pin him there and hold him.

Ilya hopes that Shane can somehow feel him there with him, that the steady, deliberate touch of the water on his skin makes him think of Ilya’s hands, of Ilya holding him, pinning him down, moving against him, with him.

When Shane finds a way of angling the jets that looks a little too comfortable, a little too pleasurable, Ilya says: “I think you’re running a bit hot.”

“What?”

“Temperature down. All the way to cold. Then back to hot.”

Shane’s mouth falls open. “No!”

“You heard me.”

Shane looks like murder, but Ilya has no doubt that he’ll do it, no doubt at all.  

He turns the dial a notch at a time. First a cautious slide toward cold – a sharp intake of breath, a bitten-off curse – then back again.

The cold snaps him upright, all sharp angles and furiously held breath, as if the water has drawn a bright line through his body. When he turns the dial back, the heat loosens him, makes him sag and exhale as he leans into it, palms braced against the tile.

Ilya longs to join him, touch his water-slicked skin. Lick the angry flush mottling Shane’s neck and spreading down his chest. He wants to put a hand against his chest, force him back against the wall, then sink to his knees and take him apart with his mouth.

He could watch him for hours, but this is for Shane, not Ilya. His own body might be keyed up much more than seems reasonable after fifteen minutes of this, but he’s careful not to push Shane too far.

When his movements begin to look a little frantic, muscles no longer obeying him, Ilya says “You’re done. Come out.”

Shane stumbles a little on his first step out of the shower. He grabs the phone from the vanity and, holding it in both hands, drops to his knees, natural as breathing, like that’s the only place he wants to be right now.

Fingers curled hard into the pristine sheets of the daybed, Ilya can feel the phantom warmth of Shane’s cheek against his thigh. The ghost of his lips against his palm.

Shane’s breathing is still roughened. Eyes dark with pupil, gaze soft. “You’re an asshole,” he murmurs.

“You like it.”

Shane lifts the phone closer to his face. “I like you,” he whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Ilya’s throat closes around the words. “Who would I tell?”

Shane’s wet lashes come to spiky tips. Ilya wants to touch them. He wants to draw Shane’s bare body against his, dry his skin with his hands, his lips. He’s so perfect and the feeling in Ilya’s chest is swelling, surging – stupid and ungovernable.

Ilya swallows before asking “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, he just breathes and Ilya breathes with him.

“I feel…  like I’m floating. Or high. I’ve never been high but… Hey, don’t laugh! Point is, you make me feel… so good.” Shane’s voice drops low on the last word. It’s the sexiest sound in the word.  

Ilya wants to tell him that this cuts both ways – that nothing he’s ever done, with anyone, comes close to how he feels when they’re together. But he doesn’t have the words. Or the courage.

We’re not going to do this anymore.

Over.

“What… what happens now?” Shane asks, voice gone threadbare with longing.

Ilya forces himself back into control. This is something he can give Shane. A last offering, a parting gift. “Now we begin.”

Chapter End Notes

They will work it out. The logistics *and* the feelings - promise!

Thank you so much for reading! I love hearing from you - comments make my day! ❤️

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Hello lovelies! Full disclose: this chapter used to be two chapters - chapters six and seven. There were about 1000 additional words at the end that brought the whole story to a bittersweet-hopeful close at the airport. But then, this week, I had an idea for a different kind of ending, one that takes these two into a future that is a little more concrete. I'd love to write it. So here's the deal: you're getting 6500 words of uninterrupted smut and feelings for your reading pleasure *now*, and I get a week or two to write you another chapter and a proper ending. Sounds good? I hope so! :)

Happy reading!

Shane

Shane tightens his grip when Rozanov tells him to prop the phone upright on the vanity. It’s absurd – glass and metal aren’t warmth, or skin. But Rozanov’s face on the screen is all he’s got and the moment the phone leaves his hand, the distance will feel wider.

Rozanov, always observant, always checking in, asks “What is it?”

“I just want you close,” Shane mutters, feeling self-conscious.

Rozanov doesn’t laugh. He leans in so that Shane can see the pale intensity of his eyes beneath his dark lashes. “I want that too. But I’m gonna need your hands. Show me the stuff on the chair behind you.”

Shane half turns. “Um… the amenity kit?”

“Yes. What’s inside?”

Shane has no idea where Rozanov is going with this. Obediently, he lines up a rolled face towel. Travel sized toiletries. A sleep mask. A miniature hairbrush with a sandalwood handle. A set of matte-black hairclips.

When he pulls out a black satin headband, plain except for a pale sliver stitched into the fabric, Rozanov says “This. Put it on.”

Shane stares at the band in his palm, nonplussed. “Uh… you want me to wear a headband?”

“I want you,” Rozanov says, voice firm and rich as honey, “to wear a collar.”

“Oh...”

“For me.”

Shane nods, suddenly breathless. He’s unable to say a single damn thing, flushed with a hectic heat that rushes through this body, all the way from his throat to his cock. But he nods again, making sure that there’s no doubt left in Rozanov’s mind that Shane wants this.

The satin is cool and smooth as water between his fingers. The fabric is meant to stretch, but the band itself is narrow. It rests snugly against his neck. Not constricting, but impossible to ignore – a faint pressure that keeps drawing his attention back to the soft thrum of his pulse, to how responsive his flushed skin still is.

When Shane’s gaze returns to the screen, Rozanov’s eyes are dark, blown with pupil.

“Prop the phone against the mirror.”

Shane nods. He angles the phone slightly so that Rozanov gets a better view.

“Good.”

Maybe Shane should be embarrassed by how much he likes this: pleasing Rozanov, earning his praise. But it’s hard to care when Rozanov looks at him with so much hunger, like he wants to crawl through the screen and pin Shane to the floor.

Shane touches two fingers to the satin collar. He’s newly aware of his breath, coming easier now, deeper. He feels grounded. Settled into his own body in a way he hasn’t experienced before. There’s still a faint sting along his shoulders and flanks from where the water struck him hardest. He likes it. His whole body tingles as if it’s remembering something – how he likes to be touched by Rozanov. Where.

Rozanov asks “Does it feel like I’m close now?”

“Yeah.” He nearly doesn’t recognize his own voice gone so low and throaty. “How did you… how did you know this?”

“I know you. Us. In this, at least.”

Shane reaches out and touches the phone, imagines the warmth of Rozanov’s palm cradling his cheek. Imagines nosing the spot right underneath the hinge of Rozanov’s jaw, where stubble-roughness gives way to soft, tender skin.

“What… would you like me to do?”

“Right now, I just want to look at you.” Shane can tell by the timbre of Rozanov’s voice, by the pattern of his breath, no longer quite as even, that he’s taken himself in hand. Nothing wild, nothing uncontrolled. Probably just some lazy strokes – the way Rozanov will sometimes wrap a hand around himself and fist his cock, assured and entirely unselfconscious, when he watches Shane take off his clothes.

Shane hasn’t gotten up and personal with any cocks apart from Rozanov’s and his own, so it’s not like he has a dataset for comparison. He’s not interested in changing that, he just … really, really likes Rozanov’s cock. Its size and thickness. The fact that – unlike Shane – he’s uncut, so that when he gets hard and the foreskin retracts, his cock somehow looks aggressive and vulnerable all at once. Shane doesn’t have the words for what it makes him feel, just that something about seeing Rozanov like this goes straight to the most private, most fiercely protected part of his being. It makes him frantic to touch Rozanov and be touched by him, in whatever way Rozanov will allow.

“Look at you,” Rozanov says. “You’re so hard.”

Shane casts a quick gaze downward, somehow both acutely embarrassed and so aroused he’s terrified this might all be over very quickly. The head is glistening with precome. “Uh, yeah. It’s been… it’s been a while.”

“Touch your mouth.”

It’s irresistible, the tone of command in his voice – a tingly, warm pleasure unfurling low in Shane’s belly, radiating outwards through his limbs. He draws his index finger along the softness of his lower lip. Thinks of how it feels when Rozanov pushes his cock against his lips. He can’t quite suppress the moan that forces itself out.

Rozanov answers with a sharp intake of breath. “Put it inside your mouth. Only the tip.”

It’s just a finger, his own finger. It shouldn’t be this hot. But Rozanov’s voice, his steady, unwavering gaze make it easy to imagine that it’s him, invading Shane’s mouth. His skin that Shane is tasting, soft licks over warm skin, over the smooth, hard edge of his nail.

“When you do this on your own,” Rozanov asks, “do you touch your nipples?”

Shane shakes his head. He’s usually pretty focused when he jerks off, half-annoyed by his own need for what feels, after all, like a rather unproductive, fruitless activity.

His high school girlfriend had a thing for his nipples, but she also had surprisingly sharp teeth, which Shane learned on the two occasions they doggedly tried to take things beyond PG13 territory.

He’s never given his nipples much thought. Could probably do without them. Unless… a memory flashes into Shane’s mind. He remembers lying with Rozanov in his bed in the condo, right after Rozanov had fucked him for the first time. They’d still been tangled together. Rozanov hadn’t pulled out fully before pressing a string of lazy, smiling kisses against Shane’s chest, ending with a flick of his tongue and a scrape of teeth against his nipple. Even in his boneless, fucked-out state, the jolt of pleasure had nearly kicked Shane’s overstrained nerves back into action.

He’d wondered then if they’d ever have a full day together, or even just half a day. Or three uninterrupted hours – anything that would make Rozanov stay in his bed, after. For a second round, sure, but also just to talk, nap, and maybe… Maybe…

Even inside his own head, where no one can hear, Shane isn’t quite ready to allow himself to put the words ‘cuddle’ and ‘Rozanov’ next to each other.

Sneaking around for secret, shameful hate-sex with your arch-rival is one thing. It’s a very different, infinitely scarier thing to admit – even just to himself – that what he really wants is more than that. He wants Rozanov’s fingers lazily carding through his hair, kissing him just for the pleasure and closeness of it. He wants to make him coffee – real coffee, made from nice, freshly ground beans, not the acrid machine-brewed stuff he’s seen Rozanov get from vending-machines – and watch his surprised smile as he takes the first sip. He wants to sit on a sofa with Rozanov’s arms around him, Rozanov’s chin comfortably resting on his head, and listen to him mumble a running commentary of profanities into Shane’s hair as they watch some terrible hockey match together.

That’s what he wants and he will never, ever get it because it’s impossible and he’s an idiot even to think about it because what would the league say and the brands and his mother and what -

“Shane.”

Rozanov has never used his first name before. Hearing it him from him now, spoken with such warmth and surety, pulls Shane out of the anxious churn of his thoughts, back into the present.

“Um… yes?”

“Tell me. What is it - are you okay?”

“I…” Shane moves his shoulders, awkwardly and certainly not sexily, trying to release the tension there. “I’m sorry. I love what we’re doing. I just hate my mind, sometimes… I just… find it really hard to stop thinking, you know.”

“I know.”

“Even if it’s the last thing I want.”

Shane can tell from the angle of the camera that Rozanov is leaning forward, holding the phone in both of his hands. “Maybe talking is better? We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop! And I don’t think…I don’t want to talk right now. I just…” Shane can hear the desperation in his own voice and hates himself for it.  “I want to stop thinking, you know? Because I can’t… I can’t… Please don’t stop. Don’t let me think.” The last plea comes out raw, despite his efforts to control his voice.

Rozanov nods, but he looks uncertain.

“Please,” Shane breathes. “Please, I need this.”

Rozanov pushes a hand into his hair. His face is mostly hidden behind his arm. Maybe it’s the shifting of the light, but for a moment, Shane thinks he almost sees it: a weariness, a sadness slipping across his features, there and gone before he can be sure.

When Rozanov looks at the camera again, his face is composed. He nods, once, twice, as if he’s pulling himself together. Then he says “Spread your knees wider. I want to see more of you.”

Shane obeys. His knees started aching against the cold marble a good while ago, and this position makes the pain sharper. He welcomes it.

“Lick your finger again,” Rozanov says. “Make it wet. Then brush it over your nipple. Lightly. Imagine that it’s me.”

And God, now that Shane is thinking of Rozanov’s mouth on him, of Rozanov’s tongue, the featherlight touch of his finger feels electric. It zips straight to his cock, to other places, deep in his body, that he wants to be filled with, touched by, Rozanov.

Shane’s hips jerk upward, sudden and helpless, betraying him. “Can I? Please… can I…”

“Touch your cock?” Rozanov laughs, quietly and a little cruel. It makes Shane’s toes curl. “No. But you can touch your nipple again. Flick your nail against it. Pinch it. First one, then the other.”

It’s too little and too much all at once. Shane’s nipples, flushed and darker than he’s ever seen them, feel tender almost instantly. They tighten with every new sensation – traces of his own spit cooling on the aureola, the faint drag of his fingernail. The first time he pinches the skin, the shock of it pulls him deep into his own body, the sting bright and unsettlingly satisfying.

Shane is only half aware of the noises he’s making – desperate, bitten-off moans and whimpers, every single one of them for Rozanov.

“Stop,” Rozanov says. Shane – heart hammering, muscles straining – can’t form a coherent thought. He just registers, somewhere at the edges of his overwrought senses, that the preternatural calm and authority in Rozanov’s voice are a carefully held line. His features have hardened into sculpted stillness, flawless and remote, but underneath, something is building, held there by force of will alone. Shane isn’t sure what it is. Lust, he hopes, but isn’t quite sure.

“Get one of these black hairclips,” Rozanov says. “The one that looks like tiny claw.”

“Okay.” Shane holds out his palm to show Rozanov the clip.  “And now?”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “Now you wear it.”

Shane’s lips close around an undignified sound, half panic and half something else. “You want me to clamp that thing on my nipple?”

Rozanov nods. “I want that, yes. I think it’s what you want too, no?”

Shane sways a little. It’s a tiny plastic claw clip, not a set of dungeon-ready clover clamps. There’s hardly any pain, just a bit of discomfort at the pressure. Shane is still breathless with it, a shiver sliding down his skin. He feels exposed and vulnerable and thrilled.

“How does it feel?” Rozanov asks.

Shane clears his throat. “S’good. Really good. I just wish…”

“What?”

“That it was you touching me. Your hands, mouth, cock. All of you.”

Rozanov takes a harsh breath. “Yes.”

It feels like Rozanov makes the decision, then and there, to shove them off whatever narrow ledge they’ve been balancing on. Shane is spinning faster and faster in a headlong rush as Rozanov directs him to touch his fingertips, then his nails, to the most sensitive, unprotected places on his body: the hollow of his throat, his flanks, the inside of his elbow and wrist, the place where thigh meets groin. He tells him to get the lube from the backpack and finger himself open, dictates pace and depth, exacting voice never letting Shane forget for a moment who’s in charge, until Shane’s wrist hurts, thighs spread wide, mewling with frustrated desire.

And all the while, Rozanov is asking him questions, demanding answers, somehow pitched exactly to land in the delicious, excruciating no man’s land between shame and arousal that drives Shane out of his mind.

Rozanov accepts most of his answers with no visible reaction, like tribute paid by a desperate supplicant. He seems caught off guard though when Shane grinds out his reply to “Who was the first man that made you hard?”

“The what?” Rozanov asks.

A rebellious part of Shane’s reeling brain wonders if Rozanov’s momentary confusion might allow him to sneak in a second finger, but before he can move, Rozanov growls “Stop. Hands where I can see them.”

Shane whines. “I hate you.”

“What’s the Barieri-what?”

A drop of sweat traces a tickling course down Shane’s lower belly. He’s panting, desperate to come. One look at Rozanov’s face tells him that he won’t – not anytime soon. Shane wants to scream. And lick Rozanov’s fingers. Probably at the same time.

“Tell me or you can kneel on that floor, frustrated, until boarding.”

Shane draws a shuddering breath, not sure if he’s close to laughing or crying. “It was the Barberini faun, okay? It’s a… Can we skip the part where you make fun of me? It’s a statue.”

“A statue.”

Shane nods. “A statue. It was part of one of these blockbuster temporary exhibits at the ROM in Toronto. The faun, he’s…” Shane can feel his cheeks burn and there’s no way to stop it. Rozanov has tipped his head back against the headboard, and his shock of curls, the line of his gorgeous throat, his hooded gaze, blur into the impassive, marmorean form that for years embodied every single one of Shane’s desperately suppressed desires. “Don’t google it,” Shane pleads. “Just don’t.”

There’s a frown between Rozanov’s brows. Maybe this is the moment when Shane’s weirdness officially overshoots what Rozanov considers to be acceptable levels.

Whatever it is, Rozanov gets them back to business quickly. “You can touch yourself again. Tease the rim. No breach. Cup your balls with the other hand. And tell me something else.”

Shane sighs at the stimulation. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you think of when you jerk off? You can push in now. Two fingers.”

“I… think of the night in Vegas,” Shane says on a moan.

“More.”

“Fingers?”

“Words.”

Shane groans, breath going ragged. “I… think of the look on your face when you watched me touch myself like this on your bed. Of the moment you got up and walked toward me. I think of… what it felt like crawling to you. Your hand in my hair, between my shoulder blades, pushing me down. That was…” Shane moans brokenly.

Given what Rozanov is making him do, given how much Shane loves letting himself be controlled and teased and tormented by Rozanov, there’s no point in holding on to his pride: “It was the hottest moment of my life,” he admits. “So that’s what I think of when I do it. But I didn’t jerk off at all for like… three or four months after Vegas.”

Rozanov seem too startled to hide his surprise: “Why?”

Shane scrapes his teeth over a sensitive spot on his lower lip. “Because when I thought of Vegas, even if all I wanted was to think about the good stuff, I also ended up thinking about how it ended. And that…” Fucked me up badly. “And that…” Killed me.

He raises his shoulders, tries to shake off the chill. “Doesn’t matter now. As you can see,” Shane gestures to his erection, flushed darkly, straining against air. “Nothing’s changed.” The words are supposed to sound confident, careless, but he only sounds hurt. “I’m as eager as ever to debase myself for you.”

Rozanov doesn’t respond, leaving Shane cast adrift. He doesn’t know how to continue. They seem to have veered off script. If there ever was a script for what they’re doing together.

“Uh…” Shane stares at his phone. His pulse is still racing, but now it feels uncomfortable rather than thrilling, too loud in his ears. This whole thing requires two people: kneeling on an airport bathroom floor in a makeshift collar tips from hot to ridiculous fast unless you’re doing it for – with – someone who lets it mean as much to them as it means to you.

Rozanov has angled the camera downward and to the side. Shane can see his shoulder, the gold chain with its small cross rising and falling against his chest as he draws in a laboured breath. He shifts, straightening slightly, and the movement brings the lower half of his face into view. Just briefly, but Shane can see the tension there: mouth compressed into a tight line, two furrows etched deeply into his chin with the effort of holding everything in.

“Hey,” Shane says gently. “Come back to me.”

He can hear Rozanov’s rough, uneven inhale.

Shane grabs the phone from the vanity and sits back on his haunches. “Ilya.”

His face shifts back into the camera, cheeks narrowed, eyes very bright. “I…” There’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I’m sorry. For Vegas. That’s… That’s what I came to say when we met tonight. I wanted to apologize. Before…” He lets out a shaky laugh so small it sounds almost like a sob. “Before everything else happened.”

“It’s okay,” Shane says.

“It’s not. Nothing… is okay. I hate… hate that…” He stops, wipes an angry hand across his eye. “I’m sorry, I…”

He looks like he’s drowning.

Eyes still on the screen, Shane starts rooting around for his clothes. “What’s the number of the Sky Nook?”

“1919. Why?”

“Stay right there. Я иду к тебе.” I’m coming to you.

*

Ilya stands next to the daybed, one arm extended, arrested in mid-movement, when Shane slips behind the curtain. The cabin is small. Shane takes a step, another one, then he’s cradling Ilya’s face between his hands. His cheeks are wet.

 “You speak Russian now?” Ilya sounds more than a touch accusative, but his eyes are adoring.

“Not really, no. But I’m… learning.”

“Why?”

“Because Russian grammar is very interesting. And…” Shane strokes his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. He knows what he wants to say. He knows just as well he should keep it to himself. But here they are, stranded in this strangest of nights that has seen Ilya cry and Shane sprint down three corridors, with his sweater put on the wrong way and sockless in his sneakers, to be with him. Maybe it’s a little late for playing it safe.

“I… um… I met this really cool guy,” Shane continues. “Who’s so interesting and funny and secretly kind. And I would love to be able to tell him how hot he is in his own language. That’s why.”

Ilya mumbles something in Russian that Shane doesn’t quite catch. He tastes the sentiment on Ilya’s lips though, feels it in the careful, desperate way he kisses Shane.

They don’t make it to the daybed: Ilya just sort of crumples to the floor and Shane ends up in his lap, straddling his thighs, holding him close. He’s got one hand tangled in Ilya’s curls, the other one stroking up and down his back. Ilya’s face is buried in the crook of Shane’s neck. Every once in a while, he rubs his cheek, a little rough with the first hint of stubble, against the side of Shane’s neck, like he’s seeking even more contact, wants to get closer still.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you in Vegas,” he says, voice low. “That’s not an excuse, I know that. But I want you to understand: I… I fucked up because it all felt like too much and I didn’t know…” There’s a hitch in his breath. “I didn’t know what to do. About all of it. You and Russia and my family, but most of all you. This.”

He draws back and looks at Shane. His eyes are bleary and irritated, nose a little red. He’s never looked less camera-ready, and Shane knows – with a certainty that frightens and settles him at the same time – that he’ll never get over him. It’ll be him, always, no matter how hard Shane tries to lock his feelings away.

“What do we do?” Ilya whispers.

“I don’t know.” Shane leans his forehead against Ilya’s. “But I’m glad we’re here now.”

“Me too.”

They stay like this, huddled together on the floor, for the longest time. Shane can feel Ilya’s breath even out, get a little deeper. He hardly allows himself to move, simply settles more fully against Ilya, molds his body against his as if to draw the tension out of him, carry it for him.

After a while, Ilya’s nuzzling of Shane’s neck turns into a brush of lips, a hint of teeth. Shane hums and pulls the sweater over his head for better access. Ilya kisses the sensitive skin under his ear, then moves downward. He nudges the soft collar upward along the side of Shane’s throat so that he can open his mouth over the throb of his jugular vein, tongue the pulse point, nip the fine skin. Gently at first, then intensifying the pressure with each breath shuddering out of Shane.

Shane shamelessly squirms in his lap, tries to push his erection against the hard line of Ilya’s cock clearly visible underneath his jeans. He doesn’t have the angle quite right, but then Ilya shifts underneath him. Big, sure hands close around Shane’s ass and pull him forward, fitting them together differently, giving Shane the exact pressure and friction he’s been chasing. Ilya’s hand slips under Shane’s sweater, fingers splaying wide and warm on his lower back, steadying him as Shane moans and grinds against him.

When Ilya brings his mouth to Shane’s abused nipple, Shane bites down on his own hand because he can’t control the sounds coming out of his mouth, pleasure shot through with a sliver of bright-edged agony. It’s all-consuming, Ilya kissing his too-tender skin right before using his teeth to reignite the pain.

“Too much?” he rasps, when Shane starts trembling in his arms.

Shane shakes his head, tugs gently on Ilya’s curls. “More. Please.”

Ilya smiles. He flips open the button, draws down the zipper of Shane’s trousers and, without warning, without giving Shane the fraction of a moment to prepare, he spits into his palm and wraps it around Shane’s cock. Drags it up and down in a perfect slide. The pleasure – after being denied, after hungering for this for hours – is so intense, Shane soars with it.

Ilya lifts his free hand to Shane’s face. Caresses his lips with his thumb before pushing into his mouth. He keeps it there, slowly thrusting in and out while he strokes him off, relentless and perfect, until Shane’s muscles start clenching and his whole body seizes up and --- Ilya’s hand falls away.

“No…” Shane’s groan comes out pleasure-wrecked, desperate. “Please… I need.”

“Get up.”

Shane’s limbs are jelly. Ilya pulls him up and kisses the shocked O of Shane’s mouth before he spins him around so that Shane is braced with his arms against the wall.

He can hear Ilya rummage through his backpack and then he’s back, crowding Shane against the wall, his weight a comforting, warm presence against Shane’s back. Ilya’s got one hand in Shane’s hair. He’s grazing his teeth over the nape of Shane’s neck while grinding lazily against the curve of his ass.

Shane arches his back, offers his body as blatantly as he can. “Come on, come on, come on.”

Ilya’s lips brush the shell of his ear. “Are you still wet?” His fingers dip into the crease of Shane’s ass, pressing gently.

Shane moans. Suddenly Ilya’s other hand is there, firm over his mouth, muffling the sound. “If you want this, you need to be quiet,” he growls. “And stop humping the wall or you won’t come at all. Will you be good?”

Shane is so turned on, his legs nearly give out. He pushes back against Ilya, nods.

“Not sure I trust you to keep it down.” God, his voice. Husky with arousal and the promise of forbidden things. “Not once I fuck you. I think my hand should stay right here, shut you up. What do you think?”

Shane makes an eager, muffled sound and hears Ilya laugh softly before he kisses Shane’s ear, his neck. 

“Help me then,” Ilya says. “Seeing that I only have one free hand.”

Shane is confused, but only for a moment. Because then Ilya brings his mouth to Shane’s ear once more. “Hold yourself open and I’ll fuck you.”

Shane draws in a shocked breath, cheeks burning underneath Ilya’s palm, mortification and lust swirling hotly together inside him. This could be humiliating, degrading – and maybe it would be, if Ilya pushed for it, pressured him. But he doesn’t. He gives Shane time, waiting patiently, his hand sealing Shane’s mouth the only place where they’re touching.

But when Shane – heart nearly beating out of his chest, panting against Ilya’s palm – reaches back his hands and does exactly as he’s been told, Ilya groans. Shane has never heard him sound so undone. He murmurs brokenly in Russian – praise and profanities and sweeter things, barely audible because he seems to run out of breath as he pushes inside.

His free hand slides around Shane’s hip, fingers digging into his skin, holding him in place as he stretches him open. Shane pushes back eagerly, trying to hasten things along, to take more of him before he’s ready. But Ilya’s hand on his hip is like a vice. He bites the lobe of Shane’s ear and stills. “Stop. You’re not hurting yourself.”

Shane parts his lips and tongues Ilya’s palm, little kitten licks, apology and plea at once. For a moment, Ilya’s fingers, still holding tightly onto Shane’s hip, tremble without loosening. His breath at Shane’s ear goes ragged and Shane is flying with it, shocked and enthralled that he can affect Ilya this much just by allowing himself to be helpless and mastered and his.

The pressure is slow but relentless. When Ilya is fully inside him, he doesn’t move, giving Shane time to adjust, but only for as long as it takes him to bite into the tender skin where Shane’s shoulder meets his neck. Then he shoves him against the wall and starts thrusting into him – fast and rough and so exactly what Shane needs he nearly shivers out of his skin with pleasure, Ilya’s palm catching all his needy moans and whimpers.

He’s close to coming when Ilya, mid-thrust, stills.

Shane whines, pushing back, shocked and infuriated, but Ilya’s hand over his mouth tightens, cutting off sound.

“Shhhh.” His voice, close to Shane’s ear is urgent.

And then Shane hears it, too. Muffled but unmistakable: Marleau’s voice on the other side of the curtain, slurred with tiredness. “Hey Connors… what’s our cabin number?”

“Don’t know. Let me check…”

Shane breaks into a full-body shiver. The panic is real, but so is the adrenaline rush. The pressure of Ilya’s hand against his mouth doesn’t let up, but he leans in, murmured words slipping softly into Shane’s ear: “You like this.”

Shane shakes his head, vigorously, to the sound of Marleau and Connors sharing trade-line rumours. But his hips push back, ever so slightly – and Ilya is right there with him. He starts rolling his hips again, silently and carefully, a deliciously slow push and drag deep inside Shane’s body that lights him up, makes him rise on his toes, arch his back.

Ilya traces the shell of his ear with his tongue. “You’ve gone so tight.”

Shane’s breath stutters. His hips jerk upward. Ilya pulls him back and pushes inside all the way, then stills. He trails his fingers down Shane’s stomach and gives his desperate, rock-hard cock a few teasing strokes.

He whispers: “Do you want to come?”

Shane shakes his head. Ilya’s fingers wrap around him more loosely then, gliding up and down his cock, making him dizzy with pleasure but never giving him quite enough. Shane clenches down to goad Ilya into action, but he doesn’t move – he stays where he is, lodged deep inside Shane’s body, and brushes his mouth against Shane’s neck instead, just the softest touch of his lips. The thrill of being kept suspended on this impossible threshold burns right through Shane’s fear, like metal taken to the forge, until it glows, bent into a new shape.

The moment Marleau and Connors start to move away, voices dwindling as they make their way down the corridor, Shane whispers “Please” against Ilya’s palm. And Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s cock and mouth, thrusts into him once, twice, and then Shane’s whole body seizes up and he comes, blissfully and helplessly, in a headlong rush, complete physical and mental whiteout.

For a few seconds, he’s so out of it, he can’t move, can’t think. Then he notices that Ilya has his arms around him, is holding him and keeping him upright.

When he pulls out, Shane turns in his arms and kisses him, slowly, tenderly, enjoying the luxurious slow swipe of Ilya’s tongue against his while Ilya’s cock, still hard as anything, presses against his hip.

Shane sinks to his knees, pulls off the condom, and leans forward – only to find Ilya moving backward.

His eyes are gleaming. He crooks a finger and then, before Shane can scramble back upright, Ilya has arranged himself on the daybed, languidly reclining against the cushions, one leg drawn up, the other resting on the floor. One of his arms is thrown back over his head, elbow bent, his hand pushed into his curls.

The posture makes his body so… open, hiding nothing from Shane’s hungry gaze: the gorgeous lines of his sculpted shoulders and arms, the hollow of his throat; the hard muscles and soft skin of his stomach, his strong thighs. His hard, flushed cock.

Shane stares at him, dumbstruck with lust. “You googled the faun.”

Ilya tilts his head. Mouths “Did I?”

Shane has plans to get up, but he’s too eager, too enthralled, body moving on its own accord. It feels more fitting anyway, to crawl to him on all fours. And, strangely, it is its own pleasure: watching the heat flare in Ilya’s eyes as Shane moves toward him, spine arching, shoulders rolling.

He reaches for Shane the moment he kneels between his legs, cradles Shane’s jaw in his hand, caresses his skin.

Shane pushes into his touch. “How do you know all this stuff about me? This is like…” Shane blinks at him, rubs his cheek against Ilya’s thigh and hears him hiss. “I dreamt of this,” Shane whispers. “You.”

Ilya’s lips are parted, breath rasping out wetly. He puts his thumb against Shane’s mouth. “I dream about you all the time.”

The way he’s posing for Shane, he looks powerful and defenceless at once. His stomach is rising and falling quickly. When Shane puts his hand against it, he feels the quiver of muscle underneath. So much control and stillness, and all for Shane.

He brings his mouth close to Ilya’s cock. Wets his lips and looks up at Ilya through his lashes. “Please can I...”

Ilya hooks a finger under Shane’s collar and draws him forward. His other hand tangles in Shane’s hair and then he feeds him his cock, one smooth downward slide.

Shane moans. He shifts his position, angling his neck so that he can take more of Ilya. It’s all so good: Ilya’s fingers tightening in Shane’s hair. The way he’s invading the soft, slick interior spaces of Shane’s mouth. The sounds he makes when Shane tongues the hot, pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft.

He’s not rough with Shane, not forcing him, but there’s something about the way he grips Shane’s hair and thrusts into his mouth that promises that he could. It turns Shane’s insides molten. Makes him feel wild, eager to please, so fucking horny he pulls off and grabs another condom.

Ilya’s stares at him, tousled, mouth slightly open, lips shiny. Shane’s heart does a stupid little squeeze because he looks endearingly overwrought: conscious that their dynamic requires that he admonish Shane for taking the initiative but too turned on to string together the words.

Shane rises and straddles Ilya’s lap. He dances his fingers along Ilya’s cock and rolls on the condom. Ilya lifts his head and Shane brings his mouth down to his, lets himself be kissed. Gasps when Ilya grazes his teeth over the tip of his tongue.

He takes Ilya’s hand and kisses across his knuckles before lifting it to the collar. Ilya’s fingers curl into the fabric, moving against the flushed skin of Shane’s throat.

Shane meets his eyes and murmurs “можешь мной воспользоваться.” Use me.

He’s pretty sure he’s messed up the pronunciation, but the effect on Ilya is instantaneous: eyes wide, breath coming out in a rush, all of his muscle underneath Shane gone taut.

“Are you…” Ilya’s throat ripples as he swallows. His fingers, drifting down the curve of Shane’s ass, find their mark gently. “Not too sore?”

“I want to know what it feels like. Right after.”

Ilya yanks him down, kisses him – no finesse, just feral, desperate need. Fingers replaced by the blunt pressure of his cock, and then he enters Shane once more. It’s intense, definitely a burn to it now, but Shanes loves it. Loves how his awareness tightens into a needlepoint: his breath, Ilya’s breath. Beat of his pulse. Resistance, then yield. Ilya’s body, underneath his own, feels like a bow drawn to its limit, all tension and held force, as he lets Shane determine the speed at which he sinks down on him.

Ilya keeps a firm hold of Shane’s collar, but he tangles the fingers of his other hand with Shane’s and doesn’t let go, not when he’s all the way inside, not when Shane nods and Ilya starts to thrust into him.

It’s never been like this: usually, when they’re together, Shane is flying so high, the pleasure and rush so intense, that the world fragments into kaleidoscopic shards, each one too jagged and luminous for him to hold on to. This time though, he can take it all in, keep hold of himself and, more importantly, of Ilya.

He’s so gorgeous: eyes half-closed, lips bitten red and parted, sweat gleaming on his brow, in the hollow of his throat. When Ilya looks up at him, Shane brushes a finger over his open mouth, lets it briefly dip inside. His flawless upper teeth have been fixed and straightened into unreal perfection one too many times, but the lower row has kept its own shape – a little irregular, sharp-edged. Shane runs his fingertip over it, then leans in to kiss him.

Ilya’s breath stutters. He’s close, moaning into Shane’s mouth and trembling from the strain of keeping quiet, controlling his movements. Shane rocks his hips to meet him, to show him that he doesn’t have to hold back.

He brings his palm to Ilya’s cheek. “Give me something to keep.”

Ilya’s eyes are locked on him. He pants, almost harshly, like he’s in pain, but his mouth is the softest Shane has ever seen it.

He draws Shane forward by the collar, kisses over his heart, then brings his teeth into it, sucking a love bite into his skin.

Shane arches into it, Ilya rocks up and that’s when he comes: Shane can feel it - all of Ilya’s muscles snapping into alignment underneath him, senses pulled into one unstoppable current. The build and release of it.  He holds him through it, feels him shudder and heave and come apart.

Ilya doesn’t have the coordination for a kiss, but he rests his forehead against Shane’s, breaths tangling, and gives him all his broken, soft sounds. It feels more intimate than a kiss and the warmth that gathers in Shane’s chest is a wave, a surge - too enormous to contain.

Afterwards, Ilya gathers him up and shifts them so that they lie together on the daybed, Ilya’s body curved around his. His thigh rests on Shane’s, his palm is loosely wrapped around Shane’s wrist. Shane can feel Ilya’s heartbeat, returning to a slower, more even rhythm.

The minutes tick away, but neither of them falls asleep.

They don’t talk, not with words anyway. But Ilya drags his lips along the nape of Shane’s neck, buries his nose in Shane’s hair, and Shane wants to believe that it means I will miss you.

He shifts, nestles closer against Ilya’s body. I wish it could be like this, always.

Ilya pulls the blanket over them. It’s like the ones they hand out on planes: thin and weightless, almost insultingly inadequate. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see the frown between Ilya’s brows. He grabs the hoodie they’ve both worn tonight and drapes it over the blanket, over Shane’s shoulders, as if making up for what the blanket can’t do.

Shane’s body is aching softly all over. His eyelids grow heavy, but he doesn’t want to miss a single minute of his time with Ilya. Sleep presses in though. It seeps into his limbs and lets them grow heavy against the mattress. It smudges the edges of his vision, softening light and sound, until the only thing he sees through his drooping eyelids is Ilya’s hand on his wrist.

“Sleep,” Ilya murmurs into his ear. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Tell me again in Russian.”

Ilya obliges. And then he keeps whispering to Shane. The foreign words slip past meaning – his voice too low, Shane’s brain too tired.  But he lets the sound of Ilya’s voice carry him into forgetfulness, holding on longest to the strange, quiet hopefulness in its gentle ebb and flow.

Chapter End Notes

I don't normally write stuff that's this explicit, but you know... gotta honour the source material, right? Right?

Thank you so much for reading! I love hearing from you - comments make my day! ❤️

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Ta-daaa! Final chapter! Good news: it's quite long! Bad news: there's a glaring anachronism because Hayden heroically wrangles a momentous Zoom call in pre-pandemic 2015. Please don't come after me - artistic freedom and all that. :)

That said - I hope you'll like where they end up!

Ilya

31^st Dec 2014, Boston

Ilya leans against the club’s mezzanine railing when Svetlana joins him. She doesn’t announce herself, just settles there beside him, curls brushing his naked shoulder, slender forearms resting on the rail the same way his are.

Below them, pounding music and anticipation of the countdown has whipped the crowd of New Year’s Eve revellers into a restless tide. Any other night, Ilya would be down there, shouting loudest, dancing at the vortex where the energy peaks and breaks.

Svetlana taps her finger against the club stamp on his wrist, black ink already smudged into glitter and dried sweat. She shifts closer so that he can hear her over the music and roar of the crowd. Her words are warm against his ear. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Sure."

She bops her head to the beat. The familiar smell of her shampoo mixes incongruously with the smoky tang of the fog machines. “Jane wants to know what her chances are you’ll take her home tonight?”

Ilya nearly drops the phone he’s been clutching for the past hour. “Wh-what?”

 “Jane. My colleague.” Svetlana gives him the withering glare that regularly reduces clients to nodding and signing for overprized Maseratis. “You had your tongue down her throat before you snuck up here.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Um… sure.”

“Last time you sounded this excited was when I asked you to help me repot my bonsai.”

“No… She’s… She’s cool.”

“She is. You on the other hand… have been weird and no fun at all since you got back from Asia.” Svetlana nudges his shoulder. “Why are you glued to your phone when you’re out with your friends on New Year’s?”

Because JJ is on an IG story bender, posting a stream of shaky dispatches from Pike’s party. They’re awful: JJ must have started drinking early – he rambles into the camera, constantly laughing about stuff you can’t see. The clips lurch between close-ups of shiny, flushed faces and half-second glimpses of general mayhem.  A chaotic game of flip cups. Someone throwing up into a large ceramic floor pot. Pike dancing, badly, to Drake’s Back to Back. Handfuls of Confetti stuck in Comeau’s hair.

Normally, you’d have to pay Ilya to watch the Metros make asses of themselves. But tonight is different because every so often Shane slides into the frame and Ilya gets a momentary view of him: his shoulder, clad – of course – in the world’s most boring white t-shirt. The side of his jaw. A second of his nervous laughter as he’s pulled past JJ by someone else, there and gone again before the clip cuts out.

It feels juvenile, pathetic really, to stalk Shane via his friend’s IG. Even more pathetic to feel his pulse jump every time Shane pops into the frame.

They haven’t spoken, haven’t texted since they touched down in JFK.

Ilya had spent the long flight obsessing over excuses, none of them plausible, and twisting over every clumsy English word he might say to Hunter – just to get him to swap seats with him so that Ilya could sit next to Shane. But in the end, he didn’t have the nerve.

And maybe that was for the best: sixteen hours of pretending, of playacting their fabled animosity – it would have been a disaster. Ilya would have done it, of course. He would have done anything, every impossible thing, to be near Shane. If he’d been sure that that’s what Shane wanted.

But Shane had begun to retreat behind the smooth, unclimbable walls he kept between himself and the outside world the moment Ilya had roused him from sleep. Watching Shane put himself back together, helping him locate his clothes – tossed everywhere, careless for once – Ilya hadn’t been able to tell whether the walls were meant to keep him close or to keep him out, too. It had reminded him of Shane’s fear and desperation during their chat with Hunter and so he’d done the only kind thing he could think of, which was to give him space.

Their plane had touched down at JFK late. Before anyone else was even allowed to get out of their seats, Shane and Pike were already being ushered down the aisle to make their connection to Ottawa. For a moment, Shane had paused and turned around, pale and rumpled from sleep, blinking against the harsh cabin light. He’d mumbled a few polite see-you-laters to the team, but he’d looked at Ilya the whole time, stuck three aisles behind.

Shane had lifted his hand in awkward, uncertain goodbye. Ilya had raised his, mirroring him – thinking how hollow, how inadequate a gesture it was. Then Pike had hauled Shane forward and they’d both sprinted down the aisle, there and gone in an instant.

A sharp crack splits the air, making Ilya flinch. For a second everything glitters: one of the confetti cannons firing early. Ilya glances at Svetlana – still waiting for an answer. He opens his mouth to offer some evasive bullshit, but just then his phone lights up with a Story Notification and he forgets what he was going to say.

“Nu?” Svetlana flicks an impatient nail against his screen. “Are you listening? And since when have you story notifications turned on for… what - Boiziau?”

“I…” Ilya turns to her. The eyeliner under her left eye is always first to smudge. He wipes the soft blur away with his fingertip.

They don’t lie to each other. He doesn’t have it in him to start doing so now. He draws in a deep breath. “I was with someone. The last night of the showcase. It’s… it’s insane. Could never work. But I…” He breaks off. There’s nothing to say.

Down below, the crowd churns like water trapped between rocks. It makes Ilya think of a current with no outlet, already beating itself into foam.

Svetlana hums. She doesn’t look surprised. After a moment, she asks “The other Jane?”

Ilya nods.

Svetlana gently turns his hand, the one that’s holding the phone, around and taps the notification.

For the most part, it’s JJ filming himself in an earnest attempt to touch his tongue to his nose, squinting like concentration alone might alter the anatomy of his face. But then, right at the end, Shane steps into the frame with Jackie. His arms are raised as he ferries a tray of Jell-O shots for her. Ilya forgets to breathe – because there, wrapped twice around Shane’s wrist, is something that looks like an improvised cuff made from black fabric. A thin white sliver stitched along one side.

It’s not until Svetlana kisses his cheek, right before giving it a hearty pinch, that Ilya remembers where he is, and with whom.

Svetlana’s eyes are warm, a little concerned. “You’re allowed to watch this on repeat, assuming that it’s not JJ. His pivots are fucking slow – wings always slip past him on the rush.”

“It’s not JJ.”

Svetlana nods. She briefly presses her cheek against his. “I’m gonna head back down. Don’t you dare miss the countdown. I’m still the one who gets to kiss you at midnight.”

Ilya swallows past the small, stubborn knot in his throat. She’s so dear to him. “That’s right.”

He kisses her – right when the indoor pyrotechnics and confetti cannons go off. Neon lasers sweep the crowd, the music swells and swells, and everywhere around them, people are hugging, kissing, jumping on the spot.

He’s been kissing Svetlana for over a decade - her lips against his are familiar, welcome.

But the kiss that’s making his whole body feel like glass under strain – one press away from spidery cracks forming, no way of knowing which ones will run – is the one he tapped out and sent to Shane the last second of the countdown.

Ilya’s phone keeps vibrating in his pocket, but he can’t bring himself to look at it while he’s still fighting his way to the exit, pushing through the crush of bodies.

The music and cacophony of voices are still ringing in his ears when the door of the club shuts behind him. The heat is gone at once, replaced by a hard, metallic cold that bites through his clothes.

Ilya perches on the icy curb. He plucks a bit of salt-crusted gravel from the ice. It’s sharp and white-edged. He traps it between thumb and forefinger, feels its roughness against his skin.

He tells himself that he’ll be okay. He’ll be fine. He’ll look at his phone, and there’ll be a million notifications – well, several. A rambling voice message from Marleau. The traditional dick pick that Sasha sends him to ring in the new year. The Raiders’ group chat will be blowing up with idiocy.

What he won’t find is a text from Shane but that’s fine. It’s not like Ilya sent him a declaration of love. Just a kiss. Anyone can send anyone a kiss on New Year’s. It’s practically etiquette, particularly among North Americans, no?

Ilya looks up at the night sky. All the stars have gone hiding. Fucking city lights.

He fishes out his phone.

Breathes.

Swipes his thumb over the screen.

And there it is:

Jane

12:00 AM

💋

Ilya is still staring at the screen, when Shane’s incoming call appears. He can hear his nervous intake of breath before he speaks. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Um… happy New Year!”

“Same to you.” Ilya rolls the bit of gravel between his fingers. He’s smiling like an idiot. He wonders if Shane can hear it in his voice, the way he can tell that Shane’s face has gone all smiley and dimply.

“Where are you?” Shane asks.

“Sitting on… A curb, actually. Outside of a club.”

“Me too! I mean… Not outside a club. I’m sitting on the curb outside of Hayden’s house.”

“Must be a fucking boring party.”

“It’s… um… I think it’s okay as far as parties go? Just not… Yeah, you know it’s not really my thing.”

“Oh, I know. You want to sit on your sofa on New Year’s Eve and read a 500-page tome about the history of hockey. In French.”

“Sounds great. But… no… I wanted…”

Shane goes silent and Ilya looks up. Traffic has momentarily cleared. His gaze travels across the brine-slick road and lands on the bus shelter ad. It’s one of those high-res digital panels running a looping video – stars wheeling over a dark horizon, the motion so slow you might be imagining it.

“What do you want?” Ilya asks quietly.

“To be with you.” Shane’s voice is a little unsteady, but he’s brave – braver than Ilya, anyway. “Tonight. Other nights, too. Ordinary ones.”

Ilya swallows. “I want that too.”

“Yeah?” Shane lets out a soft, relieved breath. “You do?”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

There’s a pause. Ilya imagines Shane’s face, freckles drawing together as he smiles.

“What… um… what are you doing now?” Shane asks eventually. “Are your friends waiting for you?”

“No.” Ilya looks up the street.  Under the streetlamps and the sweep of car beams, snowflakes tumble down in crooked little spirals, catching the city lights before dissolving back into the dark. “I’m… I’m going home, I think.”

“Getting an Uber?”

Ilya smiles. “I’m gonna walk for a bit first.”

“Do you want company? I mean… do you want to keep talking?”

“Yes.” Ilya stands up. He puts the rough little piece of gravel safely into his pocket. “Tell me about your night.”

He crosses the street, passes the ad with the star strewn night sky. It’s not the real thing. Still beautiful.

*

Shane

6^th February 2015, Nashville

Scott Hunter comes out at the All-Star Game in Nashville. Shane can’t tell if it’s planned or a spur of the moment decision: one moment, Scott is inviting a fan down on the ice, helping them vault over the boards. The next moment, he’s kissing the man on the mouth, with a packed stadium watching.

Shane’s heart is beating so violently he thinks it will burst from his chest. He stares at Scott and the guy, but he can’t fully take in their kiss. His mind is still locked on the image of Scott, towering in full gear, carving smooth lines across the rink, while his boyfriend – thrilled, but clumsy on the ice – followed more slowly, painfully aware of the glassy surface below.

The crowd is a wall of movement and sound, a seething mass pressing in from every side. Shane can’t process any of it – can’t tell whether the noise is cheers or hisses, can’t separate the rhythm of stomping feet from the thrum of his own pulse.

He turns to look for Ilya. Their gazes lock across the wide expanse of the ice, just for a moment. Then Ilya pushes off and skates over to Scott. A handful of others follow him, drifting into position and forming an uneven ring around the pair. They’re clapping and cheering, angling their bodies outward to give Scott and his partner privacy while shielding them from the roaring stadium.

With every shaky inhale, Shane can feel the pressure mounting. It’s everywhere: in the tight curl of his fingers against his palms. Under his skin. In his eyes, prickling and irritated. It’s like something inside him has broken open, is starting to move and unfurl – and there’s nothing gentle about it, nothing peaceful. He feels like he’s outgrown his old skin and shedding it means to tear himself into shreds so that whatever is underneath can emerge, spread its untried wings. 

Through the roar and the chaos, he almost thinks that he can hear Ilya. There’s motion on the ice, some people gathering around the Admirals’ coach, and suddenly Shane gets another full view of him: Ilya has taken off his helmet, thrown it onto the ice, and he looks shocked and determined and thrilled. 

Shane pushes off. His blades cut the ice in sharp, urgent arcs. It’s only when he stands shoulder to shoulder with Ilya and Carter that he allows himself to breathe.

He doesn’t turn his head to look at Ilya, but he feels him at his side, catches the joy in the force of Ilya’s shout as it rings out.

Shane laughs. He might be crying, too. He raises his arms and joins his voice to Ilya’s.

*

21 February 2015, Montreal

Two weeks later, Shane is at home, huddled on the floor next to one of his awfully uncomfortable designer lounge chairs. This one was designed by Ib Kofod-Larsen – Shane dutifully learned to pronounce the name from his interior designer. He misses his parents’ old sofa, sagging in the middle and cursed with a decade-old stain they’re always hiding behind the same pillow.

He tells himself he’s just checking scores when he opens Twitter, but he knows what’s waiting. He has tried to shove it out of his mind for days.

It’s a mistake to go looking for it now. His body knows as much: his stomach clenches, the fabric of his t-shirt clinging damply to his armpits, even before he opens the first thread.

It’s a clip of Scott winning the accuracy shooting competition at the All-Star Game. A bland headline, Scott’s name in clean type. The replies underneath are not. Some of them are clearly meant to be funny, or coy – but most of them spew their ugliness with self-righteous verve.

Shane burrows deeper into Ilya’s showcase hoodie. He’s never nicked stuff before. The morning after their flight got delayed felt like the right time to begin.

Maybe he should call Ilya, but he can’t look away from the screen. There are some replies with hearts and congratulations mixed in, too. But Shane scrolls past them, pulse hammering, the vitriol dragging him down down down the thread.

When he looks up, dusk is pressing down on the city. In the vast, ceiling-high windows, Shane’s reflection barely exists: a pale smudge of a face, as blank and depthless as the frozen St. Lawrence river beyond.

*

25^th March 2015, Boston

The MLH head office moves fast and cold. New statements are put out every day, written in language so bland, so polite, it feels like being trapped in one of those infuriating automated customer-service loops, pre-recorded voice dripping courtesy while offering absolutely nothing you actually need.

The press statements talk about unity, about professionalism, about everyone’s shared love for the game. Rainbow logos appear on the MLH’s website, hollow and bloodless, while everyone gets cheerily phrased emails about “keeping it about hockey”. Teams are pressured to march their players through a brand-new round of mandatory media training where they are effectively muzzled by having to memorise the ever same pleasant, empty phrases.

Ilya – who’s been loud about his support in interviews while also making a point of getting photographed hanging out with Scott and his partner – is “invited” to the MLH headquarters in Manhattan and told, without quite being told, that the MLH can stomach one public coming-out – certainly not two in the same season.

“But you know me…” Ilya mutters drily, fingers carding slowly through Shane’s hair. “My English is bad. Who knows what I took away from that meeting.”

Shane turns his head, resting comfortably on Ilya’s naked belly, so that he can get a better look at him. “You wouldn’t actually want that though? Come out now? You’d risk -” He tries but doesn’t quite manage to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“Mmh.” Ilya studies him for a second, eyes giving away nothing. Then he lunges forward and rolls them over so that he’s on top of Shane, one bossy knee wedged between Shane’s legs. 

He feels so good – Shane loves his weight pressing him down, loves how the muscles in Ilya’s arms and shoulders tighten when Shane runs his palms over them, loves how the rhythm of his breathing changes the second Shane shifts underneath him and presses up against his undeniably hard cock.

Shane wants to forget that there’s a world outside this room, outside this bed. Wants to forget the ugly voices he hears in his head every time his mind tries to slow and rest.

He lets his eyes drift shut and allows sensation to take over, breath by breath. This close, Ilya’s body is a study in contrasts. Shane moves against him, lets his skin slide along the coarse hairs on Ilya’s legs, feels the hard muscles of his thighs against his. But his fingertips also find their way to all the hidden, soft places on Ilya’s body: the smooth, warm nape of his neck. The insides of his wrists and elbows. The fine-textured skin stretched taut over the pulse of the artery right where thigh meets hip.

Ilya lets him explore, holds still for him, and his restraint – as much as the promise that it won’t last – lets Shane’s desire simmer down into something dark and potent. A longing to be taken, to be held and controlled, to let Ilya be his whole world – even if just for a moment.

Shane tilts back his throat, invitation and surrender at once. When he opens his eyes, Ilya is so close he can see the flecks of gold in his pale blue eyes. He kisses Shane, slow and deep. Then he takes his wrist. Scrapes a careful nail along the sliver of white in the satin fabric, wound twice to enclose Shane’s arm snugly.

Ilya’s voice is low with pleasure. “You kept it.”

Shane nods. “I loved wearing it. For you.”

Ilya brings Shane’s hand to his mouth. Kisses his fingers before drawing them into his mouth, one by one, until Shane is moaning helplessly, squirming underneath him.

Ilya stops to slip the band from Shane’s wrist. He untwists it until he holds a collar. “Let’s see if it still fits.”

*

Later, when Shane is lying boneless and happy under Ilya’s sheets, skin still damp and flushed, Ilya pushes up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Shane paws at his back in protest. “Come back! What are you doing?”

“It’s cute, the way your stomach rumbles. But I’m hungry, too. I’ll make us food. You can stay. I bring it here.”

Shane lets him go, but it barely takes a couple of minutes for the ache of missing Ilya to settle in. He wants to push underneath his arm, kiss his stubble-rough cheek, breathe in his scent – preferably before Ilya has had time to shower. He wants all the closeness, all the time. He always feels like this after they sleep together, but he needs it even more whenever they’re leaning into this particular dynamic.

Ilya’s bedroom perches like an eerie atop of the sprawling, bungalow-style building. Shane's bare feet are cold on the polished marble floors. He pads into the hallway and the vast hollow space swallows him whole. He’s never been here before, and he was too distracted to pay attention when he arrived, field of vision practically narrowed down to just Ilya.

Now, he can take it all in. Everything is open-plan, linear, sleek. Shane makes a mental note to ask Ilya whether the architecture and interior design were inspired by Mies van der Rohe’s style.

The house is beautiful. And empty like a showroom. Just like Shane’s condo.

Looking for the staircase, he passes another living area. Glass walls stretch to the garden below. Two sculptural sofas occupy the center. They look about as comfortable as Shane’s lounge chairs. He wonders if Ilya ever sits on one of these sofas. 

Just when Shane thinks he has found the staircase, he rounds a huge, tiered room divider shelf and stumbles into a corner of the house that looks… different. A small knit rug with a worn geometrical pattern covers the marble floor. Two mismatched armchairs sit close to a low table scattered with luxury car lookbooks, a half-finished coke bottle, and an untidy stack of paper forms – one pointedly balled together.

Shane draws closer and lets his gaze drift over the hand-filled practice stats sheets. He doesn’t want to snoop – certainly doesn’t want to peek at anything personal or confidential – but he’s never seen Ilya’s handwriting before.

He knows the bold strokes, the confident swoop of the R, that Ilya uses when he scrawls his signature on a puck or team jersey for fans. His real hand is different – small letters drawn with restless, fastidious care. Shane can tell that he has to slow himself down, force patience when he writes by hand – but also that even in something as banal as jotting down practice stats, he takes pains to get it exactly right.

Just as Shane is reminding himself sternly that it’s ridiculous to get sappy over someone’s handwriting, his gaze lands on the slightly chaotic section of the shelf that’s closest to one of the armchairs.  There – alongside two mini hockey pucks, an old trophy with a Cyrillic label that looks like it came from a Russian youth league, a couple of books, and a disassembled reflex photo camera – they are: the two critters from the airport McDonald’s, sitting side by side on the shelf.

Shane stares at them. Then he touches his fingertip to the leopard on wheels, strokes its tiny spots.

“Found you.” Like him, Ilya is barefoot, steps soundless on the marble. He is balancing a tray with ginger ale, coke, and two plates with grilled sandwiches. His gaze sweeps over the untidy table, the crumb-strewn armchairs. He looks a little uncomfortable. “Do you want to eat in the living room? There’s massive TV screen if you want to watch something. Or kitchen island? Also very big.”

“Or…” Shane reaches out, takes the tray from Ilya’s hands and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “We could eat here?”

“But… Why?”

“I like it here.”

“Hollander.” Ilya throws up his hand in performative protest, but Shane can sense his startled happiness. “I live in massive palace and you want to sit in only space that’s not nice?”

“That’s right.” Shane puts the tray down. Then he gives Ilya a friendly shove, sending him into one of the armchairs. Shane drops onto the old rug and nestles close, letting his back rest against Ilya’s leg.

Smiling up at him, he asks “What’s on the sandwiches?”

“Nothing special. Just… um…” Ilya blinks slowly. “Tuna melts.”

Shane rubs his cheek against Ilya’s thigh. His whole body eases into warm relaxation now that Ilya is close. “This is perfect,” he murmurs.

Ilya looks down at him, and Shane sees his throat work before he repeats, quietly, “Perfect.”

*

Montreal, 28^th March 2015

The season goes from bad to worse for Hunter. The Admirals ease him off the top lines, citing matchup considerations in public and murmuring about crowd behavior in private, even though incidents – slurs, the occasional fight – have been few and far between. Their press team puts out a litany of “We’re protecting him” and “We can’t  afford penalties because our guys are losing focus on the ice” that makes Shane’s ears bleed.

When Hunter plays, and plays badly, it’s endlessly dissected in the press and framed as consequence of the pressure people expect him to feel since coming out. If he plays well, he’s applauded for his bravery.

The MLH quietly leaves him off new promotional material.

Of all the straight players in Shane’s orbit, it’s Hayden who grumbles the most about it. Never in public, but he brings it up again and again – in the locker room, on runs with Shane and JJ, or sprawled on the couch at his and Jackie’s place. So Shane knows that Hayden is pissed off with the MLH, with the Admirals, but he’s still surprised when – out of the blue – Hayden texts him a Zoom link for a meeting later that day, titled “Game Changer.”

Shane is in the middle of a long, tedious photoshoot for Esquire when the text arrives. They’re shooting in a freezing boutique hotel suite in downtown Montreal, and he barely manages to extract himself in time to duck into a neighbouring room to join the call.

He hasn’t got a clue what Hayden’s plan is. On the screen, little rectangles stack and reshuffle themselves as more players join. Some are framed too close, foreheads cropped out; others lounge on hotel beds or potter around their kitchens. When Shane logs in, there are fifteen people - then twenty-three, then thirty. Thirty-six. Different teams, rookies, veterans. Ilya’s there. Marleau. Hunter. JJ. Vaughan. Boodram. Price. Hayes. Dillon. It’s impossible to find a common thread, apart from one: none of them are assholes. The grid keeps shifting, filling, until it’s crowded with faces. All silent, all waiting.

Shane texts Ilya three question marks. “Same” is what he texts back. Followed by a kiss.

“Uh, hi everyone.” Hayden’s face suddenly fills the screen. As always, when he’s nervous, he smiles too widely, like a harried anchorman. He’s at home in the kitchen, Jackie’s homemade kimchi stacked in a jar tower at the edge of the frame. You can just make out the muffled wailing of a baby in the background.

“Thank you for joining the call. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” Hayden’s eyes flick down nervously. Shane can tell he’s squinting at notes – notes that nine times out of ten are indecipherable when it actually matters.

Hayden clears his throat.  “This call is about how the MLH are dealing with queer players. I mean… um… one queer player at the moment – Scott.” Hayden and Scott exchange an awkward, screen-mediated nod. “But it’s not just Scott’s problem. I mean… it’s shitty. It must be awful for anyone else who’s thinking about coming out. And it concerns us all. So – this call is about what we could do to… change the game, I guess.”

Shane’s breath is coming fast. This is… incredible. In every sense of the word.

Hayden’s eyes roam the screen. “I’ll give you a moment so that those of you who want to leave can do so. No hard feelings.”

The number of people in the call dwindles from 36 to 27.

“Phew.” Hayden smiles, less tense now. “See, I was wondering if it would be just me and Scott at this point. Thanks for staying guys.”

Hayden then talks about his view of the situation: when only a handful of players speak up, they’re left to face any pushback from the fans or the MLH on their own. That’s why nothing happens. But if a larger, coordinated group – players from different teams, across rank and experience, including some real stars – take a stand together, individual players would be less exposed and their actions could actually move the needle.

“That’s all good, man, but what exactly do you want us to do?” Vaughan asks.

“Okay.” Hayden shares his screen. A spreadsheet appears.

Hayden loves a good spreadsheet.

Shane loves Hayden.

“I have some ideas. But I also thought we could brainstorm together. Come up with an action plan and divvy up projects between us. I mean, those of you who are up for being part of this.”

Hayden has set up three columns. The first column is titled Media and Publicity and it contains stuff that isn’t super surprising when it comes to content. What is surprising is the precision, how it’s all designed to run like clockwork – although maybe not to people who’ve seen Hayden plan out his weekly training micro-cycles.

Hayden wants them to start with a joint, inter-team statement in clear support of queer inclusion in the league, released simultaneously so no one player is left exposed. After that, he’s mapped out a tight cadence of coordinated posts. When one player endorses a queer advocacy group, others echo it within hours. When someone boosts an LGBTQ+ awareness campaign, it’s reinforced across teams.

“If it’s just symbolic, like… a one-time thing that gets lots of attention but disappears from the feeds in a day… that won’t get us anywhere,” Hayden explains.  “It needs to be… bam bam bam.” He slaps his hand against the counter. “Regular posts. Loud posts. And it needs to be collective so that they can’t… can’t… um…”

“Punish us,” Dillon says. “I kinda think they will.”

“They might.” Hayden says. His gaze skitters to the side. Shane has a hunch that Jackie is with him, that Hayden is looking for her support.  “It’s still worth it.”

Ilya raises his hand.

“Rozanov?”

“No one should feel like they have to join this,” Ilya says. “But I think MLH headquarters is out of step with many of their own fans. The plan is good. And this is right time. If we get enough people together, the press and big part of the public will be on our side. This puts pressure on the MLH. On coaches also.”

Pike nods, clearly buoyed by Ilya’s words. “I agree. And there’s different ways of being involved with this, right?” He clicks on the second column titled Allyship and Advocacy. “We could think about ways in which we can work with LGBTQ+ organisations. Like, participate in charity events – not one or two players but like… five or seven of us showing up for the same event. And not do it once for a Pride thing, but regularly during the year, you know?”

There’s some discussion about the planning and logistics, but the questions are the kind that aim to make sure the plan holds up, not pick it apart.

Light-headed with nerves, Shane clicks the raise-hand icon.

“We could… uh… we could start a charity,” he says, not knowing whether he should direct his gaze at the camera or the faces on the screen. This is so awkward. “A charity that runs hockey camps for queer kids. We could rotate between different cities. Some of us could volunteer as trainers.”

There’s a beat. A couple of faces go very still.

“Raise the next generation of rookies queer?” Boodram asks.

Someone coughs. Shane feels his cheeks heat, words already lining up to explain –

Boodram tilts closer to his camera, grins. “Because honestly? I would love that for the league.”

There’s laughter - some nervous, but much of it genuine, warm. Shane pinches his own thigh. It feels like his world is splintering at the edges, then reshaping itself around something that seemed impossible yesterday. How is any of this real?

In the corner of Shane’s screen, Ilya smiles.

They discuss a bunch of other strategies. People suggest pride-themed armbands, charity matches – all sorts of small and big moves. The spreadsheet is filling up fast, even before Hayden flips to column three titled OTHooH.

“What the fuck is OTHooH?” Marleau asks.

“Oh… I meant to rename it,” Hayden mutters. “It’s just a reminder for me.”

“For what?”

Even over Zoom, Shane can hear Hayden squirming on the kitchen island bar stool. It’s squeaking as usual because he never remembers to oil it. Hayden has a deep and abiding love for acronyms. Jackie teases him about it constantly. But even after years of exposure to Hayden’s relentless acronyming,  Shane can’t figure out what OTHooH is supposed to mean.

“This column,” Hayden says, voice pitched a little higher, “is for stuff that’s a bit more out of the box. Stuff that some of us might do to… you know… try and change the culture around… masculinity and stuff. Masculinity and hockey, I mean. I can explain what I mean by that.”

“Man,” Price says, “what the fuck is OTHooH? Just spit it out!”

Hayden hesitates. He stares at the camera. Then he says briskly “It’s short for Operation Take Heteronormativity out of Homosociality.”

There’s a lot of snorting. Laughter. A few “what the fucks” echo from different corners of the grid.

Marleau’s eyebrows wiggle across Shane’s screen like angry caterpillars. “The fucking what… out of the what?”

“What language is that?”

Hayden raises his chin. “It’s not stupid. Even if it sounds stupid. You know, joke all you want – but just know that Jackie is standing right next to me, and I got it from her. So yes, it may sound like dumb shit, but it’s not. I swear.”

There’s a pause.

JJ leans forward until half the screen is filled by his chin. ““This… it comes from one of Jackie’s books for her gender studies, yes?”

“And so?” Hayden bristles. He flings out an arm and asks, face angled to the side: “Can you talk to them?”

Shane can tell from the whimper that somewhere off-camera, Rose is being shuffled from Jackie’s arms to Hayden’s.

A moment later, Jackie’s face pops into the frame. Her hair is piled in a messy bun. She’s wearing significantly less makeup than the unofficial hockey-wife handbook dictates.

“Hi guys,” she waves, a little awkwardly.

To most of the players on the call, she’s a mystery: Pike’s wife, 23, mom of three, refuses lash extensions, and supposedly reads for fun. Doesn’t add up. Shane knows exactly who she is, of course, and can’t help smiling.

“Okay, so… um,” Jackie starts, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know some of this sounds… academic. But what Hayden and I were basically talking about is something like… I guess, you could call it a guerilla strategy for making hockey a more welcoming space for queer people.”

She gestures at the screen. “Homosociality is just… how groups of guys socialize together. Stuff like locker-room talk, team dinners, post-practice beers… the way everyone teases each other about girlfriends or who’s scoring off the ice. It’s all structured around assumptions that everyone’s straight, all the time.”

“And you want to change that?” Vaughan asks. Shane can’t tell if he’s curious or skeptical. 

Jackie lifts her shoulders. “I think you could. Change it some. If you wanted to. Taking heteronormativity out of homosociality - I know, it sounds scary – but it’s really just about changing how those spaces feel. Making them less… default-straight, I guess. More inclusive.”

“How would we do that?” Marleau asks flatly.

Hayden appears in the frame once more. Rose is snoozing on his shoulder. “Right, the guerilla strategy. We – or whoever’s up for it – coordinate and do stuff that’s out of our normal lane. Like, do a photo spread in a queer magazine. Go on a queer podcast. Hang out with Hunter at a queer club. Aggressively bromance another player on the ice or in public, and don’t talk to the press about it. Just do it… and be seen doing it.”

“What about the fallout?” Brody asks.

 “Here’s the thing,” Hayden says, rubbing his neck. “All this stuff we’re talking about – like hanging at queer spots, doing stuff with queer media – I think it will work because people can’t tell what it means. Right? Fans, other players, media… they all see you acting differently than the straight-macho script says you should, but because so many of us are doing it, they can’t figure out if it’s activism or just who you are. And that’s the point. It renders the whole idea of masculinity and sexuality… I don’t know… blurry, I guess? It messes with the league’s assumptions. And it makes it safer for queer players.”

Boodram politely clears his throat. “So… like, we’re confusing people on purpose?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that,” Hayden says, grinning. “We’re just making them question the default.”

Marleau, who can’t figure out the raise-hand function for shit, blows up on the screen again. Shane expects him to lay into Hayden, but instead he says: “I’ll do a photo spread with Out Magazine if they’ll have me. Go on, spreadsheet it. Finally someone to light my ass properly.”

Hayden cracks up. Hunter snorts. Laughter all around. “Great.”

“I would be… how you say…” JJ is gesturing emphatically at the screen. “I’ll join if we go to queer clubs. Maybe they can teach me… some moves. But I do not do this alone.” He flashes his grin at the camera. “If I do not hate your ass, expect to be added to a WhatsApp group for planning.” He pauses, tilting his head. “I did not mean ‘ass’ like that.”

There’s more laughter. Then Ilya raises his hand. “I volunteer. To… what did you say?  Aggressively bromance another player.”

“Who’s that gonna be?”

Ilya leans in. “Hollander,” he says, and winks at the camera.

Pandemonium.

*

Ilya

New York City, 6th July 2015

Stepping out of the Aviator Sports Center, home to the inaugural Play It Forward hockey camp, and onto the sun-blasted asphalt of Flatbush Avenue means leaving winter at the doorstep and launching yourself into the sweltering, oversaturated haze of a July afternoon in the city.

Ilya squints, then slips on his Ray-Bans. The heat clings to him, heavy like wet cotton as he catches a bus down to Brighton Beach Avenue. Shane had sent him a Google Maps pin and told him to meet at the crossing under the subway overpass.

Ilya is early, but Shane still got there before him. He’s pacing slowly in front of a specs shop called Luv my Vision. Ilya has a vague sense that this is some kind of Britishism  – incongruous out here – but he sure loves his current vision: Shane’s hair is a little ruffled. Nose wrinkled, probably because he can smell the trash going sour a few meters away. He is in a pale blue, slightly creased linen button-down that hangs loose over his black short chinos.

They’re both coaching on the summer camp which is why – so far – when Ilya has seen him, Shane has either been kitted out in full gear or naked in Ilya’s hotel bed. Great options, both, but Ilya has been longing for this, too: watching Shane relax into vacation-mode, drifting with him along crowded streets with the city buzzing and baking around them.

Ilya wouldn’t necessarily have chosen this part of the city – close to, but just east of Coney Island, and far from the Brownstone Brooklyn. Doesn’t matter though, it’s the final day of the camp, his final day with Shane, and if Shane had asked him to spend it sorting equipment in the gear room, Ilya would have been there in a heartbeat.

Shane hasn’t spotted him yet: he fishes out his phone and checks the time, nervously. Ilya wishes he could jog over and draw him close. Kiss him – out here, in public.

“Nice spot,” is what he says instead when he walks up ot him. Above them, the B/Q Brighton train rattles by.

Shane turns around, face lighting up with a wide smile. “You found it!”

“I can use Google Maps, yes.”

Shane’s gaze roams over Ilya’s soft fitted t-shirt and draw-string shorts. Ilya wonders if Shane can tell that he’s not the only one who’s made an effort. “Nice shirt.”

He looks so happy, Ilya’s heart clenches. He puts his hands in his pockets. Tries to sound casual.“You look pretty, too. So… what is plan?”

“Oh…” Shane’s shoulders rise a little. “I thought we could… um… grab a bite to eat, then head to the beach?” He points to the little restaurant across the street. It’s optimistically called Ocean View Café, although you can’t really see the sea from here. Just the carpark down by the boardwalk, the Atlantic sky stretching out above it.

“The reviews looked great,” Shane mutters, looking uncertain. “Admittedly, it’s ranked #554 out of 7046 Brooklyn restaurants, but they do vareniki and pelmeni and they also have this smocked mackarel thing that you always talk about. So I thought that… you know… could be nice?” He scrunches up his nose in concentration and quietly repeats “pel-myeh-nee”, trying to get closer to the Russian pronouciation.

Ilya reaches for him, instinctively. Shane takes a tiny step back and Ilya remembers where they are, lets his hand drop just in time. He clears his throat. “I’d love that.”

“Sorry,” Shane whispers to Ilya when they step through the door. “I was hoping it would be nicer.”

The ocean theme is strong – turquoise walls, nautical clip-art printed on the laminated menus, and strange bubbles-textured tabletops, although it’s not entirely clear whether that was a design or an economic choice.

Ilya drops into a chair. The menu lists vareniki, pelemeni, and blintzes. “Don’t be stupid Hollander. I can tell we’ve come to the right place.”

Shane stays wound tight until their food arrives. It’s only when he watches Ilya house a bowl of lamb pelmeni, then move straight on to a dozen vareniki filled with cheese and cabbage, that Shane’s shoulders loosen. He leans back, gives more of his weight to the support of the chair.

“How’s your pickled watermelon?” Ilya asks around a forkful of vareniki.

“First and best I ever had.”

Ilya cracks up, badly contained, one hand raised as if to apologize for the full mouth. His eyes are glinting.

“Don’t go there,” Shane warns, but he’s smiling, too.

The restaurant owner’s 87-year-old mother, visiting from Petersburg, shuffles over and Shane has an entire three-minute conversation with her. In Russian. Ilya can tell that he only understands half of the details relating to the apple trees at her dacha, but Shane is glowing. Ilya is glowing, too.

The place continues to earn its reputation as a family-run restaurant because the next person to swing by the table is the woman’s grandson – a gangly kid with a nose ring and longish hair dyed pink at the tips. His name tag says “Misha, he/him”.

He’s shyly asking for a picture. “I’m trying to get an IG started for this place. You’re Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, right?”

Over the last couple of months, they’ve made it pretty easy for people to catch them together – fans snapping pics, paparazzi lurking, teammates and their partners posting giddily on their social media.

All players involved in Hayden’s initiatve have been enveloped in a media frenzy since they started rolling out all three columns of Hayden’s spreadsheet, but no one had predicted how the internet would go absolutely bananas over a Hollanov bromance. There are memes, so many memes. TMZ has crowned them “the bromance of the summer.” The Atlantic has published not one but two thoughtful long-form essays that take their carefully curated bromance as case study for how the hockey world is “quietly recoding masculinity and intimacy between men”. There’s also an ever-growing trove of RPF that features them in various plausible and implausible scenarios. Shane doesn’t even want to glance at this corner of the internet, though Ilya sometimes reads passages aloud to him. He does this with the kind of glee he normally reserves for a breakaway goal. As it turns out, Ilya likes space opera AUs.

When they’re interviewed, whether individually or together, they speak about the mutual respect and admiration that’s grown from working side by side for the charity. They mention things they genuinely like about each other, banter, push each other’s buttons – mostly Ilya doing the pushing. But they never answer questions about their relationship, identity, or orientation, not even vaguely. Photographers are allowed to capture them together, but how close it looks is always carefully calibrated: Ilya usually leans in, Shane holds himself more carefully.

There’s something in the gaze of the kid though – a question; so much longing – that makes Shane wish he could take Ilya’s hand, right in front of Misha, and say: Yes. You’re not imagining things. This is real.

He can’t say any of that. But when Misha raises his phone to take their picture – both of them holding up pelmeni speared on their forks - Shane pushes closer, shoulder pressed against Ilya’s, and does nothing to rein in the happy, infatuated smile that takes over his face.

*

Later, sitting side by side on the sparsely populated beach, Ilya lets warm sand slide through his fingers. It’s too hot to linger for long, though Ilya idly wonders what a few hours in the sun would do to Shane freckles – how many more he’d get to trace across his skin when they’re curled up together in bed at the end of the day.

Right now, the sun glares down at the beach, relentless and furious, as if it intends to hold the day in place forever. Still, the light will fade, night will come - and Ilya knows he should ask again before it does. He didn’t like the answer the last time around, so maybe it’s stupid to bring it up again. Or to give it so much weight in the first place.

He looks for small, intact shells in the sand. A childish bargain: five, and then he’ll ask.

“Are you…” Shane falters, and Ilya looks over, startled. He’d been so busy working up the nerve to ask his own question that he hadn’t noticed Shane doing the same.

“What?” Ilya asks.

Shane’s gaze tracks the waves as they slide up the beach, retreat, and return again, never quite the same way twice.

“Are you sleeping with other people?” Drawing a rapid breath, Shane adds: “That’s cool, of course.  I mean… we’re not… I know… we’re not…” He picks at a pink scab on his knee, looking very young suddenly. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. And as I said – it’s totally –“

“No,” Ilya interrupts him.

“No you don’t want to tell me or No, you…” The words spill out too fast. Shane cuts himself off. “Ugh, I’m sorry, that was stupid.” He drags a hand over his face, palm pressed to his eyes, like he’s trying to hide for a second. “I…”

Ilya gently draws his hand away.

Sex has been many different things to him in the past: pleasure, escape, distraction, connection, comfort – and sometimes the sharp, empty opposite. He’s never been exclusive with anyone, and he genuinely doesn’t think sleeping with other people could change his feelings for Shane.

But he doesn’t want to do something that could hurt him. Ever.

“I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since Hong Kong.”

“Oh...” Shane lifts his gaze to Ilya’s. His smile is small, a little blurred around the edges. It makes Ilya glad, fiercely glad, that he’s spent the past months disappointing a whole lot of people.

“I have question, too,” Ilya says. “The two are not connected, yes? If you say no, I’m not gonna go off and fuck the next person who throws themselves in my way. Okay?”

Shane nods. A thin layer of sand coats his upper arm. Ilya aches to trace a line through it, to clear the grit and feel the warm, bare skin underneath. 

“Have you thought again about coming to Italy?”

“Mmmh.” Shane nods, looks at his hands, folded tightly in his lap. “I think about it all the time.”

Vogue Men International has invited the most prominent faces of Hayden’s initiatve to fly to Tuscany for a cover-story shoot and a big group interview in early September, right before training camp starts. This is the momentum they’ve been pushing toward for months – every public appearance, all the planning and strategizing behind the scenes. Vogue is as big as it gets. Ilya can feel in his bones that this will be the tipping point – the moment that nudges the culture past the point of no return in a way the league cannot undo.

He will be part of it, despite the risk. And it matters to him, more than he can put into words, to have Shane by his side.

“I want to,” Shane says. “But I’m…” He gives a tight little shrug that looks more like a flinch. “I’m not you, okay? You see the right thing and you just barrel into it like it’s nothing. I’m fucking terrified. My mom, Theriault, my agent – they’ve all been riding me about this since we started. But now? Now they’re saying I’m begging to tank my career. If I go to Tuscany, I’ll miss some of the medicals and team meetings ahead of camp. Theriault will make sure to schedule them just so that I can’t make them. And he basically told me if I’m not there, he’ll yank the ‘C’ off my jersey.”

Ilya nods. He’s already lost his own captaincy, and the bruise of it lives just under his skin, flaring up every time he thinks about it. “I understand.”

“How are you not scared?” Shane asks.

There’s an angry retort burning on Ilya’s tongue. He swallows it. There’s no point. He can’t make the choice for Shane.

“I am. Scared,” he finally says. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, just a hazy line in the distance, wavering like it can’t quite decide where the world ends.

They had dug their hands deeply into the sand earlier so that their fingers could brush together, hidden from view. Ilya can tell that Shane is trying again now, fingers moving beneath the gritty weight, attempting to curl around his. But the grains stick and catch. He feels the press of the rough sand, not Shane.

*

5th September 2015, near Siena, Tuscany

“When we get back, I’m gonna get someone to tattoo OTHooH on my butt.” Hunter’s voice comes muffled, pressed against the cushion of the lounge chair as he sprawls on his stomach, letting the September sun bake the water off his skin after laps in the pool.

“Myself, I prefer Modern God.” That’s JJ, stretched out on the chair on Ilya’s other side.

Ilya watches a honey-drunk bumblebee trundle by. “Ganymede was not a god,” he points out.

“But I am!” JJ slaps his naked chest. “Vogue says so!”

Modern Gods is the title of the shoot. They’ve only been here for a day, but Ilya gets the idea: everything about it, from the poses to the styling, is inspired by those Greek and Roman myths that render masculinity and intimacy seductively ambiguous. For the solo shoots, Vogue’s team has matched each player with a mythological figure. Ilya can tell JJ hasn’t gotten round to look up Ganymede on Wikipedia.

The team is setting up the first shoot by the pond behind the villa. From the voices drifting over, it sounds like they’ll be busy for a while. Ilya doesn’t mind. He’s drowsy, still feeling the jetlag, and this garden seems made to slow time. He tilts his face to catch more of the sun, filtering through the shifting leaves of the fig tree above him. Listens to the hum of bees weaving through the lavender. Everything around him feels like an invitation to doze.

Ilya dreams of Shane. The details are hazy, but they’re on the ice somewhere, alone. Shane is skating so fast, he’s a blur against the frozen expanse. Ilya can’t tell if he’s skating toward or away from him.

When he blinks his eyes open, he’s not sure what dragged him out of sleep. Hunter is propped up on his elbows, and JJ is shouting something rapid and enthusiastic in French. Vaughan and the others are already on their feet.

Ilya turns his head, and there he is.

Moving through the garden with swift, sure steps, still dressed in travel clothes too warm for the Tuscany sun - Shane. He says hello to the others in passing. Ilya just barely notices that they are falling back, giving them space. They must know about them. Must have known for a while now.

Shane drops on a knee next to Ilya’s chair. He looks tired, lips a little chapped. But his eyes are the brightest Ilya has ever seen them. “Hey you,” he says. 

Ilya doesn’t quite trust his voice. “Hi.”

Shane reaches out and takes his hand. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

*

The path to the lake is barely a path at all, half-swallowed by rosemary and wild fennel that brush their legs.

“Do you think someone will steal the car?” Shane asks, casting a worried glance over his shoulder up the hill they’ve just climbed down.

Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s wrist and pulls him along. “Who will steal car? Goats? Lizards? There’s no one here.”

It’s early evening and the sun, just starting to climb down the sky, drenches everying in a deep, honeyed amber. The small lake lies cupped between two hills. It’s surface is still, except for the darting scratches dragonflies leave as they skim across it.

Right at the south end of the lake, a battered stone wall slumps in quiet ruin. They sit on the the stones, sun-bleached and rough, and watch the lizards dart in and out of the crevices.

“I told my parents,” Shane says. “Before I left.”

“Told them what?”

“That I’m gay. That I have a…”

“Lover?”

Shane scrunches up his face. Ilya counts three new freckles on his left cheek.

“Can you not use that word? At least when you’re talking to my parents?”

Ilya’s heartbeat goes uneven. He keeps his voice carefully neutral. “Is that the plan? You want me… to meet your parents?”

Shane glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The evening sun loves him, but the blush is all his. “Would… would you?”

Ilya turns to him. “Yes, of course.”

Shane leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, then his lips. “Thank you.”

“That’s… um…” This is disgraceful. Ilya never feels flustered. Russians just don’t. “That’s cool. I… I really want to meet them.” He thinks about it. Tries to picture all of them in a room together. Do they shake hands? Or just nod politely? Or…?

“So… when I meet you parents. What do I say if you don’t want me to say ‘lover’?”

“Um…” Now it’s Shane’s turn to look flustered. “I don’t know…”

Ilya is a hundred percent certain that Shane has given the nomenclature serious thought. He just hopes that he’s not tripping over some language detail or cultural nuance.

“Boyfriend?” he asks carefully just as Shane blurts out “парень?”

Ilya reaches for him and Shane comes happily, settles into his arms, tilts his chin up to be kissed. “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” he murmurs.

Ilya smiles against his lips. “Same.”  

Later, they swim. After a long day of posing for the team of photographers, they have energy to burn off and they race each other from lakeside to lakeside. Eventually, they slow down, drifting into lazy, narrowing circles around each other that tighten and tighten.

“Hi,” Shane says softly when he is just an arm’s length away, breathing still roughened from their earlier race and the effort of staying above water. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead. Water drops glisten in his eyebrows, on his lips. “Come back to the shore.”

“Why?”

“Because if you kiss me in the water, I might drown.”

Ilya floats closer. He cups Shane’s cheek, fingers slick with lake water, and brushes his thumb lightly over Shane’s lips as the lake rocks them both. “I could just not kiss you?”

“Then I’ll drown, too.”

The undergrowth and unruly thickets press right up to the water. There isn’t enough open ground to spread two towels. One is enough though – enough to press Shane on his back, slip off his wet swim trunks, taste the lake on his skin.

He’s so beautiful. In the shoot, they made him Apollo. Of course.

“Please,” Shane whispers, half rising on his elbow. “Kiss me.”

Ilya brushes his lips along his collarbone. Luxuriates in the contrast between the cold water droplets and Shane’s quickly warming skin. “I am kissing you.”

Shane makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat.

Ilya kisses down his sternum. When he flicks a nail against Shane’s tight, dark nipple, Shane’s hips arch up, helplessly. Ilya curls a hand around his flank and holds him down.

Shane’s eyes meet his. They are dazed, a little wild. He bites into the softness of his lower lip, finely textured skin turning white, then flushing a darker pink. Ilya stares at his mouth, not sure who’s tormenting whom at this point.

“Do you want me to kiss you here?” he asks, and kisses the soft spot underneath Shane’s ribs. “Or here?” He rakes his teeth over the sleek, pale skin on the inside of Shane’s thigh.

Shane’s breath is coming fast and shallow now. “Please,” he says on a lovely, broken moan.

“How about here?” Ilya tongues the sensitive skin stretching over Shane’s ankle.

“I want… I want…”

"Oh, is this what you want?” Without warning, Ilya leans in and closes his lips around the swollen, blood-darkened head of Shane’s cock. Feels him tremble as he closes his hand around his balls, tugging gently.

Shane curses - and all of a sudden, Ilya’s world tilts, because Shane pulls on his arm, shifts and flips them around so that he’s on top. He pushes Ilya’s wrists into the gravel. Ilya has the fraction of a second to think that this is new. He probably wouldn’t be into it with anyone else, but this is Shane and it turns out, Ilya really likes seeing him like this: wide-eyed and tousled above him, looking so lost, so needy, it makes Ilya’s heart swell with tenderness.

Shane’s mouth comes down on his and Ilya frees his hand so that he can slip it around the back of Shane’s neck and draw him closer, take charge of the kiss. Shane moans. He coaxes Ilya’s tongue deeper into his mouth and the kiss turns dirty, desperate.

When they break for air, Shane smooths his palm down Ilya’s chest, quickly rising and falling. “Can I ride you?” he asks.

“You’ll scrape your knees raw.”

Shane is already reaching for lube and a condom. “Don’t care.”

“You need it that bad, huh?”

Shane’s gaze cuts back to Ilya. He leans down and kisses him, fiercely.

“I need you.”

The feeling inside Ilya burns so deep, it feels tattooed on the inside of his skin. When Shane sinks down on him, Ilya rests his palm against his throat, collaring him without exerting pressure. He can feel Shane’s wild pulse against his skin.

“I’m yours,” Shane whispers.

“Yes.”

“And you’re mine.”

Behind Shane, the Tuscan twighlight sky is endless and awash in a riot of colors: amber and coral bleeding into streaks of lavender, then darkening into indigo.

All Ilya sees is him. “Always.”

*

The first pale stars are blinking in the sky when they make their way back to the car.

Shane settles into the passenger seat, limbs loose, skin still glowing with the pleasure and sun-softened haze of the last hours. Ilya fights the impulse to haul him over the center console and into his lap for another round. The sportscar isn’t spacious, but he’s sure they could make it work.

That’s a plan for tomorrow though because right now, Shane’s eyes are soft and heavy-lidded. He’s giddy in that spent, drowsy way he sometimes gets right before falling asleep. He needs to curl up and sleep it all off – the jetlag, adrenaline, and heady rush of this new beginning. Preferably in Ilya’s bed.

Ilya turns the key and eases the car back onto the narrow country lane. All around them, the hills unspool in soft, dusky folds, but the road is clear.

He can feel Shane’s gaze on him. “What is it?” Ilya asks.

“Nothing. Russian motion verbs,” Shane says, voice hoarse with tiredness. “I have questions.”

Ilya flicks a finger against Shane’s peeling nose. “You’re so weird, Hollander.”

“You love it.”

“Yes.” Ilya takes Shane’s hand and pulls it into his lap. They move steadily, the last of the daylight fading off the road as it leads them home.

“Tomorrow?” Shane asks.

Ilya tangles his fingers with Shane’s. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter End Notes

And we're done! Eeeeep! Writing this made me equal parts happy and sleep-deprived. Thanks so much to everyone in this lovely fandom who read along, left kudos, amazing comments, and rec'd the story. I appreciate it so much.

I'm glad I changed my original plan and didn't let this story wrap at the airport. I hope you, too, like this last glimpse of them in Italy. I feel they've got it from here. :)

Thank you so much for reading! I love hearing from you - comments make my day! ❤️